Twisted Turnaround

Chapter 43

MILES

I'm watching in awe as the doctor is holding my daughter in the palm of her hand. My daughter was tiny—a red-blotchy girl. She had hair on her head, and yet she weighed less than 5 pounds. I'm gaping at her because she was crying. That's the happiest sound I ever heard. I couldn't believe it. I watch with a hand on my ever-beaten heart for my daughter, whom I'd love forever as she holds the baby up to me, and I look into the eyes of the girl I've been waiting to meet. I'm shocked; I'm marveled at the sight of my daughter.

She's crying, but when I look into her eyes, which were the same shape as her mother's, she stops crying. She stares at me, and I think this is it. My baby knows who I am. She recognizes her father. It makes me teary-eyed, and then when I blink, she is crying again. I chuckle at the moment and say, "Andrea, she's so funny already."

I'm staring at the way she was moving in the doctor's hand when the doctor says, "Okay, I think it's safe to cut her umbilical cord."

"Is she okay?" I ask, but even though she was crying and moving well, I didn't know what was the case. The doctor nods and says, "She will need extra care, and we will take her to the NICU, but she's doing fine."

"Okay," I say softly. "But her umbilical cord—" The doctor is already on the task, and when my daughter is detached from her mother's womb, I realize I've never felt this much happiness in my life all within a second. She was here. She was here, and the doctor tells me she is fine. I'm staring at her when the doctor says, "Even though she is crying, she actually is breathing; she isn't getting good breathing into her chest because of how undeveloped she is. We have staff who will be assisting with that."

"Oh, okay," I say, finally feeling the minute of bliss move away because my baby would need special care for a little bit. I try to get used to it because at least she was okay. She was fine; she just had a little bit of trouble breathing. She will be doing better in no time. "Andrea, you hear that?" I ask, unable to look away from my daughter. "She will be taken to a specialist, and then to the NICU, but we can see her right after."

Before the doctor can move, I say, "Wait, let Andrea get a closer look at our daughter." Just as soon as I pull my eyes away from my daughter, I look over to see Andrea laying on the bed, facing away from the scene. "Andrea?" I call out, moving fast toward her, and when I see her eyes closed on the bed, my heart drops. I've never felt my heart drop this fast before; I've never felt this scared in my life.

"Andrea?" I call out to the mother of my baby, but she doesn't respond to me. I look back at the doctors and shout, "Why isn't she awake? What the hell happened?" As soon as my shouting breaks attention to Andrea, the doctor, and the following nurses. They all move away from the foot of Andrea's bed and toward her face. I move a hand to her face and feel it. "Andrea? Andrea, what happened?"

A nurse pushes me out of the way and moves toward the collar of her hospital gown. She shoves the material away and puts a hand on her heart, and then I watch her eyes widen. "Mother's heart isn't stabilized," the nurse says quickly. "I'm losing her heartbeats."

I'm staring at Andrea in shock—mortification, really. A nurse runs out of the room, and the doctor moves to her now. She rips away the material of her gown at the chest and presses on her heart again. She studies her breathing before she calls out, "We are losing her!"

"What?" I shout, the words ringing in my head. Andrea. I didn't know what to think; I didn't know what was even happening to her. But it looked severe, judging by how fast doctors were walking in here. I watch another doctor run up to Andrea with an ECG, and then I watch how fast they work with the machine. The machine is pressed at her chest hard a few times, and my heart is beating quick as I beg for Andrea to breathe. But she doesn't respond to the machine at all. The doctor heightens the pressure, and I watch the life expectancy of the mother of my child go down at every second.