Chapter 4 - The Choice on the Table
“Call the OR!” Dr. Foster shouted to the floor nurse. “Prep for an emergency Cesarean section! Get the neonatal resuscitation team on standby—we have three infants at twenty-three weeks, two days!”
The room erupted into chaos. Nurses were unplugging monitors, unlocking the wheels of my bed, and hooking portable oxygen tanks to my frame.
“Wait!” I screamed over the din of alarms and shouting staff. “Wait! Is there any other option? Can’t you increase the medicine? Give me more magnesium! Give me anything!”
“Hannah, the placenta is separating from the wall of your uterus,” Dr. Foster said, leaning directly over my face so I had no choice but to look into her eyes. “If the placenta detaches, Oliver, Sophie, and Mia will lose their oxygen supply within three minutes, and you could bleed to death. I am not letting four people die in this room today. We have to go NOW.”
Andrew was pushed back against the wall by three surgical techs rolling in a gurney. “Hannah! I’m right here! I’m right here!” he yelled, his face pale as chalk as he tried to push through the medical personnel to reach my hand.
“Andrew!” I reached out, my fingers missing his by inches as my bed was yanked through the double doors and plunged into the brightly lit, sterile hallway.
The ceiling lights flashed past in a dizzying blur—white, white, white. The metallic smell of disinfectant filled my lungs. The pain in my lower stomach was now continuous, a burning fire that felt as though my body was tearing itself in half from the inside out.
Inside Operating Room 4, the air was freezing—kept cold to prevent bacterial growth and preserve delicate surgical equipment. Over a dozen medical staff dressed in blue scrubs, masks, and face shields were standing around three separate neonatal warming tables, each equipped with tiny laryngoscopes, ventilation bags, and IV lines.
Three tables. Three babies.
They shoved a mask over my face. “Count backward from ten, Hannah,” the anesthesiologist said softly, injecting a thick white fluid into my IV line.
“Please,” I wept into the plastic mask, my tears pooling around the rubber seal. “Please... keep them alive... tell Faith I tried...”
“Ten... nine... eight...”
The world spun out of focus. The bright overhead surgical lights dissolved into a swirl of blinding silver sparks, and then everything went pitch black.
...
When I woke up, there was no sound of crying.
There was only the soft, rhythmic clicking of a ventilator tube in my throat, the dry rasp of oxygen being forced into my lungs, and the dull, throbbing ache across my lower abdomen.
My eyes fluttered open. The surgical lights were gone. I was in a dimly lit Recovery Room.
I tried to speak, but the tube in my mouth caused me to gag.
Instantly, a hand touched my shoulder. Andrew’s face appeared in my blurred vision. He looked exhausted, his hair sticking up in messy tufts, but he wasn't crying.
He leaned down, whispering close to my ear. “Don't try to talk, baby. The breathing tube is coming out in a few minutes. Just listen to me.”
I stared at him, my heart pounding against my ribs, waiting for the devastating news.
“They’re here,” Andrew whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and sheer exhaustion. “Oliver was born at 3:42 PM. One pound, five ounces. Sophie was born at 3:44 PM. One pound, two ounces. And Mia... tiny little Mia... came out last at 3:45 PM. One pound, one ounce.”
May you like
I choked against the tube, tears overflowing my eyes.
“They’re alive, Hannah,” Andrew said, his tears finally breaking through as a beautiful, glowing smile spread across his face. “All three of them are alive. They’re in the NICU right next to Faith.”
