Chapter 47 Blake
BLAKE
WHEN I OPEN MY EYES, the world feels slow and heavy, like I’m surfacing from the bottom of a deep, dark lake. All I feel is confusion. A bright light stings my eyes. A monitor beeps softly nearby. There’s the sterile smell of antiseptic in my nose and a dull throb in my abdomen.
The last thing I remember, I was feeling sick. I was dizzy. Stumbling. I remember my dad’s worried eyes on me, his arms reaching for me before I fainted. Oh my God. He brought me to the hospital because I fainted? He’s so melodramatic.
I swallow through my arid throat and try to speak. I only manage a rusty squawking noise at first before finally getting out a croaky, “Dad?”
There’s a flurry of motion around me. The next thing I know, I see my mother’s face, pale and lined with concern. Then Dad is on the other side of the bed, his expression grim.
“Hey, sweet pea, how are you feeling?”
“Sore,” I say. “My stomach hurts.”
Neither of them answers.
I lick my dry lips. “Why am I in the hospital? Did you overreact and bring me here?”
When I attempt to sit up, Mom firmly touches my arm to keep me down. “Nope, don’t move yet, honey. You just got out of surgery.”
“Surgery? For fainting?” I say in confusion.
My gaze darts around the room, then focuses on my own body. I realize I have one of those heart monitor things on my finger.
“I don’t understand,” I finally say.
“You had an ectopic pregnancy,” she says gently. “It ruptured, and there was some internal bleeding.”
“Scared the hell out of us,” Dad says.
“We’re so lucky we got you here when we did.” Her voice shakes, and I realize how scared they both look.
I try to move again, but Dad stops me. “You need to stay still. I’ll get the doctor so she can check you out, okay?”
As he hurries out the door, Mom squeezes my hand. “We were so worried about you. So was Wyatt. The Grahams are in the waiting room. He wanted to be in here with you, but I thought you might want me and Dad to be the first people you saw while you process.”
“Process,” I echo weakly. “I don’t understand. So I’m not pregnant anymore?”
I’m usually not this stupid, and I can sense that the question is dumb, but my brain is fuzzy, and I still can’t comprehend what’s happening.
“Ectopic pregnancy… That means… The embryo implanted outside the uterus?”
She nods. “In your left fallopian tube.”
“It was just cramps…” I trail off when footsteps approach the door.
A doctor in pink scrubs enters, tailed by my dad. She approaches the bed in brisk strides. “My name is Dr. Lechie. How are you feeling, Blake?”
“Confused,” I admit. “A bit woozy.”
“Yes, that’s the anesthesia wearing off.
” She examines my pupils, making me follow the penlight she pulls out of her pocket.
“I’m sure your parents told you, but you experienced an ectopic pregnancy.
We had to perform a salpingostomy, which means we repaired your tube rather than removing it.
You were lucky. The rupture wasn’t severe, and while there was internal bleeding, it wasn’t heavy. ”
She keeps talking, explaining she made an incision in my fallopian tube in order to “remove the pregnancy,” and her tone is so clinical and matter-of-fact that it makes me want to cry.
Then she assures me they were able to preserve the tube, and as long as the scarring isn’t extensive, natural conception shouldn’t be an issue in the future since both tubes are intact.
“You’ll be discharged tomorrow,” she finishes with a smile.
As if that’s the takeaway from all this. Good news! No baby! Now go home.
When she notices my expression, her tone softens. “I know this is a lot to process.”
“I…don’t get it. Was there something I could’ve done or… Did I overdo it?” My pulse is racing now.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Dr. Lechie says firmly.
“Unfortunately, this is just something that happens sometimes. It occurs in about one in fifty pregnancies, and ninety percent of the time, it’s a tubal ectopic.
You usually can’t even detect it until your first scan.
If you’d found out next week at your ultrasound, we could’ve given you medication to clear the pregnancy, but the rupture gave us no choice but to remove it surgically. ”
She talks me through the post-op, telling me to expect some soreness from the small incision in my abdomen but that any pain should improve within a week.
I’m allowed to return to light activities in a week, heavier activities in about a month.
It’s all very technical, and my head is starting to hurt.
As she drones on, tears prick my eyes, and my hands begin shaking.
I don’t want this. I don’t want to be here. I want to go back to this morning. Before that dull ache and before the fear, when I still had a future to picture.
Instead, I’m listening to this doctor and to the stupid beeping of this monitor. It’s supposed to remind me that I’m alive, but all it’s doing is reminding me that my baby is not.
The thought unleashes the tears. Mom instantly clutches my hand and strokes my hair while Dr. Lechie gently touches my arm before leaving to continue her rounds. I barely notice she’s gone. Or that she was there in the first place.
“I want to see Wyatt,” I choke out.
“Are you sure?” Mom asks.
“Please, can someone go get him?”
Dad nods and disappears from the room. He’s only gone for five minutes, but it feels like an eternity before Wyatt appears in the doorway.
Relief catches in my throat at the sight of him.
He looks beautiful, even in the harsh glare of hospital lighting.
And his hair is beyond messy, which tells me he’s been dragging his hand through it in that waiting room.
“Freckles,” he says, his eyes full of concern.
My parents give us privacy as he approaches the bed. He cups my cheeks and urgently searches my face.
“Are you okay?”
“No,” I whisper. “The baby’s gone.” My throat closes up. “Well, technically, the baby was never even there. It had zero chance of survival.”
“I know. The doctor explained it to us.” He strokes my cheek, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone, and a few tears spill out. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.”
Now I’m crying in earnest. Dr. Lechie had said something about hormones and that I still have high levels of HCG in my system.
Apparently they’ll need to monitor my levels until they return to zero to make sure no “tissue” remains.
And I’m going to be a hormonal basket case for at least a few weeks, if not longer. Awesome.
“Oh, baby, please don’t cry.”
Wyatt sits on the bed, infinitely gentle as he pulls me into his arms. I feel a twinge of pain in my side, but I don’t care. I bury my face against Wyatt’s chest, breathing in his familiar spicy scent, filling my lungs with it so I don’t have to smell that horrible antiseptic anymore.
“I’m so sorry this happened,” he murmurs in my hair. “And I know you’re upset. But you’re young, and you’re healthy, and the doctor said you still have both tubes—”
“I wanted it.”
He stiffens in surprise.
I lift my head, wiping my tears. “I didn’t even realize how much I wanted it until right now, and now it’s just gone.”
“I think…maybe I wanted it too,” Wyatt says, and for some reason, that triggers a jolt of anger.
“Stop lying.”
He’s taken aback. “I’m not lying.”
I turn my head, suddenly unable to look at him. Every breath feels like I’m dragging broken glass through my lungs. The anger has come out of nowhere, making me feel small and embarrassed but at the same time helpless to stop it.
“Please look at me,” he says softly.
But I can’t. I don’t know why. All I know is there’s this cynical voice in my head telling me that the grief I see in his eyes isn’t real. It’s fake. That what he’s really feeling is relief.
“It’s fine, Wyatt,” I mumble. “You don’t have to pretend.”
His hand finds my chin, gently forcing my head toward him. The shock and hurt on his face evoke a rush of guilt, but the fear has already taken hold, coiling inside my chest like a boa constrictor.
“You didn’t want this,” I say. “Not really. It’s okay to admit that.”
“That’s not true. Neither of us even knew what we wanted. We agreed to decide after the scan.”
I wrap my arms around myself and dig my nails into my skin, trying to steady myself. “It’s fine,” I repeat. “You pretended to be cool with it for me, and I appreciate that, but—”
“Stop saying that,” he interrupts, and his voice breaks. “I wasn’t pretending.”
He’s lying. He has to be. He has to be breathing easier without the weight of a baby crushing down on him. I’m not a fool. Any man would be relieved, and especially a man who’s had commitment issues his entire life.
“I was at peace with either option,” Wyatt says softly. “I promise you that.”
My throat closes around a sob. “You’re saying that because it’s what I need to hear right now.”
His eyes search mine. I sense his frustration, his panic. He pries my hand out of my death grip on myself and squeezes it tight.
“I know what you’re doing, and I understand why, but please don’t shut me out. I’m here with you. Right here with you. Always.”
I shrug my hand away. “Can you go get my mom?”
Wyatt flinches as if I struck him. “I’m not leaving you.”
“Please.” I twist my face away from him, the tears soaking the pillow. “I just want my mom.”