Thursday, August 24th #3
I frown, blinking at her. The words mean nothing to me. Abruption. It sounds violent. Wrong. My brain can’t connect the dots, can’t keep up.
Her hand comes to my shoulder, settling there gently. “We did an ultrasound,” she continues softly, “and unfortunately, we were unable to detect a heartbeat. I’m so sorry.”
Heartbeat.
The word hits me like a wrecking ball. I stare at her, waiting for my mind to make sense of what she’s saying. Is she talking about Cat? Or the baby? Or both?
“It’s rare, but not unheard of,” she says, her tone apologetic, like she wishes she could change what’s already happened. “The severity of the abruption deprived the baby of oxygen.”
The baby. Not Cat.
I start to understand.
I feel my heart lurch and falter, like it’s skipping beats, trying to keep pace with the flood of realization. The baby didn’t make it.
“I’m so sorry,” she repeats. “We’re prepping Cat for an emergency C-section to deliver the baby and get control of the bleeding. Would you… would you like to see your son after delivery?”
My son.
A boy.
The air leaves my lungs. My knees give out and I drop back into the chair.
“I… I don’t know,” I whisper. Everything’s spinning. I drop my head into my hands, trying to hold it together, trying to stop the world from crashing down around me.
The doctor lowers herself into the seat next to me. “That’s alright,” she says gently. “I have to get back to your wife. I’ll come find you afterward. Give you some time to decide.”
My wife. My son.
Fuck.
I manage a slight nod, the weight of her words crushing me.
But then a thought slams into my chest. I reach for her, stopping her mid-stride.
“We were intimate a few hours ago,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “We… we had sex. Could that have been the reason for—”
She shakes her head before I can finish.
“No. You don’t have to worry about that.
Sex and orgasms can sometimes trigger contractions, but this wasn’t caused by that.
Cat’s abruption was severe, and not related to anything you did.
These things… sometimes they just happen.
” Her expression softens. “We’ll run tests, see if we can determine a cause.
I’ll come find you once she’s out of surgery. ”
She offers a small, sympathetic smile—meant to comfort—and then she’s gone, off to save the woman I love more than anything.
The moment she disappears, I bolt out of the ER, crashing through the doors like I can outrun the grief clawing at my insides. The cool morning air hits my lungs hard. I gulp it down like I’m drowning.
I pace. I rake my hands through my hair, across my face, over and over again. I want to scream. I want to run until my legs give out. But I don’t. Of course I don’t.
So I just keep pacing—back and forth on the sidewalk—until I calm myself down enough to go back inside. Back to the waiting room. Back to waiting.
My eyes burn from exhaustion, but I don’t dare close them. Not until I know Cat’s okay. I keep checking my watch. Then my phone. Then my watch again. Twenty minutes since I last spoke to the doctor, but it feels like fucking hours.
Then my phone buzzes in the pocket of my sweats. It’s Shane.
“How’s Cat?” he asks. No hello, just urgency.
I sigh, dropping my elbows to my knees, tipping my head forward as I press the phone to my ear.
“I don’t know,” I say, my voice fraying. “She’s in surgery.”
“What happened?” Tori’s voice now. I must be on speaker.
“Cat… her placenta abrupted. The baby didn’t make it,” I say. “They’re doing an emergency C-section now. Trying to control the bleeding. And… deliver the baby.” My throat tightens around the last words. “It was a boy,” I choke.
Tori gasps.
“Ran, I’m so sorry,” Shane says, and his voice cracks.
“Shay?” I breathe, reaching for the only thing I can. His voice. My best friend.
“I’m here, Ran.”
And thank god for that!
“They asked if I want to see him. After he’s delivered.” I swallow hard. “I don’t know what the right thing is.”
There’s a pause. I hear him inhale shakily, and I can picture him sitting up, pressing a hand over his mouth, steadying himself for me.
“Don’t think, Ran. Just feel. Don’t worry about what’s right or wrong right now. What do you want? If you want to see him, see him. If you don’t, that’s okay too. This isn’t anyone else’s decision. I’m so fucking sorry.”
We fall silent for a moment, each of us struggling with the heaviness of the moment.
“What can I do?” Shane asks, his voice thick with emotion.
“Nothing,” I sigh, feeling completely drained.
Just then, I see Cat’s doctor emerge from the double doors and I shoot to my feet.
“Shane, I gotta go. Cat’s doctor is coming to talk to me. Hey, can you try to get in touch with Cat’s mom? Or my dad? Or both? I haven’t been able to reach anyone.”
“Sure thing, Ran.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, hanging up and shoving my phone back into my pocket as I move toward the doctor.
“How is she?” The words tumble out as soon as I reach her.
She rests a hand on my shoulder and begins guiding me gently toward the double doors. “She’s out of surgery. We were able to stop the bleeding, and we’ve been giving her blood transfusions. She’s going to be okay.”
The air rushes from my lungs. Relief hits me like a wave, giving me enough strength to speak the next words. “I’d like to see him.”
The doctor nods, offering a small, warm smile that somehow makes the whole moment even more unbearable.
She leads me down a wide hallway to an elevator.
“Were you able to figure out why this happened?” I ask, my voice strained. “I mean, is there anything we need to do differently the next time… wait, will she be able to have kids? She wants kids.”
“We’re going to run some tests,” the doctor says, her voice calm, practiced, kind.
“But yes, she will be able to have children. She’ll just need to be monitored more closely next time.
Once complications like these arise, the risk can be higher in future pregnancies.
But that’s something her primary doctor will watch for…
once she’s ready to try again. Right now, she just needs time. Time to rest. To heal.”
The elevator doors open. We take it up to the third floor where she leads me into a small room.
The morning sun spills in through a large window to the left of Cat’s bed. I walk straight to her, taking her hand into mine.
She’s sleeping. Peaceful now. Her face no longer contorted in pain.
The cold sheen of sweat is gone, wiped clean from her skin, but she’s still too pale.
Ashen. Her lips barely pink. There’s an IV feeding her donated blood.
I catch the sticker on the bag: A negative.
I never knew her blood type. I make a mental note, filing it away just in case that’s info I’ll ever need to have on hand.
“We’ll keep her for a couple of days,” the doctor says. “She should be able to go home on Saturday.” Her hand touches my shoulder again, soft, comforting. “The nurse will be up shortly to let you see your son. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
I nod. Or at least I think I nod. And then she leaves.
I pull a chair next to Cat’s bed and sit, still holding her hand. My thumb drags along her soft skin, still too cool. I let my forehead rest against her arm, and for a moment, I just breathe.
It hits me then. All of it. Everything I’ve been forcing down to survive the last few hours—terror, adrenaline, helplessness, grief—rises at once, leaving me shaking.
I almost lost her. I almost lost the only person I’ve ever been certain of.
Even in the months we were apart, I still belonged to her. I always did. I see that now, with painful, piercing clarity.
A soft knock at the door draws my head up. A nurse steps in, gently pushing a small hospital bassinet toward me.
My breath catches. Or disappears entirely. I can’t tell which.
She brings it to a stop beside me.
My heart—if it’s still beating—feels like it’s moving underwater.
Inside the bassinet is a tiny bundle, wrapped in a white blanket with pale pink and blue stripes. There’s a matching hat on his small head. He looks like he’s just sleeping.
“Can I hold him?” I ask, barely above a whisper.
The nurse nods and lifts the baby—my son—into my arms.
He’s weightless. Fragile. Perfect. Lifeless.
His skin is grayish, almost translucent. Still… he’s mine.
“I’ll give you some time,” the nurse says softly. “Just press the call button when you’re ready.” She leaves quietly, shutting the door behind her.
I retake my seat beside Cat, cradling our baby in one arm and holding Cat’s hand with the other.
“I’m holding our son, baby,” I say, my voice strange in the quiet. “He’s already beautiful.”
My vision blurs. Tears rise and spill over. I don’t stop them. I don’t even try. I just let myself feel.
I look down at the baby, studying every inch of him. His delicate mouth. The slope of his nose. The closed lids over eyes I’ll never get to see open. Cat’s hazel? My green? Or maybe something else entirely? A color that belongs only to him?
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry for everything.”
The words come in waves.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t excited about you at first. I was scared. So fucking scared I wouldn’t know how to love you right.”
But I did. I do. I realize it as I say the words—I’ve loved him for weeks.
Every time we heard his heartbeat at the doctor’s office. Every time I saw the ultrasound pinned to the fridge. Every time my hands rested on Cat’s belly and felt him move underneath.
I loved him more than I knew.
And now it’s all been pulled out from under me, leaving nothing but this aching, hollow quiet.
“I wanted to be so good to you. And to her,” I whisper, my throat burning. “But I wasted so much time worrying, being afraid… I didn’t enjoy any of it. And now I’ll never get the chance to.”
A sob shudders out of me, raw and broken. I hold on to Cat and to him—our son—as the grief pours out.