Chapter 4 - The Sound of Breath
When consciousness returned, it brought no relief.
Pain was the first reality: a deep, hollow ache in my pelvic basin where the incision had been made, overlain by the raw, throbbing agony of the burns covering my abdomen and upper thighs. My arms felt heavy, pinned down by IV lines that clicked and hummed rhythmically beside my bed.
I forced my eyelids open.
The room was dim. The soft hum of medical monitors kept time with the ocean breeze outside the window.
Ethan was sitting in a chair beside the bed, his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly against his mouth. He was still wearing hospital scrubs, his hair rumpled, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes.
"Ethan?" My voice was barely a croak, shredded from the endotracheal tube that had been pulled from my throat.
He jerked upright instantly. His eyes, rimmed in red, locked onto mine.
"Maddie." He leaned forward, taking my hand with a touch so gentle it felt like down. "You’re awake. Thank God. You’re awake."
"Lily," I choked out, my heart rate monitor instantly spiking on the wall. "Where is she? Ethan, tell me. Is she..."
Ethan swallowed hard, tears welling in his eyes. He didn't look away.
"She’s alive, Maddie."
A ragged sob tore through my chest, pulling violently at the fresh surgical staples across my lower belly. "She’s alive?"
"She’s in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit," Ethan explained, his voice thick with emotion. "She weighed four pounds, eight ounces. She suffered severe hypoxia because the placenta detached from the trauma and the shock of the heat. Her lungs were underdeveloped... they had to intubate her immediately."
He paused, his thumb stroking the back of my knuckles.
"She didn't cry when they pulled her out," he said, his voice breaking. "For three minutes, they performed CPR. Vance had to do chest compressions with two fingers. But she fought back, Maddie. Her heart rate came back up. She’s breathing on a ventilator right now, but her scans show no major brain bleeds. She’s a fighter. Just like her mother."
"I want to see her," I pleaded, trying to lever myself up on my elbows, but a bolt of agony shot through my abdomen, forcing me back onto the pillows.
"You can’t move yet, sweetheart. You have second-degree partial-thickness burns over thirty percent of your abdomen. The burn specialists from UC San Diego came in to debride the dead skin while you were under. You have to heal, or you risk systemic infection."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a high-resolution Polaroid photo, holding it before my eyes.
May you like
In the picture, inside a clear plastic isolette surrounded by monitors and wires, lay a tiny, fragile girl. Her skin was translucent pink, a tiny knit cap covering her dark downy hair, a miniature oxygen tube taped carefully to her tiny nose. Her chest was rising and falling.
I pressed the photograph to my chest and wept until there were no tears left to shed.
