Every Second With You (25 page)

“I’m calling the doctor,” he says. “This isn’t normal for a minor car accident.”

Two hours later, I’m diagnosed with severe preeclampsia.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Trey

“But
how
does this happen?” I ask again, standing outside the ER room with the doctor. I’m stuck on repeat¸ asking for the fiftieth time how Harley has high blood pressure in her pregnancy. He’s already told me how, but I refuse to accept the answer.

“Some things just happen,” he says one more time, crisply enunciating each word.

No. No. No.
That’s what doctors say to explain all the bad shit in the world. That’s their reasoning for death, and pain, and heartbreak.
Things happen.
When I used to say
things happened
to my shrink, she called me on it. She practically smacked me, and told me to take responsibility for my actions. Why can’t doctors do the same?
Things happen
is a euphemism for
people die
.

I hold my hands out wide, as if that will transform the information into something that makes sense. “How does she have preeclampsia?”

“It happens to some women,” the doctor says calmly. The OB on call with the practice, he’s a tiny guy and he has a baby face, as if he’s never shaved and never had to. He wears glasses and looks like he aced all his classes in school.

Admittedly, that’s a good look for a doctor. But still . . .

“She’s fucking twenty. How does it happen to a twenty-year-old? Her doc in New York said her being young was the best thing she had going for her.”

“And it still is,” he says.

“Then why does she have this preeclampsia thing?”

“Because one of the risk factors is being young. The risk of preeclampsia is higher for pregnant women who are younger than twenty, and for women in their first pregnancy. Both of which apply to your wife.”

“My wife isn’t
younger
than twenty. She
is
twenty,” I point out, as if this fact will suddenly clear up Harley’s health. She’ll sit up in bed, he’ll detach her from the machines, and he’ll send her home.

But that’s not what he’s saying.

“I understand,” he says calmly, nodding. “Even so, this is what we are dealing with. And technically, she has advancing preeclampsia.”

“So, what’s next?”

“She’s getting magnesium sulfate right now,” he says.

“Right. I know. And then after that?”

“My recommendation is that as soon as we stabilize her with the mag sulfate, which should be within a few hours, that we deliver the baby then. That’s the only treatment for preeclampsia.”

I shudder. “Is that safe?”

“She’s nearly thirty-seven-weeks pregnant, and that’s essentially full-term. When patients present with preeclampsia earlier in their pregnancies, this is about the gestational age we try to get them to. In her case, she’s there, so that’s very good. And at nearly thirty-seven weeks, the baby isn’t considered premature, so won’t need to be admitted to the NICU. You should be able to take the baby home with you.”

I exhale, and push my hand through my hair. “Whew,” I say, then breathe out hard again. “Thank god. I thought you were going to say . . .” But I trail off, because I don’t know what I thought he was going to say. I just assumed the worst, because that’s what I do. But this isn’t so bad, right? “Does any of this have to do with the accident, though? The car accident,” I add, and then quickly explain what happened a week ago.

“Hmm,” he says, tapping a pencil against his chin, as he considers. “I don’t think so. This is entirely separate. But it sounds as if her symptoms—headaches, dizziness, and tiredness—could easily be confused with the minor trauma from a fender bender. And the pain she said she was feeling in her abdomen was likely epigastric pain from her liver, since preeclampsia can impact that organ.” Then he points his pencil high in the air. “It’s a good thing she almost fainted, then. If she hadn’t, we might have thought it was all accident trauma. You caught it in the nick of time. I’ll be back shortly to see how she’s responding. And to get the results of some other routine tests we need to run for preeclamptic patients.”

He heads off, and I’m left scratching my head over his chipper attitude. But cheery is better than the alternative, I reason, as I return to the room where Harley’s nurse has started the mag sulfate drip, and is recording some information on the chart. Harley’s lying on the hospital bed, a flimsy blue gown tied at her back, her hair pulled into a ponytail. She turns her gaze to me, and smiles weakly, and then lifts her hand to wave. “Hi.”

I close the distance between us quickly. “Hi,” I say softly, standing by her side, taking her hand in mine. “How do you feel?”

“Well, the nurse said the side effects of mag sulfate include headaches and blurry vision . . . so about the same,” she says, her voice slow and sluggish, the sound of it digging hard into my heart. I wish I could take the pain away from her, bear it myself so she wouldn’t have to go through any of this.

“This should kick in soon, and reduce the risk of seizure,” the nurse says, flashing a business-like smile as she drops the chart in the holder at the end of the bed with a clang. But all I hear is that last word.
Seizure
. Sharp, like a nail in my back.

“What? Nobody said anything about seizures? Is this from the medicine?”

The nurse shakes her head. “It’s one of the possible side effects of severe preeclampsia. That’s why we’re doing the mag. To reduce the risk of seizure.”

Holy shit.
“The doctor didn’t say anything about seizures,” I say, in a voice coated with nerves.

The nurse pats me on the arm. “That’s what preeclampsia can lead to. That’s why we need to deliver her, sweetie. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

She leaves and I turn to Harley, and it nearly breaks me as I see the rabbit fear in her eyes. But I push aside my worry because I have to be strong for her. She’s the one who has to go through this. She’s the one whose body is taking a pounding. All I have to do is be here for her, and that’s easy, and I have to show her how easy it is. I can’t let on that my heart is running the one-hundred meter dash. I squeeze her hand. “Did the doc tell you they want you to deliver today?”

She nods, her eyelids fluttering with sleepiness. I have no clue how she’s going to have the energy to handle labor. This high blood pressure is sapping all her strength.

“I guess we really better come up with a name soon,” I tease.

She nods. “Fred.”

“Barney.”

“Wilma.”

“Betty.”

“Bonnie.”

“Clyde.”

“Calvin,” she says.

“Hobbes.”

“Batman.”

“Robin.”

“Starsky.”

“Worst name ever.”

“Then you’re nixing Hutch too?”

“Yes.”

We toss out names for the next several minutes, none of them serious, all of them a Band-Aid to pass the time.

When the nurse returns, her first task is to recheck Harley’s blood pressure. We both stare hard at the cuff as it puffs up on her arm, and expands, with a tick, tick, tick. The nurse keeps her eyes trained on the readout on the machine. Then she tsks once, shakes her head, and turns to Harley. She clasps her hands together. “I need to get the doctor.”

She leaves quickly, her rapid clip the surest sign that whatever is happening to Harley is speeding into the danger zone. My blood races at a kamikaze pace, because when the nurse takes off to find the doctor, you know the news is going to be bad.

“Sherlock.” Harley’s voice is so soft now, so weak, as she tries to play the name game again.

I’m about to say Watson when she draws a sharp breath, and slaps her palm against her forehead. She scrunches her eyes closed and moans, like a cat trapped, and the sound turns my skin cold. “What is it?”

“My head hurts so much.”

My stomach drops. I can’t sit here and let this happen. “Fuck. We need to figure out what’s going on.”

I stand up and head to the doorway, scanning the halls quickly for the nurse or the doctor. I look past the counter where all the lab techs are gathered around charts and computers, then the other direction, where I come face to face with the doctor.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?” I ask heavily.

“Her blood pressure is rising, and her platelets are low,” the doctor says.

“Which means?”

“It means her preeclampsia has advanced into HELLP syndrome.”

“I have no idea what that is.”

“It’s a variation of pregnancy hypertension. She and the baby are at risk, so we need to deliver immediately.”

“Okay. But I thought that was already the plan. To deliver,” I say, and my throat is dry, my heart is thumping. “So are you gonna induce or something?”

He shakes his head. “No. We need to deliver right away. We were hoping to give her more time on mag, but we need to move quickly. She’s going to need an emergency C-section. We’ll need to start prepping her now.”

Emergency.

The word rattles in my head, rings in my ears. The word I least want to hear. The word no one wants to hear.

With leaden feet, I follow the doctor into Harley’s room where he gives her the new diagnosis.

“Is the baby going to be okay?”

The doctor clasps his hands. “Our goal is always to protect the health of the mother and the baby, and to do that, we need to get the baby out of you as soon as possible.”

She turns her head to me, and it looks like it takes all the effort in the world for her to move. “Can he be with me during the section?”

The nurse chimes in. “You can’t have the epidural with your platelets this low, so you need to be under general, and that means no one can be in there but doctors and nurses. But we’ll bring the baby to your husband as soon as he or she is born.”

“You’ll meet our baby first,” Harley says to me, and her hoarse voice hitches. “Please give my love to our baby.”

My heart lurches toward her; I’d do anything to comfort her. “I will. I promise. And you’re going to be fine,” I tell her, leaning in to give her a sweet kiss on the forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you. I’ll see you on the other side.”

And then they wheel her away.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Trey

I wear a tread on the linoleum in the hallway. I can’t bear to be in the waiting room. I can’t sit and fidget, and check messages on my phone like half the people in there are doing.

Debbie and Robert are there too; Debbie’s spent most of the time looking at her watch. But I’m in the hallway, and yeah, I’m looking at my phone, but I’m not texting, that’s for sure.

I’m researching.

And I’ve just learned how fucking awful preeclampsia is. I learn it can show up silently.

Check.

That its symptoms often masquerade as symptoms of other conditions.

Check.

That it can go to hell quickly.

Check.

Check.

Check.

But the worst part I learn is this: that HELLP syndrome is
life-threatening
. Those two words blare at me like a neon sign.

Life-threatening.

It can damage the liver. Some moms and babies die from HELLP. I read words like
bleed out
and
renal failure
and
hemorrhage
, and I want to shout,
Make it stop!

My entire body is tight, coiled with tension. I want to hope so badly that everything will be fine, but I don’t know how anymore. Because all I can feel is the possibility of the end, and it’s fraying me inside.

Maybe I’m the curse. Maybe I bring bad luck to people I love. Maybe there’s no such thing as lightning only striking once, twice, three times. There is only
things happen
. And so many things are happening that it’s feels like I’m dodging blocks of concrete being dropped from windows in a cruel cartoon.

Everything I learn about HELLP is a canyon of awful. I open page after page, desperate for information, for a fact, a piece of data that can somehow soothe me. But even if I find it, how could a statistic reassure me? I am a statistic of one. One family—mine. And I have no idea how the hell my wife is doing. Or why this C-section is taking so long. Or when I am going to see her and the baby. Or if the baby is even okay. If my kid survived. Or if I am going down the route of planting another tree, and the prospect of that makes me feel as if a limb is being amputated.

I am existing in a black hole of information as life goes on around me, as nurses walk down halls and check on patients, as technicians roll on by with machines, as doctors make their rounds.

All the while, my Harley—the only woman I love, have ever loved, and will ever love—is unconscious with her belly sliced open, and her blood pressure rising, and her platelets falling, and I don’t have a clue what happens next.

Then I hear the tiniest little cry and I know.

Don’t ask me how.

Don’t ask me why.

I just know the sound of my own kid, and it stills all the jittery nerves inside me. It is like a balm to my aching heart.

I turn around to see a ruddy-cheeked nurse with wide shoulders and big hands walking toward me. She’s wearing Snoopy scrubs and carrying a baby wrapped tightly in a white blanket with blue and pink stripes.

“Mr. Westin?”

I nod.

“This is your daughter.”

The world slows to this moment; all time has become this second as she hands me my baby girl, and I hold her in my arms for the first time. Everything in me shifts, the terror fleeing my body as my heart starts to jump wildly, pumping joy and wonder through my veins.

She’s perfect in every way. Her face is still red, and she looks like she’s been screaming, but her eyes are wide open and gray, and she has little tufts of blond hair from her mom. I lean in to plant a gentle kiss on her soft baby cheek, and she feels like a complete and absolute miracle, and already I can feel—deep in my bones and my cells—that sense that she’s mine. And I don’t know where it comes from, how you can go from never having met someone to loving them in the blink of eye, but here it is. It’s happened to me.