Thursday, August 24th #5
This helplessness, this dizzying, crushing lack of control, wraps itself around my ribs and squeezes. It’s not new. I’ve felt it all my life. But I’d started to believe I’d outrun it. After the trial, after everything, I thought maybe I could finally have a life that wasn’t just about surviving.
But right now?
Right now, I feel like the universe is laughing at me.
Like I was a fool to think it would ever let me have peace.
I rake my hands over my face, shaking, gutted, but…
I’m breathing. I’m here. And so is Cat. Maybe I can’t control the universe.
Maybe I never could. But I can choose what I do with what’s left.
I can be there for Cat. I can keep showing up, even when it hurts.
I can keep healing. Keep fighting for the life I want with the girl I love.
That part? That’s still mine. And I’m not letting go.
Cat
I spend most of my time in the hospital asleep, waking only to make sure Ronan is still there.
It’s like my body needs proof—his hand in mine, his gorgeous face beside me—before it lets me rest again.
He never leaves, always in the same spot when I blink awake, just long enough to see him before I drift off again.
I can’t begin to describe how exhausted I am, but I guess that’s expected.
My body went through labor and delivery, though I don’t remember any of it.
I was unconscious—too much blood loss, they said—and everything’s a blur.
I remember Ronan’s arms around me, the contractions tearing through me, how cold I felt. And then nothing.
I was pregnant one moment… and the next, I wasn’t. But there was no baby in my arms.
That aching absence is what settles deepest in my chest.
There’s a soft, hesitant knock on the door sometime later. A nurse steps inside, her presence calm, unintrusive. Ronan sits up beside me, his hand still wrapped around mine.
“Hi, Cat,” she says gently. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I wanted to ask… would you like to see your baby?”
The air goes still. My heart stutters. My stomach twists. I feel the blood drain from my face. I notice my parents shifting in the corner of the room, but I glance at Ronan, panic rising in my chest. His eyes meet mine with quiet understanding. He doesn’t pressure me. He never would.
I look back at the nurse. My mouth opens, then closes. The air in the room feels too thin.
“I…” My voice catches. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to decide right this second,” she says softly. “Take your time. But we’ll only be able to keep him with us a little while longer.”
Ronan squeezes my hand. “Whatever you need, baby. It’s okay. Either way.”
I swallow thickly. The idea of seeing him, holding that tiny body in my arms, memorizing a face I’ll never see again, terrifies me. A part of me aches for it. But a bigger part knows I’m not strong enough. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
“I just…” The words break out of me, heavy with guilt. “I feel like I should. Like I have to. That if I don’t hold him, I’m not showing him I love him.”
Ronan’s face softens, grief in every line. He shakes his head. “Baby, you already held him. You carried our boy for almost five months. He knew you loved him. Every time you talked to him, every time you touched your belly—he knew. And… you held him after, too.”
My breath catches. I blink at him. “You… you saw him?”
He nods.
“And you held him in your arms?”
Another nod. “And so did you, baby. When you were still sleeping. I put him in your arms. I thought… I thought you should get to.” His voice breaks. “You already held him,” he says, choking on the words.
And just like that, I know. He’s giving me permission to let go of the guilt. To listen to my heart.
I turn to the nurse, tears blurring everything. “No,” I whisper. “I can’t. I can’t see him.”
Ronan’s grip tightens gently. No judgment. Just quiet grief. “Okay,” he says. “It’s okay.”
The nurse nods with understanding. “Would you like us to make a memory box? His footprints, a photo, a blanket? You don’t have to look at it now… but maybe someday.”
I nod, tears spilling over before I can stop them. “Yes. Please.”
The nurse gives me a warm smile, then steps away.
When she’s gone, I bury my face in Ronan’s chest and cry harder than I have since I first woke up. He holds me tightly, whispering that he’s here, that I’m safe, that I’m not alone.
I don’t know if I made the right choice. Maybe there isn’t a right one, only the one that hurts a little less in the moment. I couldn’t bear the idea of holding my baby only to have him taken away again. Ronan’s right. I did hold him. I did love him. And nothing I do now will change that.
My heart aches with the loss of our son.
And I know Ronan feels it too. I see it in his face, hear it in his voice when he asks me how I’m doing, if I’m hungry, if I need water.
He looks as tired as I feel, but I don’t think he’s slept at all, probably not since before everything happened, except for that hour, just before our world was ripped apart again.
Our parents spend a few quiet hours at the hospital, talking in hushed voices until my mom gently insists they give us some privacy.
“Kitty,” she says softly, bending to hug me, “your doctor said you’ll likely be discharged on Saturday. I’d like it if you came home to recover.”
Her voice is thick with emotion. She’s been crying as much as I have, her eyes puffy, cheeks tear-stained.
Even my dad looks grief-stricken. I haven’t been home more than a few minutes here and there since that Sunday dinner, since my dad tore into Ronan and I made it clear how disappointed I was in him.
My mom wasn’t the issue. Never has been.
She’s always loved Ronan, has always seen how good he is to me—how loving, respectful, and devoted he’s been from the beginning.
Even when we were broken up, she never spoke badly of him. She just kept reminding me that everything would work out, that Ronan loved me, that we’d find our way back once he had worked through whatever he needed to.
“Baby, I think that’s a good idea,” Ronan says quietly from his seat beside me. “I don’t want you to be alone right now, and I’ve got to go back to work, and classes start up again soon.” His voice is hoarse with exhaustion. “I want you to be taken care of.”
“Please come home, Kitty,” my mom says, her voice cracking.
My dad steps forward and takes my left hand in his right. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For how I’ve been acting. I never meant to push you away…” His voice trails off as he lowers his gaze.
“Okay,” I whisper, nodding. I glance over at Ronan, noting the deep, dark circles under his eyes, the scruff on his jaw. “Will you drop me off at my parents’ when I’m discharged?”
“Yeah. Of course,” he says, steady as ever. Always showing up for me.
“Thank you, Ronan,” my mom says, walking over to him. She wraps him in a hug as he stands. “For taking care of my baby. I’m so sorry.” Her voice is muffled against his shoulder. “I love you both so much.”
That evening, Shane and Tori stop by with Vada, Summer, and Zack in tow. They drop off dinner and spend some time with us, providing quiet, steady support to Ronan and me. Steve calls, and I cry fresh tears when speaking to him.
Ronan stays with me all night, curled awkwardly in the uncomfortable chair beside my bed, legs kicked up beside me, trying to find some rest.
I wake a few times during the night when the nurse comes to check on me. She smiles when she sees Ronan still there.
“He doesn’t leave your side, huh?” she says while she hooks me up to a fresh bag of saline.
“No,” I whisper. “He’s a keeper.”