Oh God.
The room feels too small, too suffocating, as I try to process the news. My heart races, not just from the surgery or the pain, but from the realization that I'm carrying a life inside me, a life that wasn't planned, a life that could potentially end mine.
Damon's hand on my stomach is both comforting and…and unsettling. I glance at Quin, silently pleading for some reassurance, but his avoidance only deepens my anxiety.
"I need to speak with Dr. Yang.” My voice is barely above a whisper. There could be complications. So many complications. “Can you call her? Can you… Can you fly her out here?”
Damon frowns, the light in his eyes dimming. "Of course, Emery. We'll make sure everything is okay.You’ll have the best medical team in the world. I promise.”
Quin finally meets my gaze, his posture hardened and unflinching. "Maybe she doesn’twanta medical team.”
I swallow. He’s a doctor. He must know the risks. Or he’s done the research. “I…” In my peripheral, I see Damon’s shoulders sag, and I can’t bear to look at him. “I’m not… I’m not sure.”
“It’s okay, Emery.” Damon’s voice is hurried, almost shaky. “Dr. Yang will be here soon, and we’ll?—”
Quin interrupts him, tone low and clinical. “According to data from the TPRI, about two thirds of pregnancies in heart transplant recipients result in live births.”
Live births. As in they come out alive. Crying. Screaming. Breathing. Alive.
"But," Quin pauses, his expression grave. "There are significant risks to consider, particularly regarding immunosuppressive medications and their effects on both you Emery, and the baby."
Damon squeezes my hand tighter.
"Medications like mycophenolic acid, which you are taking, are associated with an increased risk of teratogenicity and miscarriage.”
Miscarriage. The word sends a chill down my spine.
Quin continues. "Complications such as preeclampsia and infections are also more common in transplant recipients during pregnancy.” His gaze is unwavering as he stares down at me, jaw tense. “Rejection was reported during 9 percent of pregnancies.Thirty participants in the study died an average of 9.4—plus or minus 6.2—years after pregnancy.”
I swallow hard, bones frozen by the statistics.
“Stop it!” Damon abruptly stands up, seething. “What are you doing? Can’t you see that you’re scaring her!”
“Scaring her?!” Quin glares at him. “I’m telling her what she already knows, Damon. With her condition, a pregnancy…” The color drains from his face. “A pregnancy can be fatal.” He glances down at me, eyes glossy. “Darling, please. You need to consider the facts. I…” His lip trembles. “I can’t lose you.”
“Wewon’tlose her,” Damon seethes, fists clenched. His expression softens as he looks down at me. “Don’t let him scare you, Emery. We…” His lip twitches. “The three of us will figure it out.”
It’s too much. I can’t give them answers. I can’t even wrap my head around the situation. I feel like I’m drowning. In fear. In hope. In the possibility of a child. A child? A child needs a mother. Am I a mother? Do I have that gene? Dread washes over me. A child also needs a father. Oh God. A father. The father.
“How far along am I?”
Damon smiles. “Seven weeks.”
“I see.” With a deep breath, I close my eyes. They could both be the father. I’m carrying one of their children. A part of their DNA is inside of me. The pressure is too much. I can’t. “I’d like to sleep now. You can both leave.”
“Emery—”
I cut Damon off. “I said leave.”
And they do.
For three whole days.
I sitin the hospital bed, my body aching and sore as Dr. Yang walks into the room. Her presence brings me a sense of normalcy, and I offer her a small smile of gratitude.
"Thank you for flying all the way from New York, Dr. Yang.”
Dr. Yang returns the smile, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. Not at all. "I wish I could say it was entirely my choice, Miss Jones."
