Thursday, August 24th #4
When the tears slow, I stare down at his face again, memorizing it. Trying to make sense of this moment. Trying to give it something—him—meaning.
“I don’t know if I’m supposed to name you,” I murmur, blinking past the blur. “We never really talked about names. But you feel like… like you deserve one.”
I study him again, wondering if I can see any of myself in him. Or maybe he’s all Cat. Maybe he’s both of us, all tangled up in this small, silent life.
And then it comes to me.
“You deserve a name that means something. Something real. You were here. You mattered.”
My throat tightens as I speak his name aloud for the first—and maybe only—time.
“What do you think of Ronan?” I whisper.
I gaze down at him, letting the words settle around us. It feels… heavy. And right. Like something inside me shifts.
Gently, I move to place him in Cat’s arms. His little body, light and still, nestled against hers. Safe. Sound. She should get to hold him. She should’ve held him first.
I step back, just a little, and pull out my phone. I take a picture—Cat, asleep, her face soft in the morning light, with our beautiful boy resting next to her.
I don’t know if she’ll want to see it. Maybe not now. Maybe not ever.
But I’ll have it. A piece of this memory. Of him. Of us.
Forever.
***
I held my son for close to an hour before I called the nurse, reluctantly turned him over to her, and watched her take him away from me.
I needed to focus on the now, on the living, breathing love of my life.
I didn’t want to risk her waking up to him in my arms. She’ll need to be eased into our loss.
Exhaustion gnaws at me as I sit with Cat.
I have been awake for twenty-seven hours now, with the exception of that hour or so when Cat and I went to bed at three in the morning.
But I can’t find any rest, only closing my eyes here and there to stop them from burning.
They feel raw and dry and swollen, partially from the lack of sleep, partially from the tears I’ve shed this morning.
Just after nine-thirty, the door creaks open, and I look up, startled. Jen. My dad. Penny. They rush in, faces pale, anxious. Jen is at my side in an instant, pulling me into a hug as I rise unsteadily to meet her.
“What happened, Ran?” she asks, her voice muffled against my shoulder. “Shane showed up at my house an hour ago. He said you had to take Cat to the hospital. I’m so sorry I missed your calls.” Her voice breaks. “He said… he said Cat lost the baby?”
Lost the baby. No. More like he was ripped from her, stolen by something violent and sudden.
I nod, my shoulders heavy. “Yeah. She woke up bleeding last night and her contractions came on strong. I just grabbed her and drove,” I say, too tired to lay out the excruciating details. “They rushed her into surgery to stop the bleeding. The baby…” I pause, swallowing hard. “He didn’t make it.”
Everything goes silent, like the room itself is holding its breath.
He.
“It was a boy.” My voice barely holds. My eyes sting again, hot and unrelenting. I don’t think I’ve ever cried this much in my life.
“Oh, Ran,” Jen chokes and takes a small step back to look at her daughter. “Did the doctor tell you how this could have happened?”
“No. They’re running some tests,” I say, my voice strained. “I have no idea,” I sigh, resting my head in my hands.
“How is she?” my dad asks, his deep voice low. He steps beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder. Solid. Warm.
“She’s been asleep this whole time. The doctor said she’ll be okay. Physically,” I say, and Jen nods, her eyes swimming with tears. “She’ll be able to go home Saturday.”
“How are you holding up, bud?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Overwhelmed, I guess. Scared. Tired.”
I don’t leave Cat’s side for the next few hours. I just sit there holding her hand, watching her face like it’s the only thing tethering me to the earth. I memorize it—every freckle, every line, every inch of skin I almost lost last night.
Jen and Penny step out to speak with the doctor and come back about twenty minutes later, whispering to my dad. Their voices blend into a dull hum. I’m too tired to make out their words.
Steve calls—Shane must’ve told him. I hand the phone to my dad without saying anything. I’m done explaining. Each time I say it out loud, it feels more real. More painful.
At eleven, Shane and Tori show up. Shane squats down beside me, resting a hand on my shoulder.
“How are you, Ran?” he asks softly.
“Fine,” I say, eyes still locked on Cat.
“You’re not a good liar, you know that?” he says with a small smile. I nod. “Don’t worry about anything. I’ve got you covered at work. Take all the time you need.”
He steps away, joining my dad and Jen at the back of the room.
Half an hour later, Bobby rushes in. “I came as soon as class let out and I got your message,” he tells Jen, slightly out of breath. Then his eyes cut to me. “What happened?” he asks rapid-fire, like he’s demanding answers, like this is something I could’ve prevented.
But I can’t deal with him. Not now. I barely have the energy to stay upright.
Thankfully, Jen and my dad step in. They answer his questions quietly, ushering him away so I can stay beside Cat without interruption.
***
I’m drained, but restless—wired with something jagged. I want to get up, resume pacing, claw my way out of this stillness. But I can’t bring myself to let go of Cat. So I force myself to stay seated, holding her hand, watching her breathe, waiting.
Finally, just after noon, she opens her beautiful hazel eyes.
They find mine instantly.
There are deep shadows under her eyes, stark against the ghostly pallor of her skin. Even her lips have lost their soft pink hue, dulled by blood loss and shock.
“Hey, baby,” I say, my voice breaking as I cradle her hand in both of mine. The emotions in my chest are merciless—grief and relief tearing at each other.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jen and Bobby step toward the bed, but they stop short. They keep their distance, giving us a pocket of quiet. She’s their daughter, but this loss belongs to both of us.
“Hi,” she whispers, her voice barely there. But she’s awake. She’s here. She’s alive.
“How are you feeling?” I ask gently.
“Tired…” Her face twists with pain. “And empty. Am I still pregnant?”
Her voice is already breaking. She knows the answer instinctively. Her body knows.
I shake my head, squeezing her hand more tightly. Her tears spill immediately.
“I lost our baby,” she cries, dissolving into sobs.
I move without thinking, shifting from the chair to the edge of the bed, wrapping her in my arms.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” I whisper, my own grief surging violently as hers collides with mine. The pain is too big for one body. So we hold it together.
“I lost our baby,” she sobs again, her whole body shaking. “I couldn’t keep it safe.”
“No, baby. No,” I rasp, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not your fault.”
“I didn’t even get to see it… I don’t even know if it was a boy or a girl,” she chokes out.
I inhale shakily, then meet her eyes. “It was a boy.” My voice fractures. “He was beautiful, baby.”
She cries harder. I hear the quiet sobs behind us—Jen, leaning against Bobby, and Penny wrapped in my dad’s arms. But all I can focus on is Cat.
“I knew it was a boy,” she weeps. “I felt it.”
“Yeah. You did.” I kiss her hair and pull her against me, just trying to keep her from falling apart completely, holding the last pieces of her heart together.
“It hurts so much, Ran,” she whispers. Her pain is so sharp, so real, I swear I feel it in my own chest like a blade. “Please… make it stop.”
I just about lose it then and there.
“I’m trying, baby,” I whisper, my voice thick. “I’m trying. I love you so much.”
I wish I could take it all from her—the ache, the fear, the unbearable weight. But all I can do is hold her while she cries. For minutes. For what feels like hours. I speak to her in quiet fragments, telling her it’s going to be okay even if we don’t believe it yet.
Eventually, her sobs soften. Her face slackens, what little energy she had in her drained for now.
I ease her back against her pillow and she slips into sleep almost immediately.
I thank the heavens for it. Sometimes sleep is the best medicine, the best way to shut off the pain. At least temporarily.
Gently, I slide my hand out of hers, then turn around to face our parents.
“Can you… can you guys stay with Cat for a bit?” My voice catches. “I need a minute.”
“Of course,” Jen says, giving me a quick squeeze before she moves to take my place beside her daughter.
“Ran, are you—” my dad starts, but I hold up a hand to cut him off. I already feel the pressure rising behind my eyes, in my throat.
If he asks me how I’m doing, if he tries to pull me into a hug, I’ll break apart. Right here. Right now.
“I’m alright, Dad. I just need some air,” I say quickly. Then I bolt out the door, down the stairs, and into the sweltering New York summer heat.
And it all comes crashing out of me.
The fear of losing Cat.
The loss of our baby… our son.
The emotional chaos of these last few months.
All of it barrels through me like a wave I can’t outrun.
I didn’t want children. I made a big fucking deal about it. I broke up with the love of my life over it, so sure of what I didn’t want, so damn certain I was protecting both of us.
But I was wrong.
Seeing Cat pregnant, watching her carry a future that belonged to both of us, changed everything. It made me fall even more in love with her. It made me want the things I swore I didn’t.
I started to picture it: holding our baby in my arms, watching Cat smile at him the way she smiles at me, being a dad. I knew it wouldn’t be easy—I knew myself—but I wanted it. I wanted us.
And now it’s gone. Ripped away the second I let myself believe we could have something good, something whole.
I can’t breathe.