As with so many other things in our life, I just know.
Moments later, winded no doubt from his speeding pulse from his quick jaunt to the car, Nate reenters the bedroom and walks purposefully toward me. He bends to hook one arm through mine and the other behind my back so he can help me to my feet. I let him, partly because I know that helping me gives him a sense of control in a situation where he has none, but also because it’s needed and appreciated. The scare of the bleeding has sapped what little vigor I had left.
Knees wobble and abdominals shake as I stand. I feel the power of Nate’s hold increase ever so slightly. Not enough to hurt or bruise me, but enough that I sense the added support.
“It’ll be okay,” I tell him on a pant, smiling serenely. I don’t feel serene, but I’m determined to be the strength that my husband needs, just as he is constantly being the strength that I need.
Nate holds me in place when I would’ve taken a step forward. I glance quizzically up into his face.
“I love you. No matter what.” My stomach draws into a knot that he feels the need to tell me this now, as though he’s expecting the worst.
“I know, baby. It’ll be okay,” I repeat, drinking down the emotion that fizzes at the back of my throat, trying desperately to take comfort from my own reassurances.
The ride to the hospital is a blur. I try to pretend that I’m not bracing myself for another contraction or for blood to gush from between my legs and terrify us both. Neither of those things has happened by the time we reach the hospital, however, which is a good sign.
Nate parks under the awning in the drop-off lane and runs inside to get a wheelchair, for which I’m immensely grateful. Back at the car, he helps me from the passenger seat into the wheelchair, and then ferries me inside to check in. Then I’m very kindly ushered to a room where a nurse is waiting by the bed, gown in hand.
“Hi, Lena! I’m Tiffany. Let’s get you changed,” she says politely. I nod, ambling to the bed. “Sir, if you’ll go back out to the front desk, they have some paperwork for you to fill out.”
Nate frowns. I can tell that my husband isn’t too keen on the idea of leaving me for more than twenty seconds at a time. He goes along, however, but not before he crosses the room and kisses me, promising to return in just a few minutes.
“First time daddy?” Tiffany asks when Nate is out of earshot.
“Yes. How can you tell?”
“They all have that overprotective streak the first time. Our second, third, and fourth timers usually wait in the lounge.”
I smile, but say nothing. No matter how many children we might’ve had, I can’t picture my Nate being comfortable in the lounge while I’m in a room experiencing God knows what.
Expertly, Tiffany helps me out of my clothes and into a gown, then into bed. She hooks me up to the baby monitor that straps across my belly and then to a blood pressure cuff as well. Once both monitors are tracking as they should, the nurse begins her questioning. Although I know Dr. Stephens called ahead to give orders, I also know that this is an unavoidable part of the process. Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork.
How many weeks are you? Any previous miscarriages? When did the bleeding start? How heavy has it been? Have you had contractions? How long and how far apart? Any complications with the pregnancy? Any underlying medical conditions we should know about? Are you allergic to any medications? Do you have a list of current medications?
It’s like the prenatal Spanish Inquisition. I know the doctor called ahead, but a good nurse wants the information herself. And being a nurse myself, I know the reason behind every question. That doesn’t help to ease my mind, though. Nothing short of the doctor checking me and assuring me that everything is fine with the baby will do that.
Within an hour, just as Nate is stepping out to get some water, Dr. Stephens arrives. Rather than going on to the cafeteria, he merely adjusts his trajectory and moves to a corner of the room where he’s out of the way.
I smile. He’s settling in to stay. My husband won’t let anything or anyone keep him from me.
The doctor asks a few of the same questions I already answered once, but I’m happy to do so again. All I’d pretty much gotten out on the phone was that I was bleeding. Besides, I want her to have the full picture and from me, not the secondhand word of the nurse.
“Since you haven’t bled very much, let me go ahead and check your cervix and then we’ll get an ultrasound, okay?”
I nod, scoot down on the bed, and brace myself for the exam. Although Dr. Stephens is a woman with small hands, she isn’t very gentle when she performs a cervical check. I’ve been on the receiving end of them too many times over the last weeks to believe that it will be any different today.