The ambulance takes off, sirens blaring.
It reminds me of being in the police car the night my parents died. But, that night, the siren’s rhythmic sound was sort of soothing. Today, it’s not.
The contractions hurt way more than I imagined they would. I thought they were supposed to come in waves. Every few minutes. That you breathed through them, rested, and then breathed through them again until they got closer and closer together. Then, it meant you were ready to have the baby.
But, in between these contractions, I still feel a deep pain coming from my side. I know I’ve never been in labor before, but something feels off.
I look down and notice blood on the sheet.
“I’m bleeding …” I say, mostly to myself, coming to the realization that my bad dreams are playing out in front of me.
The paramedic doesn’t respond to me.
He yells to the driver, “We have a possible placental abruption. Let the hospital know.”
Placental abruption. That’s one of those worst-case scenarios. But I can’t remember what it means. Common sense tells me the placenta ruptures.
As in stops working?
I have another searing pain.
All I know is, this bleeding is not good.
I yell out again as I try to focus on the words and phrases floating around me and not on the pain.
Bleeding.
Possible placental abruption.
Baby’s possible lack of oxygen.
Blood pressure dropping.
ETA.
Blood loss.
Emergency C-section.
“Marcus, is the baby going to be okay?” I ask, squeezing his hand as another contraction rips through me. “And tell me the truth—the worst-case scenario.”
“There are a lot of factors. You’re obviously bleeding, but we can’t know the extent of the abruption. In a full abruption, both the mother and baby are at risk. In a partial abruption, time is of the essence. The placenta feeds your baby oxygen and food and takes away the waste. Those things are key to the baby’s viability.”
“Viability?” I repeat, the word settling in.
Similar words scroll through my head from the night my parents died.
“Your father suffered severe brain trauma, and his body is shutting down. We’ve revived him once, but we need to discuss what you want done when it happens again. Does he have a living will?”
I grab the front of Marcus’s shirt and pull him close. “Marcus, this is important. I need to tell the hospital my wishes,” I say as another contraction causes me to cry out in pain.
“What wishes?” he asks.
I close my eyes, not wanting to say the words I’ve been thinking. But there’s something inside me that innately knows this is going to end badly.
“If there’s a choice to be made, I want the baby saved. Do you understand?” I look at the paramedic. “Do you both understand?”
The paramedic nods, but Marcus squeezes my hand. “Jadyn, I don’t think—”
I cut him off. “This is important, Marcus. These are my instructions. Please, tell me you understand.”
“I understand,” he says.
“We need it in writing. We’ll have the paramedics give it to the staff as soon as we get there. Do you have some paper?”
