It's Terribly Perfect.

23. It's Terribly Perfect: But It's Perfect.

Hey! So, real quick, I sorda kinda miscalculated Kasynne's pregnancy. She's eight months. Not seven. Oops, sorry. Okay, I hope you enjoy.xx)

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You know in those movies, when something so bad happens, and everything turns into a scene of slow motion, the main character just staring at nothing, their heart practically coming to a stop in their chest? They can't breathe or think or even make a single sound?

Yeah. That's not me.

I'm freaking out. Not like other teenage girls do when they overanalyze a text from a boy they like or a girl. Not even close. My chest is tight and my heart is beating a mile a minute. I'm dizzy and nauseous.  I can't catch my breath. Because I'm going into labor two months early.

Marcus tries to snap me out of it as he presses a red button on a remote-looking thing. He yells my name as I'm hyperventilating, clutching so tight onto the bed rail that my knuckles are turning white, but I barely hear his voice. Everything else is white noise as nurses come rushing in with a wheelchair and I absentmindedly plant myself in it. The ceiling blurs and the walls change as well as the brightness as I'm pushed down different halls and an elevator. The distant sound of my dad disappears and I'm still trying to catch my breath. My chest is so constricted I can barely stand it. I put both hands on my stomach and my heart aches.

Please be okay.

I see a door in front of my toes as I keep my down and we burst through it. I see two people unsteadily stand up from where they had been sleeping.

"What's wrong with her? Why is she breathing like that?" my mother's voice is groggy but frantic.

"She's having a panic attack. Her water broke. She's going into labor," a male nurse informs her.

"I can't!" I manage to choke out.

"She only, what, 33 weeks?" Ryan speaks up in a tired and worried tone.

"32 weeks and six days," my mother corrects. "She's too early. Isn't there anything you can do?"

"Yes, the doctor is going to prescribe her corticosteroid shots which will help the baby's lungs mature quicker. She'll also get Nifedipine to slow the contractions which will slow the dilating of her cervix. And then antibiotics to kill any infections that might come from her water breaking. There's not an exact estimate on how long this will delay delivery, but anything is better than nothing."

"I'm eight and a half months almost," I mumble, my breaths starting to steady. "I thought babies should be fully developed at nine months?"

"No, full term is forty to forty-two weeks – ten months or so. Nine months is only considered near-term birth. That's why your doctor put your due date at ten months."

 "But Bentley, he'll be okay, right? You know, with all those fancy-sounding drugs?"

"With all the medications," he sighs heavily, "it will reduce his chances of not being okay."

"But there's no guarantee?"

"There's never a guarantee, Miss Santiago."

"Right, ok."

 "I'm Alec by the way, your head nurse while you're here," the nurse tells me. I look up at him, my eyes probably wide and brimming with tears. He gives me a sympathetic lift of his lips. "I'm very sorry, Miss Santiago. We'll do everything we can."

I thank him and so do my mom and Ryan. He nods and leaves the room while scribbling on a clipboard. I'm transferred from the wheelchair onto my hospital bed and the other nurses refill the bags that hold the liquids going into my arm. Minutes later, Alec comes back with a pair of gloves and a couple of plastic bags. He selects one of them after putting on the gloves and pulls out a syringe and needle.