You Never Woke Up
I t wasn’t unusual of me these days to end up in a hospital bed. The sound of beeping machines surrounded me and filled the sterile air. Despite the blanket draped over me, the room was unbearably cold, the chill seeping into my bones. Albeit Julian’s pleas, the ER wouldn’t allow him to come into the exam room. So, I knew he was pacing around in the waiting room, drawing glances.
The wait felt like forever. I made a clumsy attempt to reach for the bag with a new temporary phone, but my hand couldn’t quite stretch far enough due to the IV in my arm. I still couldn’t believe it. Jess, the girl who’d worked at our office, the one I’d trusted, had gone so far as to try to commit two cold-blooded murders.
The nurse popped in: “Honey, do you need anything?”
I shook my head.
“Let me bring you a warm blanket,” she suggested caringly, then disappeared again.
My mind suddenly drifted to Sophie. Would she be okay in the end? The evidence that she could recover was strong—her heart had started beating again, however faintly, and they’d been able to stabilize her. But would it be enough?
The curtain opened once again, and the nurse stepped in with a soft smile. “Here,” she said, placing a blanket gently over my legs. The warmth of the fabric spread across my body, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I allowed myself to relax. It felt good to not have to do anything, to just be cared for.
“What are you here for?” She queried.
I guessed she’d just come in for a new shift and wasn’t up to date. “A likely miscarriage.” Acknowledging it made it more real—more final.
“They’re trying to get you in for an ultrasound, and we’re waiting for the bloodwork,” she informed me gently. “I am sure this is hard on you.” She sent me an empathetic glance.
I could feel the tears welling up, but I fought them back. I wanted to stay strong, at least for a moment longer. “You know, it feels... definite,” I whispered, my voice breaking. I felt the lump in my throat growing, threatening to choke me.
The nurse paused for a moment, then asked quietly, “How old are you?”
“26,” I muttered, feeling the weight of the number. I was approaching 27, the age when people often went through major transformations. as 27 was infamous for the “27 Club.”
“Imagine, my friends these days are having kids in their early 40s, and it’s gone without any problems.” She tried to offer comfort. “If it doesn’t work out now, it will in the future.” She attempted to comfort me. “You have plenty of time.”
But I’d grown so attached to my baby that I wanted this particular one. It wasn’t just the idea of motherhood—it was the connection, the bond that felt so real, as if I could feel their love from within me. It was hard to explain, but it kept me going. The baby had become my anchor through Julian’s rehab. I spoke to it in the darkest moment of my life when I was starting to feel like it would be one of the last things I’d do before my own death. While everything else seemed to be falling apart, this little life inside me was the one thing that gave me clarity, purpose. It was painful to feel it now dripping out of me, literally.
When the nurse disappeared again, I sat there for just a little longer. By now, it had to be around 3 AM in the morning because I was bone-weary, yet not ready to sleep because I needed to have answers. Soon, a young male nurse slid the curtains open, and then rolled up a wheelchair. Without hesitation, he guided it toward me, his expression neutral but kind. “Having a bad day?” He queried me while he rolled me through the sterile corridors.
“Something like that,” I responded meekly.
“It’s all about the attitude, isn’t it?” He tried to cheer me up.
They said that time healed all wounds, but this was just a bunch of bullshit.
We arrived at the ultrasound room, where an older woman with a thick accent instructed me to lie down next to the machine. She closed the door behind us as I bared my stomach.
“What brings you here?” She queried.
“Bleeding,” I let her know. “In pregnancy,” I clarified.
“How far along?” Even though she’d appeared stoic, I sensed a hint of empathy.
“Around six weeks,” I guessed, though I was less certain now than I had been before. Planned Parenthood had put me somewhere around five weeks and three days, so I added a few extra days to give her an accurate estimate.
She squeezed a bottle of warm thick liquid on my stomach. Minutes passed. The technician moved the transducer over the gel-slicked surface of my belly, the small device pressing into my skin with practiced precision.
“Your bladder is nice and full,” she seemed satisfied. Indeed, it was, because it hurt a lot when she pressed on it. The screen flickered with a grainy, black-and-white image, an abstract mess of shapes and shadows. I stared at it, knowing it meant valuable information, but there was no way I could make sense of it. The technician remained focused, adjusting the transducer as she scanned, her expression unreadable. The only sound was the soft click of buttons and the low hum of the machine.
Briefly, she turned on the sound. For a moment, there was nothing—just a quiet, steady hiss from the speakers. And then, through the static, I heard it. A distinct, rhythmic thumping. Fast, steady, and unmistakable.
Thum-thum. Thum-thum.
My heart stuttered in my chest. There it was—a heartbeat. But it didn’t make sense. I knew I had miscarried. I felt it. The bleeding, the pain. Tears welled up in my eyes, and she noticed.
“Was this planned?”
I knew I looked young—the kind of young that made people ask questions, sometimes even younger than my actual age. No wonder she was asking then. And I wasn’t wearing Julian’s ring either. As much as I wanted to wear it, to have that symbol of him, of us, when I went to face Sophie’s kidnappers, I knew I couldn’t. They’d strip me off it the moment they’d see me.
“Not really,” I admitted, my voice cracking. “I contemplated abortion. Twice. But I couldn’t bring myself to go through with it.” I paused. “After that, I felt determined to keep this baby.” Pain, there was more pain in my heart now.
How ironically bitter it all was. When I’d finally reached the certainty that I’d carry Julian’s child no matter what, it had slipped away. The sound, it had to most likely be my own heart.
She looked at me with sympathy, and I let go of any lingering hope. “Go use the bathroom, then come back without your bottom half.” I followed her instructions in the hope I’d soon be done with the exam.
The transvaginal part of the ultrasound felt even longer. We barely spoke after that. She conducted what seemed like a routine exam to her, then quietly let me go, saying little else.
I knew Julian by now was probably going crazy. Now unplugged from the ivy, I let him know via message that we were not just waiting on results.
“Sophie is okay so far,” he let me know. “Everyone is here, the Dickens family, and even Miss Hart.”
I could only imagine how chaotic the scene must have been at the hospital. I felt a deep sense of gratitude toward Amanda. She had played a crucial role in speeding up the search by sharing the information I’d given her, and in doing so, she had most likely saved Sophie’s life.
The curtain opened again, and a sharp-looking doctor in his 40s stepped in, his expression professional but soft. For a brief, fleeting moment, I wished I could stop him from speaking, from delivering the final, inevitable news. A part of me clung desperately to the hope that maybe—just maybe—the baby had somehow survived. But in fact, I already knew this would be just a formality. He glanced at me briefly before turning his focus to the chart in his hands.
“The test results confirmed a miscarriage,” he announced gently. “HCG’s dropped and there’s no more sign of a gestational sac on imaging.”
I nodded, then blinked my eyes extra hard to not look like a wreck.
“There’s no internal bleeding, and I think you are at the tail end of it,” he consoled me. “It happens in 25% of pregnancies, and it does not mean anything about your fertility.” He assured me next.
I couldn’t help but wonder if Julian’s addiction had contributed to the loss. Or could it have been my stress? Did I perhaps drink more coffee than was allowed, unknowingly? I’d been so careful…
“I want to quickly scan your liver, and then we’ll get you out of here,” he informed me, his voice calm and steady as he wheeled a portable machine toward my bed.
It didn’t take long to finish the test. “Just as I expected,” he affirmed, glancing at the screen. “Despite the pain in your upper quadrant, there’s no internal bleeding in your liver either.”
I nodded, then thanked him. A sense of detachment was slowly creeping in, and I could feel myself becoming more and more disconnected.
“The nurse will bring your checkout documents,” he relayed before vanishing. “I am deeply sorry for your loss, Lucie.” He gave me one last glance.
Next, I went through the motions of the checkout process, my senses numb. I had been expecting this moment, but even so, I wasn’t ready for it. As I collected my things, I lingered in the room for a moment, the weight of the silence pressing on me. No one would understand it, but I needed to stay here for just another minute. Say goodbye to the hope of what could have been, to the future I’d dreamed of but never got to hold.