K. Bromberg - Crashed

I try to find my breath again as the tears well and my lips press against the palm of her hand. My heart pounds and my head knows she just might have scaled that final fucking steel wall, opened it up like fucking Pandora’s box so all the evil locked forever within, could take flight and exit my soul with just one thing left.

Fucking hope.

The question is, what the fuck am I hoping for now?

My head is foggy and I’m so very tired. I just want to sink back into this warmth. Ah, that’s so nice.

And then it hits me. The blood, the dizziness, the pain, the rectangular tiles on the ceiling as the stretcher rushes down the hallway, once again foreshadowing the doctor’s words I never expected to hear again. I open my eyes, hoping to be at home and hoping this is just a bad dream, but then I see the machines and feel the cold drip of the IV. I feel the pain in my abdomen and the stiff salt where tears have stained my cheeks.

The tears I’d sobbed when I heard the words confirming what I’d already known. And even though I’d felt the life slipping out of me, it was still heartbreaking when the doctor confirmed it. I screamed and raged, told her she was mistaken—wrong—because even though she was bringing my body back to life, her words were stopping my heart. And then hands held me down as I fought the reality, the pain, the devastation until the needle was pressed into my IV and darkness claimed me once again.

I keep my eyes closed, trying to feel past the emptiness echoing around inside of me, trying to push through the haze of disbelief, the unending grief I can’t even comprehend. Trying to silence the imaginary cries I hear now but couldn’t hear last night as my baby died.

A tear trickles down my cheek. I’m so lost to everything I feel, so I focus on every single feeling as it makes the slow descent because I feel just the same.

Alone. Fading. Running away without any certainty but the unknown.

“And she’s back with us now,” a voice to my right says, and I look over to a lady with kind eyes in a white coat—the same lady that broke the news to me earlier. “You’ve been out for a while now.”

I manage a weak smile, my only apology for my reaction, because the one person I wanted to see, the one person I need more than anyone isn’t here.

And I’m devastated.

Does he know about the life we’d created? Part him, part me. Could he not handle it so he left? The panic starts to strangle me right away. The tears start to well as I shake my head, unable to speak. How is it possible that God would be so cruel to do this to me twice in my life—lose my baby and the man I love?

I can’t do this. I can’t do this again.

The words keep running through my mind, the scalpel of grief cutting deeper, pressing harder, as I try to feel anything but the unending pain, the incomparable emptiness owning every part of me. I grasp for anything to hold on to except for the handfuls of razorblades I keep coming up with.

“I know, sweetie,” she says, rubbing her hand over my arm. “I’m so very sorry.” I try to control my emotions over the baby and Colton—two things I can’t control—and two things I now know I’ve lost. My chest hurts as I draw in breaths that aren’t coming fast enough. As I try to swallow over the emotion that’s holding my air hostage. And then I think it’d be easier if I choke. Then I’d be able to slip away, creep back under that cloak of darkness, and be numb again. Have hope again. Be bent and not broken again.

“Rylee?” she says in that questioning way to see if I’m okay or if I’m going to freak out on her like I did when she told me about the miscarriage.

But I just shake my head at her because there’s nothing I can say. I focus on my hands clasped in my lap and I try to get a hold of myself, try to get used to the loneliness again, the emptiness.

When I’ve finally calmed down some, she smiles. “I’m Dr. Andrews. I told you that before but understandably you probably don’t remember. How are you feeling?”

I shrug, the discomfort in my empty womb is no match for the deep ache in my heart. “I’m sure you have questions, should we start or do you want to wait for Colton to come back first?”

He didn’t leave me? I gasp in a huge breath of air as the lump in my throat loosens, lets air in, and her words help the slice of the proverbial scalpel hurt a little less. She just angles her head and looks at me with sadness, and I feel like she’s telling me something without telling me. But what? Colton’s reaction to the news? I’m so scared of facing him, of having to speak to him about this on the heels of knowing how he reacted with Tawny’s bombshell, but at the same time a flicker of relief shudders through me that he’s still here. “He’s here?” I ask, my voice barely audible.

“He just left for the first time since you’ve been here,” she explains, sensing my fears. “He’s been beside himself and his father was finally able to get him to go stretch his legs for a minute.”

The words fill me with such a sense of relief, shivers dancing over my arms as it hits me that he didn’t leave me. He didn’t leave me . Silly really to even think he would, but we’ve been overloaded with so many things lately and every person has a breaking point.

And mine passed a long time ago.

I finally find my voice and look back up to meet her eyes. “Now is fine.” I have so many questions that need explanations. So many answers that I fear Colton is not going to want to hear. “I’m trying to process everything still.” I swallow as I bite back the tears again. “What…?”

“…happened?” she finishes for me when I don’t continue.

“I was told I could never get pregnant, that the scarring was so …” I’m so shaken, mentally and physically, that I can’t finish my thoughts. They hit my mind like rapid fire so I can’t focus on one for more than a few minutes.

“First off, let me say that I spoke to your OB and reviewed your files and yes, the chance of you being able to carry a fetus, conceive even, was extremely slim.” She shrugs, “But sometimes the human body is resilient … miracles can happen, nature prevails.”

I smile softly, although I know it doesn’t reach my eyes. How was I carrying a life—my baby, a piece of Colton—and I didn’t know it? Didn’t feel it?

“How did I not know? I mean how far along was I? Why did I miscarry? Was it my fault, something I did or was the baby— my baby —never going to make it full term anyway?” The questions come out one after another, running together, because I’m crying now, tears coursing down my face as I wear the vest of guilt over the miscarriage. She just lets me get all of my questions out as she stands there patiently, compassion filling her eyes. “Was this a one-time thing, or is there a possibility that this can happen again? I’m just so overwhelmed,” I admit, my breath hitching. “And I don’t know … I just don’t know what to believe anymore. My head’s swimming …”

“That’s understandable, Rylee. You’ve been through a lot,” she says, shifting her position, and when she does he’s right there leaning against the doorjamb, hands shoved in his pockets, shirt stained with blood—my blood, the baby’s … our baby’s blood —and if I thought the floodgates had burst before, they completely disintegrate at the sight of him.

He’s at my side in an instant, face etched with pain and eyes a war of unfathomable emotions. He reaches out to comfort me and hesitates when he sees my gaze flicker down and focus through my tear blurred vision on the stains of his shirt. Within a flash, he has his jacket off and his shirt over his head, throwing them into the chair before wrapping his arms around me, pulling me into him.