They were not going to be able to lie their way out of this.
Around midnight, my daughter’s heart rate started dipping during contractions.
The room changed immediately.
There was no more quiet caution after that, no more “let’s wait and see.” My doctor looked straight at me and said, “We’re going to the OR.”
Everything became motion.
Consent forms. Surgical caps. Bright lights. Cold air. Daniel in scrubs. A nurse squeezing my shoulder. Someone explaining the spinal block. Someone else counting instruments. I remember trying to stay conscious through the fear, trying to hold onto the sound of Daniel’s voice.
“You’re okay,” he kept saying. “She’s okay. You’re both okay.”
Then pressure.
Pulling.
A strange terrible emptiness.
And finally, after what felt like my whole life—
A cry.
Thin and outraged and perfect.
My daughter came into the world at 12:47 a.m., red-faced and furious, weighing four pounds and twelve ounces.
They brought her by my face for one impossible second before taking her to the NICU team.
I saw dark hair pasted to her tiny head. A scrunched nose. One flailing hand. That was all.
But it was enough.
