Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sometimes forgetting is a mercy, and recalling is a pain too deep to bear. But that’s what Henry asked me to do.
I remember the labor, how it started sooner than we expected, with more intensity than with Wesley. I had been told that second births go faster than firsts because my body knew what to do. I trusted that was true.
We’d rushed to the hospital, thinking we would meet our baby quickly, just as the doctor had said. But labor lingered. It slowed and stalled. They moved me. Drugged me. Let me get some rest.
When had I ever been able to sleep? But in that moment, I did. And maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe if I had been awake, I would’ve known something was wrong. I would’ve called for the doctor so he could help. But instead, I rested like they told me to.
I woke from the dampness between my legs, the fluid that had burst from me. I thought that was a sign. She would be here soon! The nurses hurried, rushed, called the doctor, who suited up, who requested more help, who told me to push. Now.
Immediately.
With all the effort I had!
I tried.
But I was still so tired.
The nurse, the one with the kind eyes, the ones the color of the sea, she
told me I could do it. She squeezed my hand and smiled, but I saw the fear behind her ocean eyes.
“That’s it,” she told me. “Your baby’s almost here. That’s it. Just one more.”
I gave them one more. I felt the release, the relief.
And I heard the silence.
I saw the hurry.
The nurse let go of my hand. She rushed across the room with the others before she ran out and called for more help.
Where was the baby? Why were there no cries?
I saw the nurse’s tears before the doctor came beside me and said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mayfield. We did all we could, but she didn’t make it.”
She didn’t make it? My baby didn’t make it? What did he mean? What was he saying? That wasn’t how it was supposed to work. She was our baby, the completion of our family, the dream we’d been dreaming, the life that would complete us.
“What happened?” I asked.
“We think maybe it was the umbilical cord. It was wrapped around her chest. Maybe it contributed—”
Maybe. All the doctor could tell me was maybe. I needed more than that. I needed certainty. But how could that have been true? The cord that had connected us, nourished her, brought her life, had also taken it from her? It didn’t make sense.
I went home two days later, cradling the blanket that had been meant to warm and comfort her, but that would remain empty and useless to everyone but me. To me, it was the thread I needed to cling to when I needed a mercy to get me through.
