She felt warm and sweaty.
“Lailah,” I said again, this time with a bit more urgency.
Her eyes opened weakly.
“I don’t feel well,” she said immediately, grasping her stomach.
“When was the last time you checked your blood pressure?” I asked, my body shifting into high gear.
Ever since her trip to the ER in the spring, she had been put on medication to regulate her blood pressure. She’d also check it once or twice a day, just to be safe.
“Before bed . . . maybe dinner?” she answered sluggishly. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
I stood quickly, grabbing her hand, as she swung her feet over the edge of the bed. As she rose, I could see her eyes lose focus, as if the world had just tilted on its axis.
“Lailah?”
“I think we need to go to the hospital,” she stated, her voice clear and calm as she gripped her chest.
It was the calm part that made me feel anything but.
I didn’t even bother acknowledging her. Rather, I jumped into action. I ran to the closet and dresser, pulling out clothes, anything I could find—jeans and a T-shirt for me, yoga pants and a hoodie for her. Shoes were found, and within three minutes, we were out the door, leaving a very sad and confused puppy behind.
“He’ll be fine,” I promised as I sped down the highway toward the hospital. “I’ll call your mom and Grace the minute you’re in a room and have one of them check on him.”
“Okay,” she answered softly.
I grasped her hand across the seat.
Flying into the parking lot, I stopped in front of the emergency room doors and helped her out. Thankfully, she was wheeled straight back to labor and delivery, and paperwork was put off until things settled down. I didn’t think I could even remember my own name right now, let alone be responsible for completing insurance forms.
A nurse helped her strip down as they eased her onto a bed, hooking her up to a fetal monitor. The whooshing sound I’d become familiar with during doctor’s visits and ultrasounds gently filled the air. I watched the woman as she wrote numbers down, and she quickly left the room, only to return a moment later with the on-call doctor.
Lailah and I nervously looked at one another, gripping each other for support.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Truman. What seems to be going on tonight?”
Lailah briefly explained waking up, feeling disoriented, her chest burning. The more she spoke, the more anxious I became. Dr. Truman’s head bobbed up and down, as if she were neatly fitting all the pieces of a puzzle in her head. It was obvious she already knew what was wrong, and she was just confirming as Lailah spoke.
“And how do you feel now?” the doctor asked.
“Worse. Like I’m crawling out of my skin. My head is pounding, and I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
“Well, considering what your blood pressure is, I’m not surprised.” Her eyes narrowed. “How do you feel about delivering tonight?”
I could see the panic immediately flare to life in Lailah’s expression.
“But I’m barely thirty-one weeks. It’s not time.” The words rushed out of her mouth. “I’m not due until October. It’s not October yet!”
Tears flooded her eyelids as I tried to comfort her even though my own heart was beating in a rapid staccato rhythm that I was finding hard to hide.
Preeclampsia. Maybe worse.
The doctor was sugarcoating everything, trying to keep Lailah’s stress to a minimum, but I knew that was what we were facing. They wouldn’t be risking a premature birth otherwise.
“It is early,” the doctor replied. “But right now, we have to focus on the health of you and the baby, and this is the best option we have.”
“We can’t just put me on bed rest? Up my medication to lower the blood pressure?”
I could see it in her eyes. She was grasping at straws. She knew as well as I did that this was fruitless, but the idea of seeing our child in the NICU was sending her into mindless hysterics.
“Lailah,” I said calmly, pushing back an errant strand of hair from her face, “I think the doctor is right. We need to do what’s best for Meara.”
The use of her name seemed to calm Lailah instantly, refocusing her priorities and drive. Silently, she nodded, squeezing my hand, as tiny tears fell down her face.
“Okay,” she agreed.
“Great. I’m going to go notify the OR, and we’ll be back shortly,” Dr. Truman said before quickly leaving the room.
The quiet settled around us as Lailah looked out the window. The only sounds were the whir of the machines, Meara’s fetal heart monitor, and Lailah’s soft sobs leftover from earlier.
“It’s going to be okay,” I encouraged, grasping her chin in my palm.
I tugged her attention back to me, and her crystal-blue eyes found mine. Doubt, worry, and distress weighed heavily in her soul.