A Different Blue
Page 67
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Pain drove the thought from my head, the more immediate misery taking my attention from thoughts of Tiffa and my child. Twenty minutes passed, then twenty more. The nurse did not return nor did the anesthesiologist. Then the pain reached a crescendo. Giant cascading waves threatened to tear me in half. I writhed in agony and clutched at Wilson, desperate for reprieve.
“Tell me what I can do, Blue. Tell me what to do,” Wilson insisted quietly. I had settled into silence, my energy and focus drawn into the narrowest pin-prick of light, caught in the seemingly never-ending cycle of pain and pardon, unable to find words. I just shook my head and clung to his hand. He swore violently and rose from my bedside with a jerk, his stool clattering across the floor. He eased my fingers from his hand, and I whimpered my dismay as he turned toward the door. He crossed the room in long strides, and yanked the door open. Then I heard him, his voice raised, demanding assistance in very, very impolite terms. I was so proud and ridiculously touched that I almost laughed, but the laugh caught in my throat, and I screamed instead. My body shook and the pressure in my legs was overpowering. The need to push was so intense that I acted without thought. I screamed again, and my door slammed open and Wilson, his hair a wild, curling mess, along with a horrified nurse came flying into the room.
“Doctor's on his way! Doctor's on his way!” the nurse babbled, her eyes growing wide as she positioned herself between my drawn up legs. “Don't push!”
Wilson was instantly at my side, and I turned my face to him once more, unable to stop the ripples of pressure that sought to expel my child. The door slammed again as the nurse left the room and bellowed down the hallway for reinforcements. All at once I was surrounded – another nurse, a doctor, someone else was hovering by the incubator on wheels.
“Blue?” The doctor's voice seemed far away, and I struggled to focus on his face. Brown eyes met mine as I bore down helplessly. “It's time to push, Blue. It won't be long 'til your baby is here.”
My baby? Tiffa's baby. I shook my head. Tiffa wasn't here yet. I bore down once more, pushing through the pain. Then again. And again. And again. I don't know how long I pushed and pleaded with God for it to be over. I lost count in the haze of pain and exhaustion.
“Just a little more, Blue,” the doctor urged. But I was too tired. I didn't think I could do it. It hurt too much. I wanted to float away.
“I can't,” I croaked. I couldn't. I wouldn't.
“You're the bravest person I know, Blue,” Wilson whispered into my hair. His hands cradling my face. “Did I ever tell you how beautiful I think you are? You're almost there. I will help you. Hold on to me. It's going to be all right.”
“Wilson?”
“Yes?”
“If I see her . . . I don't know if I will be able to let her go. I'm afraid if I hold my baby, I won't be able to let her go.” The tears ran down my cheeks, and I didn't have to strength to hold them back.
Wilson wrapped his arms around me as the agony inside me rose up and howled.
“Come on, Blue!” The doctor was insistent. “Here we go! One more.”
And somehow I did. Somehow I did. A last desperate effort, the final thrust, and a moment of relief as the baby was pulled free. Wilson's arms fell away, and he rose to his feet as the room erupted in excited exclamation. A girl. She was here, arms flailing, black hair wet and slicked to her tiny head, eyes wide. She howled in outrage, a war cry worthy of the battle that had been waged and won. And I reached for her.
In that moment she was mine. The nurse laid her on my chest, and my hands were there to hold her. The world around me fell away. Time ceased, and I drank her in. I felt simultaneously dizzy with power and impossibly weak as I stared at my tiny daughter. She blinked up at me, her eyes blurry and swollen, her mouth moving, making mournful sounds that ripped at my heart. Terror rose inside of me, blinding me, and for a heartbeat I considered fleeing the room, running wildly down long corridors and out into the storm with my child in my arms to escape the promise I had made. I loved her. Insanely and completely. I loved her. I swung my head around, wild with turmoil, sick with dread, searching for Wilson. He stood only a few feet away, his hands shoved into his pockets, his face haggard, and his hair falling across his forehead. His eyes met mine, and I saw that he was crying. And then the nurse whisked her away – just like that – and the moment was gone. Time resumed its normal speed, competently unhindered by my devastation. I fell back against the pillows, stunned, and let the world rush on without me.
It was mere minutes before the room emptied and I lay alone, the refuse of childbirth efficiently bundled and trundled away. Wilson had stepped out into the hall to call Tiffa, the nurses had taken the baby to places unknown for measuring and bathing, the doctor had neatly finished his work, removed his gloves, and congratulated me on a job well done. And now I lay, spent and rejected, like yesterday's news. And it was done.
I was moved to a recovery room, helped into the shower, and unceremoniously tucked back into my bed. Nobody asked me if I would like to see my baby. Wilson had hovered for a time, but when it was evident that I was in good hands, he decided to run home and grab a shower and some clean clothes as well. The rain had finally stopped. The flash flood warning had been lifted, but the lowest level of the hospital had had to be evacuated because of flooding – which had caused chaos throughout the rest of the hospital. My nurses had apologized profusely that I had been neglected during my labor. Staff had already been skeletal due to the difficulties of getting to the hospital in the storm, and the flooding had almost done them in.
“Tell me what I can do, Blue. Tell me what to do,” Wilson insisted quietly. I had settled into silence, my energy and focus drawn into the narrowest pin-prick of light, caught in the seemingly never-ending cycle of pain and pardon, unable to find words. I just shook my head and clung to his hand. He swore violently and rose from my bedside with a jerk, his stool clattering across the floor. He eased my fingers from his hand, and I whimpered my dismay as he turned toward the door. He crossed the room in long strides, and yanked the door open. Then I heard him, his voice raised, demanding assistance in very, very impolite terms. I was so proud and ridiculously touched that I almost laughed, but the laugh caught in my throat, and I screamed instead. My body shook and the pressure in my legs was overpowering. The need to push was so intense that I acted without thought. I screamed again, and my door slammed open and Wilson, his hair a wild, curling mess, along with a horrified nurse came flying into the room.
“Doctor's on his way! Doctor's on his way!” the nurse babbled, her eyes growing wide as she positioned herself between my drawn up legs. “Don't push!”
Wilson was instantly at my side, and I turned my face to him once more, unable to stop the ripples of pressure that sought to expel my child. The door slammed again as the nurse left the room and bellowed down the hallway for reinforcements. All at once I was surrounded – another nurse, a doctor, someone else was hovering by the incubator on wheels.
“Blue?” The doctor's voice seemed far away, and I struggled to focus on his face. Brown eyes met mine as I bore down helplessly. “It's time to push, Blue. It won't be long 'til your baby is here.”
My baby? Tiffa's baby. I shook my head. Tiffa wasn't here yet. I bore down once more, pushing through the pain. Then again. And again. And again. I don't know how long I pushed and pleaded with God for it to be over. I lost count in the haze of pain and exhaustion.
“Just a little more, Blue,” the doctor urged. But I was too tired. I didn't think I could do it. It hurt too much. I wanted to float away.
“I can't,” I croaked. I couldn't. I wouldn't.
“You're the bravest person I know, Blue,” Wilson whispered into my hair. His hands cradling my face. “Did I ever tell you how beautiful I think you are? You're almost there. I will help you. Hold on to me. It's going to be all right.”
“Wilson?”
“Yes?”
“If I see her . . . I don't know if I will be able to let her go. I'm afraid if I hold my baby, I won't be able to let her go.” The tears ran down my cheeks, and I didn't have to strength to hold them back.
Wilson wrapped his arms around me as the agony inside me rose up and howled.
“Come on, Blue!” The doctor was insistent. “Here we go! One more.”
And somehow I did. Somehow I did. A last desperate effort, the final thrust, and a moment of relief as the baby was pulled free. Wilson's arms fell away, and he rose to his feet as the room erupted in excited exclamation. A girl. She was here, arms flailing, black hair wet and slicked to her tiny head, eyes wide. She howled in outrage, a war cry worthy of the battle that had been waged and won. And I reached for her.
In that moment she was mine. The nurse laid her on my chest, and my hands were there to hold her. The world around me fell away. Time ceased, and I drank her in. I felt simultaneously dizzy with power and impossibly weak as I stared at my tiny daughter. She blinked up at me, her eyes blurry and swollen, her mouth moving, making mournful sounds that ripped at my heart. Terror rose inside of me, blinding me, and for a heartbeat I considered fleeing the room, running wildly down long corridors and out into the storm with my child in my arms to escape the promise I had made. I loved her. Insanely and completely. I loved her. I swung my head around, wild with turmoil, sick with dread, searching for Wilson. He stood only a few feet away, his hands shoved into his pockets, his face haggard, and his hair falling across his forehead. His eyes met mine, and I saw that he was crying. And then the nurse whisked her away – just like that – and the moment was gone. Time resumed its normal speed, competently unhindered by my devastation. I fell back against the pillows, stunned, and let the world rush on without me.
It was mere minutes before the room emptied and I lay alone, the refuse of childbirth efficiently bundled and trundled away. Wilson had stepped out into the hall to call Tiffa, the nurses had taken the baby to places unknown for measuring and bathing, the doctor had neatly finished his work, removed his gloves, and congratulated me on a job well done. And now I lay, spent and rejected, like yesterday's news. And it was done.
I was moved to a recovery room, helped into the shower, and unceremoniously tucked back into my bed. Nobody asked me if I would like to see my baby. Wilson had hovered for a time, but when it was evident that I was in good hands, he decided to run home and grab a shower and some clean clothes as well. The rain had finally stopped. The flash flood warning had been lifted, but the lowest level of the hospital had had to be evacuated because of flooding – which had caused chaos throughout the rest of the hospital. My nurses had apologized profusely that I had been neglected during my labor. Staff had already been skeletal due to the difficulties of getting to the hospital in the storm, and the flooding had almost done them in.
