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“Her test came back normal,” I added, looking back to the doctor but he didn’t reply. Panic set in and my heart began throwing out crazy arrhythmic beats in distress as my breathing became shallow and faster. This can’t be happening. “Did you hear me?” I probed again.
The helpless look the doctor gave me crushed me. “You’re right. Grace was screened, and the results were normal at that time,” he confirmed quietly. “But I’m asking you to trust me, Grace can’t deliver normally.”
No. No. NO! A tight band of pressure squeezed my brain until I thought I’d have a stroke. All my reasoning fought for me not to accept what he’d stated. As a result, the pressing tension made me feel as if my skull was going to explode.
“Is this why she’s been in so much pain lately?” I enquired, eyeing him carefully.
“It’s entirely possible the cell changes were still at undetectable levels when Grace was screened, but yes, undoubtedly it would have caused her pain.”
“Cell changes?” The anguish in my voice was apparent.
“I’m so sorry we don’t have time for further explanations until after we operate. Our priority is to make Grace comfortable right now and to ensure your baby is born safely. The only way to do this is with emergency surgery.”
I could have continued to force the issue because Grace and I needed an explanation; but in terms of prioritizing the immediate situation, the doctor was right. Grace had to be helped to bring our baby into the world and everything else had to wait. I figured once the baby was born we’d be in a better position to investigate where to get help to make Grace well again.
“Stay strong, Baby, we’ll get through this. Trust me, we’re going to find out what’s going on with you and get the best guys in the business to fix it.”
As I rambled on, spouting meaningless words in my efforts to make Grace feel safe, she focused her energy on her labor pains and the safe delivery of our daughter. Not once from when Dr. Ken gave us this news until she was ready for the operating room, did Grace break down, show distress, or ask any questions.
“Let’s get on with what needs to be done,” Grace stated to Dr. Ken in an expressionless tone. She sounded as if she had detached herself from everyone else in the room.
The moment Grace gave her consent to the surgical procedure, the nurse and the other guy in scrubs, whom I learned was the anesthesiologist, moved in and prepared my courageously calm girl for the operating room.
As the birth was an emergency procedure and the baby still premature, Grace was given the steroid shot for our daughter’s lungs, and with no time for anything other than a full general anesthetic, I wasn’t allowed to stay with her for the birth of our baby.
As they wheeled her through the operating room doors, I held Grace’s hand, bent down and kissed her. Smoothing her hair, I forced a soft smile as my worried eyes met hers and my heartbeat battered erratically in denial.
“Stay strong, beautiful. I’ll be right here waiting for you when you wake up. I love you so much. Forget everything else and concentrate on you and our baby. Don’t worry, we’ll work out the rest.”
Too choked to say anything else, I stood up straight and watched them wheel her inside the room and I tried not to cry. Bawling was the last thing I wanted to do when Grace was being so brave.
Pain seared through my body as I watched my world lying helpless on the gurney. Holding my breath, I waited until the sound of the heavy operating room door clicked shut and I fell to my knees on the floor.
I was still in the same position when my tears had dried and I continued to stare at the single dark mark on the wall. With my mind back in the present, I still struggled to make sense of the grim expression on the doctor’s face and how he avoided expanding on what was wrong with my wife.
We came to the hospital to have a baby, to be a family. Being left alone in a corridor with more questions than answers wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Why would the doctor refuse to comment on what he suspected, yet act with such certainty regarding the surgery for Grace? How could emergency surgery pose less of a risk to her and our baby?
Every minute I waited for news felt excruciatingly long. As I sat there undisturbed, I willed someone to come out and find me; to tell me Grace and our baby were perfectly fine, and to say that the doctor was wrong.
CHAPTER THREE
“Cole?” Hearing the obstetrician’s questioning tone drew me out of my daydream.
I glanced up from the floor and his worried expression sent fear coursing through my body. As I scrambled to my feet, my throat tightened and the crushing pain in my chest felt suffocating at the thought there may be something wrong with Grace or our child.
“Breathe,” the doctor coaxed in a gentler tone than he’d used before, and I suddenly snapped out of the panic attack I was having. My anxious eyes frantically searched his face as I waited for him to update me.
“Yes?”
Anguish darkened his expression as he drew in a deep breath and held it, and my heart stalled. Averting his eyes from my gaze he shook his head, and I grew more impatient, my eyes riveted to him.
“Shall we have a seat?” he asked, gesturing with an outstretched hand at the row of blue plastic chairs lining the corridor.
Meekly, I sat down without taking my eyes off him and he did the same. Turning his body to face me, he placed his hands in his lap and gave me a sympathetic stare. I almost screamed because of how unhurried he appeared.
“First, you have a baby daughter. She’s fine, vitals are all good, but as you know she’s a few weeks early, so she’s going up to the neonatal unit for observation for a short time. We’re always cautious for the first day or two with our premature babies because those last few weeks can make a difference to their adaptation from the womb.”
“And Grace?” I asked concerned.
