Chapter 16
Patrice
Everything hurts.
That's my first coherent thought when I surface from whatever painkiller-induced fog I've been floating in. Everything. Hurts.
My body feels like it's been through a war. Which, technically, it has. Labor is basically warfare without the medals or the victory parade. Just pain, exhaustion, and the vague sense that you've survived something you definitely shouldn't have attempted without backup.
Also, I'm pretty sure my vagina has filed for divorce.
"Hey." Trace's voice cuts through the haze. "You're awake."
I pry my eyes open. He's sitting in the world's most uncomfortable-looking chair beside my bed, still wearing the same clothes from—what? Yesterday? This morning? Time has become a meaningless concept.
His hair is sticking up in about seven different directions, he has what looks like dried coffee stains on his shirt, and there are dark circles under his eyes that suggest he hasn't slept since the Clinton administration.
"You look terrible," I croak.
"You're one to talk." But he's smiling, and he reaches for my hand. "How do you feel?"
"Like I pushed a human out of my body. Oh wait." I try to sit up more and immediately regret it. "Ow. Ow. Why does everything hurt?"
"According to the nurse, that's normal. Something about your body going through major trauma." He adjusts my pillows, gentle despite his obvious exhaustion. "Want more pain meds?"
"Is that even a question? Yes. All the pain meds. Every single one."
He presses the call button, and Brenda appears moments later with the efficiency of someone who's been doing this job way too long to be surprised by anything.
"Pain?" she asks, already checking my chart.
"Everything from my neck down."
"Sounds about right." She adjusts something on my IV. "This should help. Give it a few minutes to kick in."
"What time is it?" My voice sounds like I've swallowed gravel.
"Almost one PM." He leans forward, reaching for my hand. "You've been asleep for about four hours."
Four hours. Which means our daughter has been in the NICU for—
"The baby," I croak. "Is she—"
"She's okay." Trace squeezes my fingers. "She's doing well. Breathing on her own. They're monitoring her, but the nurses say she's a fighter."
The relief hits so hard I almost start crying again. Almost. I've cried enough for one lifetime in the past twelve hours.
"Have you seen her?" I ask.
"Yeah. They let me go down while you were sleeping." He pulls out his phone, and his expression does something soft and vulnerable that makes my chest ache. "I took about three hundred pictures. Want to see more?"
"Three hundred?"
"I might be slightly obsessed with my daughter." He scrolls through his camera roll. "Also, I have no idea which ones are good, so I just took all of them. Multiple angles. Different lighting situations."
He angles the phone so I can see the screen. More photos of our daughter. Still impossibly tiny. Still hooked up to all those wires and tubes. But somehow, in the morning light, she looks a little less terrifying than she did last night when we first saw her.
My throat closes up. "She's still so little."
"Four pounds, two ounces." Trace's thumb hovers over the photo. "The nurse said she might lose a few ounces before she starts gaining. That's normal for preemies."
"How much do full-term babies weigh again?"
"Seven, eight pounds usually."
"So, she's basically half the size she should be."
"But she's perfect anyway." He scrolls to another photo. "And she has your nose."
I look closer. "You said that last night. I still can't tell with all the tubes."
"Trust me. I spent an hour staring at her this morning. Definitely your nose. And your stubborn chin."
"You mean the MacKenzie stubborn chin."
"Hey, that's a MacKenzie family trait. Generations of stubborn chins."
Despite everything, I almost smile. "Lucky her."
He scrolls to another photo—a different angle, this one showing more of her face. Her eyes are closed, tiny fists curled near her cheeks, and she looks so peaceful. So unaware that she came into the world six weeks too early because her parents are idiots who had a massive fight right before—
"Wait." I grab his hand. "Go back."
He swipes back to the previous photo.
"Is that—is she wearing a hat?"
"Oh." Trace grins, a little sheepish. "Yeah. The NICU has these tiny knit hats for the preemies. It's got little ears on it. Like a bear."
"A bear."
"It's the tiniest, most adorable thing I've ever seen. I may have teared up when the nurse put it on her."
"You cried over a hat."
"It has ears, Patrice. Little fuzzy ears." He shows me another photo, and sure enough, our daughter is wearing what appears to be a miniature bear hat. It's absurd. It's perfect. It's making me cry again.
"I can't stop crying," I say, wiping my eyes.
"Join the club." He's crying too, both of us staring at this tiny human wearing a bear hat who came into the world too early and scared us half to death.
The guilt hits like a freight train.
"This is my fault," I say, and my voice breaks on the last word. "I did something wrong. I shouldn't have fought with you. I shouldn't have gotten so stressed. I shouldn't have—"
"Stop." Trace sets the phone down and takes both my hands. "Patrice, no. This isn't your fault."
"But the stress. The fight. I was so upset, and—"
"It's mine," he interrupts. "I pushed you. I argued with you when you were already dealing with so much. I made you upset when I should've just—"
"Stop it. Both of you."
We both jump. The nurse—the same one who checked on me earlier, Brenda—is standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, looking distinctly unimpressed with our guilt spiral.
"I've been doing this for twenty years," she says, walking over to check my monitors. "And I've heard every version of 'It's my fault the baby came early.' You know what? Sometimes babies come early. It happens. Premature birth happens. You didn't cause this."
"But—" I start.
"No buts." She gives me a look that suggests she's dealt with way too many anxious new parents to tolerate any nonsense. "Did you do drugs? Drink heavily? Engage in some extreme sport I should know about?"
"No," I mutter.
"Then it's not your fault." She finishes with the monitors and makes a note on her chart. "Babies have their own timeline. This little one just decided to show up early. It happens more often than you'd think."
Trace and I look at each other. He looks as unconvinced as I feel.
Brenda sighs. "Look, I get it. You're scared.
You're exhausted. You want someone to blame because that feels better than accepting that sometimes things just happen.
But beating yourselves up isn't going to help anyone.
Your daughter needs you both present and functional, not drowning in guilt. Got it?"
"Got it," we say in unison, like scolded children.
She softens slightly. "Good. Now, Dr. Martinez will be by in a bit to talk about next steps. In the meantime, how's your pain?"
"Manageable," I lie.
She gives me a look that says she knows I'm lying but appreciates the effort. "I'll get you more meds later if you need it. Try to rest. You're going to need your strength."
After she leaves, Trace and I sit in silence for a moment.
"We're terrible at not blaming ourselves," I finally say.
"The worst."
"Should we work on that?"
"Probably." He brushes hair back from my forehead. "But maybe later. When we're not both running on zero sleep and maximum anxiety."
"Deal."
A different knock on the door announces Dr. Martinez's arrival. She looks exactly as calm and professional as she did during labor, which seems unfair. Shouldn't she at least look a little tired? I just pushed a human out of my body. She should have to show some solidarity exhaustion.
"How are we feeling?" she asks, pulling up a chair.
"Like I got hit by a truck," I admit.
"That's normal. You did great, by the way. Six hours of labor for a first baby is actually pretty good."
Six hours. It felt like six years.
Dr. Martinez flips through her notes. "So, let's talk about your daughter. She's doing very well, all things considered. She's breathing on her own, which is excellent. Her vitals are strong. We're monitoring her closely, but so far, everything looks good."
"How long will she need to stay in the NICU?" Trace asks.
"Typically, babies born at thirty-three weeks stay for about two to three weeks. It depends on how quickly she gains weight and learns to regulate her body temperature and feeding. But she's off to a good start."
Two to three weeks. In the hospital. Without my baby.
The reality of it crashes over me like a wave. I can't take her home. Can't hold her whenever I want. Can't do any of the things I imagined doing as a new mother because my body decided to evict her six weeks too early.
"Hey." Dr. Martinez's voice is gentle. "I know this isn't what you planned.
But your daughter is healthy. That's what matters.
And you'll get to spend time with her. The NICU encourages parental involvement.
Skin-to-skin contact, helping with feedings, all of that.
You won't be separated from her completely. "
"When can I see her?" The question comes out desperate, raw.
"Once you're feeling up to it, we can take you down in a wheelchair. Maybe in an hour or so? Give the pain meds time to kick in."
An hour feels like an eternity.
But I nod, because what else can I do?
After Dr. Martinez leaves, Trace moves his chair closer to the bed. "You should eat something."
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat anyway. For recovery. And—" He hesitates. "If you're planning to breastfeed, you need to keep your strength up."
Right. Breastfeeding. Because apparently having a baby seven weeks early wasn't enough chaos—now I have to figure out how to feed said baby when she's hooked up to machines in a different room.
"I don't know how to do any of this," I whisper.
"Me neither." Trace laces his fingers through mine. "But we'll figure it out."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true." He kisses my knuckles. "We're a team now. Whether you like it or not."
"What if I'm terrible at this? What if I can't—"
"Then you'll be terrible at it with me. And we'll get better together." He gives me a look that's so earnest, so certain, I want to believe him.
An hour later, the same nurse from earlier—Sarah—wheels me back down to the NICU. My second visit in less than twenty-four hours, and somehow it's no less overwhelming than the first.
Trace walks beside the wheelchair, one hand on my shoulder. He's been down three times already this morning, according to Brenda. Apparently, the nurses are starting to recognize him.
"You're becoming a regular," Sarah says with a smile as we enter the NICU.
The space is just as quiet as last night. Dimly lit, soft music playing. But it's daytime now, and there are more nurses moving between the incubators, more parents sitting in chairs beside their too-small babies.
Our daughter is still in the far corner. Still hooked up to what seems like a hundred wires. Still impossibly, terrifyingly small.
But she's here. She's alive. She's ours.
"She looks a little better." Or maybe I just need to believe that.
"The nurse said her oxygen levels are good," Trace offers. "And she's tolerating the feeding tube well."
We approach the incubator, and I reach through the port like I did last night, touching her tiny arm. Her skin is warm, soft, perfect.
"Hi, raspberry," I whisper. "It's Mom again. I know we were just here, but I couldn't stay away. I needed to make sure you were still okay."
Trace reaches through the other port, his much larger hand dwarfing our daughter's entire body. "Hey, baby girl. Dad again. I keep coming back to check on you. Can't help it."
I look up at him. His eyes are red-rimmed, exhausted. "Have you slept at all?"
"A little. In that chair." He gestures vaguely back toward my room. "But I keep thinking about her down here. All alone."
"She's not alone. The nurses are with her."
"I know. But still." He traces a gentle finger along our daughter's arm. "I just want her to know we're here. That we're not going anywhere."
The weight of it all hits me again. This tiny human who came too early. Who we don't even have a name for yet. Who's living in a plastic box while we stand helplessly by.
"We still haven't named her," I say, voicing the thought that's been nagging at me.
"I know." He looks at me. "Any ideas?"
"Not really. Everything I think of feels either too generic or too weird. Like, we can't name her something basic like Mary, but we also can't name her something that sounds like we're trying too hard."
"What about family names?"
A nurse approaches with kind eyes. "You two are back. How are we doing?"
"Exhausted. Terrified. The usual," I say.
She smiles sympathetically. "That's pretty standard. But she's doing well, if it helps. Her vitals are stable, and she's responding well to the feeding tube."
"When can we hold her?" Trace asks, and there's something almost desperate in his voice.
"Probably in a day or two. We want to make sure she's stable first. But you're doing great right now—talking to her, touching her. She knows you're here."
After Jennifer moves away, Trace and I look at each other.
"Should we keep talking to her?" I ask.
"Jennifer said yesterday that she can hear us."
"Right." I turn back to our daughter. "Okay, so. What do we talk about now? We already did the introductions last time we were here."
"Tell her about... I don't know. Something normal?"
"You mean like my terrifying spreadsheet skills?"
"Those aren't terrifying. They're organized."
"Terrifyingly organized." I manage a small smile. "Fine. Hey, baby girl. Your mom is very ambitious. And stubborn. And sometimes a little controlling. You're probably going to inherit all of that, and I apologize in advance to your future teachers."
Trace grins. "And your dad makes furniture and is weirdly obsessed with wood grain patterns. I promise to only bore you with that stuff on weekends."
"We have no idea what we're doing," I say, watching our daughter's tiny chest rise and fall.
"Not a clue," Trace agrees. "But we're figuring it out."
I start humming again—that same melody from last night, the one my mother used to hum. Trace joins in, and for a moment, in this quiet, dimly lit room full of too-small babies and worried parents, it feels like maybe we're going to be okay.
"We need a name," I whisper, watching her tiny fingers curl and uncurl. "We can't keep calling her 'baby girl' forever."
"We do," Trace agrees.
"Something that means she's strong. That she's a fighter."
"Something that honors where she came from."
We stand there—or rather, he stands and I sit in the wheelchair—watching our unnamed daughter, and I realize naming someone is terrifying. You're choosing who they'll be for their entire life when you barely know who they are yet.
But we have to start somewhere.