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“Love you both,” Rae says.
“Love you all too.” I nod, then turn to go as my mother whispers a short prayer in Korean.
God protect this child. Protect this family. Keep everyone safe.
I swallow hard, tamping my anxiety down. That’s what I need—for both of my girls to be safe.
Amelia
No one tells you what having a giant needle shoved into your spine feels like.
I’m a reasonably calm person. I can handle most things. After all the shit my dad went through, medical stuff doesn’t scare me too much. But this?
It’s taking everything in me not to vomit. It’s also ice cold in this room. I’m shivering, but I have to stay still. Right now, they’re only putting the local numbing stuff in, so it won’t hurt as much when the big needle goes in.
I wince as the anesthesiologist finishes. There’s a nurse on one side of me who is half holding my hand and half keeping me upright. After a few minutes, the anesthesiologist tests me for pain, and when I don’t feel any, he tells me it’s time for the big needle.
I take in a shaky breath. Okay, I can do this. It’s all worth it to get Emmie safely out of me.
“Deep breath,” he instructs.
God, I wish Miles was here.
But he’s not, so I do the only thing I can think of, and start replaying my favorite episode of Friends in my mind. The Thanksgiving episode where Rachel makes the terrible trifle.
There’s no pain as he pushes the needle in, but I can still feel pressure and discomfort. Holy discomfort, Batman.
I shut my eyes tight while squeezing the life out of the poor nurse’s hand.
Think of Friends. Think of everyone revealing everyone else’s secrets over the course of sixty seconds. Think of—ah—fuck. I hate all this.
“Breathe,” he instructs again. “Keep holding still. We’re almost there.”
Friends. Okay. Everyone pretending they love the trifle. Ross’s parents finding out he got high.
“All done,” he says.
Thank God. Though I can still feel it. It’s like an electric shock moving up my spine. I don’t think I’ll ever forget this feeling.
It doesn’t take long for the spinal block to kick in, then I’m lying on the table as they put a catheter in me and clean my stomach.
I close my eyes and breathe deep as I settle into the strange sensation of not feeling the lower half of my body.
The anesthesiologist, who is standing behind me, says, “Sometimes the numbing can make it feel like you’re having trouble breathing. That’s not usually the case. The key to remember is that if you can talk to me and tell me it’s hard to breathe, you can breathe. But we’ll have oxygen here if you need it to make you more comfortable.”
“Okay,” I say. His words are supposed to calm me, but they don’t. I’m not looking forward to having a mental war with myself about whether I can breathe.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. It feels okay for now, but the numbness is spreading upward.
“Hey, baby,” a deep voice says.
I flash my eyes open and stare up at the man who has come to own my heart and soul. Well, co-own with our soon-to-arrive Emmie. I reach for his hand and hold it tightly as the tingly numbness moves up my body.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Mostly. This is… so weird.”
“You’re doing amazing.”
