offshore | h.s

61

GENEVIEVE CLARK

Twenty-three weeks. Too early. Too soon. 

Those words reverberate through my mind as I lie here, the sterile hospital room enveloping me in its cold embrace.

It all started just a few hours ago. I was putting Avery to bed when suddenly, a rush of fluid between my legs shattered the fragile calm of the evening. I immediately panicked and Amber rushed me to the ER to make sure everything was okay. 

The hospital room is a whirlwind of activity as I'm rushed in, doctors and nurses moving with urgency around me. I lie on the bed, feeling small and helpless amidst the chaos. The beeping of machines and the muffled voices of medical staff blend into a disorienting symphony, drowning out my thoughts.

They immediately hook me up to monitors, checking my vital signs and the baby's heartbeat. 

A doctor approaches with an ultrasound machine, his expression unreadable as he begins to scan my stomach. I hold my breath, praying for some sign of hope, but the silence is deafening.

"Is my baby okay?" I ask, my voice trembling with fear.

No response. The doctor's silence is like a punch to the gut, leaving me feeling helpless and alone.

"Is she okay?" I demand, my voice rising with panic.

More doctors filter into the room, their faces masked by a veneer of professionalism as they conduct a battery of tests. Needles prick my skin, machines hum with activity, and I can't shake the feeling of being poked and prodded like a lab rat. I have no idea what they're looking for, what they're trying to find, and the uncertainty only fuels my anxiety.

I hate that I'm alone here, that Amber and Avery have no idea what's going on. 

But most of all, I hate that Harry isn't here. I hate that he had the audacity to leave us, to chase his dreams while we're left here to pick up the pieces. He's out there, performing the first show on his tour, oblivious to the nightmare unfolding in this hospital room.

And here I am, grappling with the possibility that our baby might be fighting for her life, alone and scared.

A doctor enters the room, his expression grave as he approaches my bedside. "Genevieve," he begins, his voice steady but tinged with concern, "you have something called PROM."

"PROM?" I repeat, my heart pounding in my chest, a sense of dread creeping over me.

"Yes," he confirms, his gaze unwavering. "Preterm premature rupture of membranes. It means that your amniotic sac has ruptured before 37 weeks of pregnancy."

"What does that mean?" I manage to ask, my voice barely a whisper.

"It means there's a risk of premature labour," he explains. "And with it comes the risk of complications, including infant death."

The room spins around me, the reality of the situation hitting me like a freight train. 

Premature labor. 

Infant death. 

My baby girl.

"I don't think you're going to go into labour right away," the doctor adds quickly, trying to reassure me. "But we need to keep a close eye on you and the baby. You haven't lost too much amniotic fluid, which is a good sign."

Relief floods through me at his words, but it's quickly overshadowed by a surge of anger. "Can you please call Amber?" I plead, desperation seeping into my voice. "I need her here."

The doctor hesitates, his expression conflicted. "I'm sorry, Genevieve," he says finally, his voice gentle but firm, "but we can't allow visitors who aren't immediate family."