Love Song(118)

I gulp through the nausea, and the pain stabs me deep in the side. White hot and relentless.

A wave of dizziness overtakes me. And then everything goes black.





Chapter 47


BLAKE





WHEN I OPEN MY EYES, the world feels slow and heavy, like I’m surfacing from the bottom of a deep, dark lake. All I feel is confusion. A bright light stings my eyes. A monitor beeps softly nearby. There’s the sterile smell of antiseptic in my nose and a dull throb in my abdomen.

The last thing I remember, I was feeling sick. I was dizzy. Stumbling. I remember my dad’s worried eyes on me, his arms reaching for me before I fainted. Oh my God. He brought me to the hospital because I fainted? He’s so melodramatic.

I swallow through my arid throat and try to speak. I only manage a rusty squawking noise at first before finally getting out a croaky, “Dad?”

There’s a flurry of motion around me. The next thing I know, I see my mother’s face, pale and lined with concern. Then Dad is on the other side of the bed, his expression grim.

“Hey, sweet pea, how are you feeling?”

“Sore,” I say. “My stomach hurts.”

Neither of them answers.

I lick my dry lips. “Why am I in the hospital? Did you overreact and bring me here?”

When I attempt to sit up, Mom firmly touches my arm to keep me down. “Nope, don’t move yet, honey. You just got out of surgery.”

“Surgery? For fainting?” I say in confusion.

My gaze darts around the room, then focuses on my own body. I realize I have one of those heart monitor things on my finger.

“I don’t understand,” I finally say.

“You had an ectopic pregnancy,” she says gently. “It ruptured, and there was some internal bleeding.”

“Scared the hell out of us,” Dad says.

“We’re so lucky we got you here when we did.” Her voice shakes, and I realize how scared they both look.

I try to move again, but Dad stops me. “You need to stay still. I’ll get the doctor so she can check you out, okay?”

As he hurries out the door, Mom squeezes my hand. “We were so worried about you. So was Wyatt. The Grahams are in the waiting room. He wanted to be in here with you, but I thought you might want me and Dad to be the first people you saw while you process.”

“Process,” I echo weakly. “I don’t understand. So I’m not pregnant anymore?”

I’m usually not this stupid, and I can sense that the question is dumb, but my brain is fuzzy, and I still can’t comprehend what’s happening.

“Ectopic pregnancy… That means… The embryo implanted outside the uterus?”

She nods. “In your left fallopian tube.”

“It was just cramps…” I trail off when footsteps approach the door.

A doctor in pink scrubs enters, tailed by my dad. She approaches the bed in brisk strides. “My name is Dr. Lechie. How are you feeling, Blake?”

“Confused,” I admit. “A bit woozy.”

“Yes, that’s the anesthesia wearing off.” She examines my pupils, making me follow the penlight she pulls out of her pocket. “I’m sure your parents told you, but you experienced an ectopic pregnancy. We had to perform a salpingostomy, which means we repaired your tube rather than removing it. You were lucky. The rupture wasn’t severe, and while there was internal bleeding, it wasn’t heavy.”

She keeps talking, explaining she made an incision in my fallopian tube in order to “remove the pregnancy,” and her tone is so clinical and matter-of-fact that it makes me want to cry. Then she assures me they were able to preserve the tube, and as long as the scarring isn’t extensive, natural conception shouldn’t be an issue in the future since both tubes are intact.

“You’ll be discharged tomorrow,” she finishes with a smile.

As if that’s the takeaway from all this. Good news! No baby! Now go home.

When she notices my expression, her tone softens. “I know this is a lot to process.”

“I…don’t get it. Was there something I could’ve done or… Did I overdo it?” My pulse is racing now.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Dr. Lechie says firmly. “Unfortunately, this is just something that happens sometimes. It occurs in about one in fifty pregnancies, and ninety percent of the time, it’s a tubal ectopic. You usually can’t even detect it until your first scan. If you’d found out next week at your ultrasound, we could’ve given you medication to clear the pregnancy, but the rupture gave us no choice but to remove it surgically.”

She talks me through the post-op, telling me to expect some soreness from the small incision in my abdomen but that any pain should improve within a week. I’m allowed to return to light activities in a week, heavier activities in about a month. It’s all very technical, and my head is starting to hurt. As she drones on, tears prick my eyes, and my hands begin shaking.

I don’t want this. I don’t want to be here. I want to go back to this morning. Before that dull ache and before the fear, when I still had a future to picture.

Instead, I’m listening to this doctor and to the stupid beeping of this monitor. It’s supposed to remind me that I’m alive, but all it’s doing is reminding me that my baby is not.