Page 150 of Call You Mine
CHAPTER 56
AVA
I shake my head,tears streaming down my face.
I try to keep the sobs that threaten to escape while I listen to the doctor as she tells me the baby is in distress. We’ve waited as long as possible, but my labor isn’t progressing.
They need to do a C-section.
The nurses are wiping me down as an anesthesiologist adjusts my epidural. Nurses are coming in and out of my room as they wheel in equipment and escort Rumi, Emerson, and Georgie out, their eyes glassy and their features twisted with concern and confusion.
“But my husband,” I say, looking around as one of the nurses hands me a surgical cap to put on. “He’s not here yet.”
“I’m sorry, Ava,” the doctor says, her hand coming to settle on my forehead. With all the chaos happening around us, the doctors and the nurses remain calm, even as they move with a sense of urgency. “We can’t wait.”
It all happens so fast—in what feels like seconds, I’m being wheeled to the operating room. Rumi and Emerson didn’t want me to be alone, so Rumi is going to be there in the operating room with me while Emerson stays with Georgie,but she can’t come in until I’m on the table and the doctors are ready to start the procedure.
I try to latch onto something—anything—that will steady me, but my thoughts scatter like broken glass.
Seventeen.
I need to count.
I squeeze my eyes shut and start, clinging to the numbers as if they can anchor me to something real.
It feels like I have nothing to hold on to—everything slipping through my fingers like sand.
And I’ve never felt so alone.
I’ve spent my whole life taking care of everything on my own, but I don’t want to do this by myself.
I can’t.
I’m surrounded by nurses and doctors as they move with precision that can only come from doing this enough times that it’s become second nature. They stay composed, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.
I count the beeps on one of the machines—I don’t know what it’s monitoring, me or maybe the baby, or maybe it’s not even connected to me.
I don’t care.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
My breaths hitch between each count, uneven and wrong. Making me lose count.
I start over
One.
Two.
Three.
