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“I know. It’s just . . . something just doesn’t feel right today,” I mumble.
Any other day I’d push myself out of bed even when I don’t have enough energy, I borrow it from tomorrow or the day after. Today, I just can’t seem to do that.
“Make an effort,” he insists.
I know Gabe is right. I know logically I should get up, start my day, and try to do something productive. But even sitting up makes the room spin. I feel fragile and unsteady as if I might fracture at any moment.
Gabe smooths the hair back from my face, tenderness in his eyes that reminds me of the old him. The version unaffected by my illness. “Okay, Ame. I don’t want to use tough love, but you can’t skip a meal, baby.”
We’ll talk about his distance once I’m stronger . . . about why he sometimes looks at me with fear instead of love. For now, I cling to this glimpse of the man I married with the hope that I’ll be better soon.
As Gabe helps me sit, a sudden, sharp pain pierces my lower abdomen, cutting through me like a knife. I wince, hand flying to my stomach as confusion and fear fill my eyes.
“Ameline, what’s wrong?” Gabe asks, alarmed. “Baby, you’re pale. What’s happening?”
Before I can answer, another wave of pain hits, stronger this time. It’s then I notice it—a stain of red marking the sheets, a terrifying, vivid red.
My breathing becomes shallow as panic grips me, suffocating me. “What’s happening to me?” I cry out through the piercing spasms.
“It hurts! It hurts so much,” I scream.
Gabe’s face crumbles. “I’m calling an ambulance.” His voice is shaky, as he grabs for his phone with a trembling hand.
My heart is racing, pounding against my chest like it’s trying to escape. Panic claws at me, raw and terrifying. I can’t help thinking, This is it. I’m not going to make it. Every breath feels like my last. But then there’s Gabe, his hand holding mine so tight, his grip the only thing keeping me from falling apart. I cling to him. He’s keeping me safe as I teeter on the edge of hysteria.
The paramedics arrive quickly. They ask questions and take my vitals, but all I can focus on is Gabe’s hand, gripping mine tightly. It’s all that’s keeping me coherent, making me not lose my shit as I feel like I’m dying.
As they prepare to move me, Gabe stays close. They lift me onto a stretcher, and I’m suddenly aware of the reality of the situation, the seriousness of it all. I’m bleeding, there’s probably internal bleeding and something the medication did that probably has to be repaired. I might never be well again.
Gabe follows as they wheel me out, his eyes locked on me.
The ride in the ambulance is a blur, the sirens a distant sound compared to the storm of emotions inside me. Gabe is there, right beside me, his hand holding mine.
“You’re okay, baby. Everything will be fine,” he mumbles, stroking the hair on the crown of my head gently.
I squeeze Gabe’s hand tighter, scared.
Time passes fast, slow. By the time I’m in the hospital bed, everything comes back. The rush to the ER, the treatments, and now this forced stillness in a room that smells of antiseptics and sorrow.
Gabe sits beside me, his chair pulled close to the bed. The room is dimly lit, the only light coming from the hallway. Outside, the world moves on, the occasional sound of footsteps and distant voices filtering through the door, but here, time seems to stand still.
“I’m sorry,” Gabe mumbles, the pain in his voice is unmistakable.
Ever since I heard the word miscarriage I’ve been speechless.
“I wish I could take your pain away.” He kisses the top of my head.
Who knew I was eleven weeks pregnant? Obviously not us. If we knew, would we have been able to save our baby?
“If we had known, we would have . . .” He goes quiet.
I turn my head to look at him, meeting his gaze. He squeezes my hand, and for a moment, we just sit silently, each lost in our thoughts and grief.
Chapter Ten
Ameline
(Now)
