We repeat these words like prayers, like mantras. I don’t know if they’ll work, but if anything does, I’ll do it. My heart pounds hard. I can’t take losing her. I can’t take losing either of them. Not when we’ve come so far.
Renata closes her eyes again, but I don’t think she’s sleeping. I wouldn’t be able to, even if I was in the worst shape of my life, not if I had all this going on around me. After what seems like an hour but is probably only around fifteen minutes, we pull into the hospital emergency entrance, and just like that, the EMTs wheel Renata away and up to labor and delivery, where there’s an operating room waiting. I run as fast as my legs will carry me and make it into the elevator just in time to hold her hand. We’re not real sure what’s happening, but in the ambulance, we heard something about an abruption, and another something about a prolapse. Either way, we know we’re not getting the birth we planned for, the one we studied for together. There aren’t birthing yoga balls or stretches she can do to ease the pain, and it suddenly doesn’t matter whether or not she’ll be able to breastfeed or any of those things from the books.
For a second, I feel silly for thinking that any of that mattered. I gulp hard, and the elevator rises far too slowly.
I walk down the hall at a brisk pace, holding her hand. At some point, my helmet and jersey and uniform came off, though I don’t really remember it happening. There’s still black paint under my eyes, and I’m wearing my undershirt and a pair of basketball shorts Wingate threw to me on the way out. I don’t know when any of it happened, or how. Squeezing Renata’s hand one last time, I watch as they wheel her into the operating room and hook her up to IVs and monitors. The next move, however, is out of a horror movie. Because of what she’s wearing, they cut her out of her shirt and skirt so they don’t have to move her. There are curtains going up and disinfectants going on, and an anesthesiologist talking about whether they need to do a spinal block or general anesthesia. A cool hand rests on my shoulder, and I turn to see a short nurse offering to help me into a sterile hospital gown and a mask. Numbly, I let it all happen, and then I’m standing behind the doctors as they start the c-section.
There’s only a spinal block, so I can watch Renata’s eyes—not fearful, not angry, but hopeful—as they start. I walk up to her gingerly and take her hand with my gloved one. I want to say something, but it feels like there’s nothing in the world left to say.
The room is filled with deafening silence, and I’m too scared to look to see what’s happening. Our eyes rest only on each other’s as we wait for the sound that will make everything okay, the sound that will signify that this is a beginning and not an end.
“We’ve come this far,” she says. “We beat all the odds. It’s going to be okay.” The words seem like they pain her when they come out, and I can tell her grip on my hand is weaker than it was. There are only the sounds of the operating room, nurses and doctors working together and talking in hushed voices.
“It was definitely a placental abruption,” one of them mutters. “And a cord prolapse, both at the same time.” He says it with a hint of astonishment, like this isn’t a thing people see every day.
“We ready?”
The first doctor nods, and there’s more silence, followed by a deep ringing in my ears. Renata looks at me, trying to keep the panic out of her eyes. “I feel something,” she mutters. I watch the anesthesiologist adjust her spinal block, and then the look on Renata’s face eases.
“This isn’t the birth we hoped for, sweetheart. But she’s going to make it here safe,” I say. My words feel almost superfluous. She nods her head, though, like what I’ve said is wise.
I don’t pray much, not since I left Renata that day six and a half years ago, but I pray now. I know babies crying aren’t what many parents pray to hear—it’s just a given that they cry. But I pray to hear a cry.
“Suction,” one of the doctors says. “We need to clear this little girl’s airways.” My heart beats hard in my ears, and after that we hear a faint gurgle that sounds like it’s trying to be a cry. Something that’s not quite what it ought to be, but it’s close enough to make us both smile. One doctor nods to the other and holds our little girl up for us to see for one moment before whisking her off to another table. She’s not as active as she ought to be, but we both see one small foot wiggle slightly. Renata grips my hand so hard I think it might fall off, and I lean in and whisper to her.