Chapter 8 - The Labor Under Fire
The stress of the depositions, combined with the weeks of trauma my body had endured, finally caught up to me at 33 weeks.
At 2:00 AM on a rainy Tuesday morning, a sharp, tearing sensation ripped through my abdomen. The monitors hooked to my belly immediately shrieked into high-pitched alarms.
"Placental detachment progressing!" Dr. Chen, who had been transferred to the naval hospital under emergency contract, shouted as the surgical team burst into the room. "She's bleeding out! Pre-eclampsia spike—maternal blood pressure is two-hundred over one-ten! Prep the OR now! Code Crimson!"
The world dissolved into cold terror.
"Dad!" I screamed, thrashing against the sheets as another blinding contraction tore through my damaged ribs. "Dad, the baby! Don't let her die!"
Dad was there instantly. He had slept in his uniform on the cot in the corner for five nights straight. He grabbed my hand with both of his, leaning over the gurney as they unlocked the wheels and raced toward the operating room.
"I’m with you, Emmy!" he roared over the clamor of the alarms. "Look at my eyes! Look right at me!"
"Sir, you can't come in—" a nurse began.
"I’m going in," Dad said, his voice brooking no argument. "Sanitize me now, or I walk in as I am."
They slapped a surgical cap and mask on him, pushing him through the swinging doors into the freezing, sterile glare of the operating theater.
The spinal block bit into my back. A numb, cold sensation crept up from my toes to my chest, but the terror remained burning hot in my throat. A blue sheet was erected before my eyes, cutting off the view of my swollen belly.
"Scalpel," Dr. Chen called out.
The metallic clatter of surgical instruments echoed off the tile walls. I couldn't feel the blade, but I could feel the violent tugging and pulling against my torso.
"Blood pressure dropping—eighty over forty," the anesthesiologist called out. "She’s losing volume fast. Start two units of O-negative!"
"Emmy," Dad whispered, his face inches from mine behind his surgical mask. His hand gripped mine so hard my knuckles turned white. "Listen to the sound of my voice. When you were six years old, you fell out of that oak tree by the barn. You broke your collarbone, and you looked at me and said, 'Daddy, soldiers don't cry.' Do you remember?"
Tears streamed hot into my hair. "Yes..."
"You are the bravest soldier I have ever known," Dad whispered, his voice trembling with tears. "You survived a year in captivity. You brought my granddaughter this far. Now finish the mission. Bring her home."
A sudden, sharp silence fell over the operating room.
No baby was crying.
The silence lasted two seconds. Five seconds. Ten seconds.
"Meconium aspiration," a pediatrician said urgently from across the room. "Clear the airway! Suction!"
My heart stopped. "Why isn't she crying?" I screamed, trying to lift my head from the operating table. "Dad! Why isn't she crying?!"
The rhythmic hiss of a suction pump filled the room.
Then...
A tiny, sputtered cough.
Followed by a thin, furious, beautiful wail that pierced the sterile air like a battle trumpet.
*Waaaah! Waaaah!*
Dr. Chen lifted her head above the blue drape, tears in her own eyes. "She’s here, Emily. Three pounds, eleven ounces of pure fight. You have a daughter."
They bundled her in warm white blankets and brought her to my cheek. She was tiny, her skin red and wrinkled, her little fists waving furiously at the cold air.
I pressed my lips against her damp forehead. She smelled like warmth, like vanilla, like life snatched back from the edge of an abyss.
"Grace," I sobbed, the name I had secretly whispered into my pillow every night Ryan beat me. "Her name is Grace."
Dad reached out with one trembling finger. The tiny baby girl turned her head, her miniature fingers brushing against Dad’s calloused index finger.
With impossible strength, Grace gripped his finger and held on tight.
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The silver-haired Colonel, who had survived three combat tours without shedding a tear before his men, lowered his head onto the operating table and wept like a child.
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