Lights are flashing overhead as people I can’t see flank each side of my stretcher. It’s like the entire staff is surrounding me as they wheel me down the hospital hallway. With my neck braced and my head strapped to this board, all I can do is watch the lights.

My tears slide down the sides of my head as I pray. The voices of the staff are buzzing around me like bees in a hive, and I try to make sense of what they’re saying.

“Vaginal bleeding and head contusion…”

“Emergency sonogram, possible cesarean…”

“The mother lost consciousness, fetal distress…”

“Do you have any pain in your pelvis, ma’am? Were you struck in your abdomen?” One of the nurses leans over me as we cram into an elevator.

“I fell on my stomach, really hard. I passed out, so I don’t know what happened after that.” My voice squeaks as I try to tell myself to keep faith that everything will be okay.

“How far along are you, ma’am?”

I can’t make out the details of her face with the bright light shining behind her head like a halo.

“I’m twenty-seven weeks.”

The buzzing of voices gets louder as the crowd of medical staff discusses my answer.

“Is my baby okay? What’s happening?” A chill runs through me and for the first time, I realize my forehead is throbbing.

I just want Colt here. I want him to hold me close and tell me everything is going to be okay.

I swear, if that bitch hurt my baby, I’m going to go to jail because I’m going to kill her.

“We’re going to find out soon. I know it’s hard, but try to take some deep breaths and think positive.”

I try to nod, but my head won’t budge. Instead, I’m rewarded with a flash of pain across my forehead. It doesn’t bother me, though. All I can concentrate on is my baby. I try to psychically communicate with my baby to hang on.

When was the last time I felt it move? Did the doctor say vaginal bleeding? I try to take deep breaths, but they’re ragged and heavy.

Within a minute, I’m being unstrapped and transferred onto a hospital bed. In a flurry, my shirt is cut off of me and straps are placed over my chest as cold jelly is smeared over my belly.

Normally, when I feel the gel before an ultrasound, I giggle with excitement. It’s always a thrill to hear my baby’s heartbeat fill the room and watch the outline of my little bean squirm around on the monitor. Now I’m filled with dread, and the monitor is tucked away behind my head, so I can’t even see the screen.

“Don’t forget to breathe, Mom.” The nurse guides me as terror grips my chest. My breathing is shallow, but it’s the only sound filling the room as the doctor pushes a wand into my belly searching for signs of life in my baby.

The nurse holds my hand, and I twist my head to take a look at the doctor’s face, hoping for some kind of indication of what’s going on. However, he’s just squinting at the screen, concentrating as he pokes my belly with the wand from different directions.

Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. I gasp and cry with fresh tears of joy as my baby’s heartbeat pours out of the speakers. I’ve never heard a sweeter sound.

“Thank you, Jesus. Thank you.” I look at the ceiling toward God and rivers of tears stream out of the corners of my eyes and down to the pillow under my head.

“We’ve got symptoms of fetal hypoxia,” the doctor holding the wand tells his colleague and my heart seizes.

What the hell is that?

“Umbilical prolapse?” someone I can’t see at the end of the bed asks calmly like he’s asking if the doctor likes cream in his coffee.

“No indications of prolapse,” the doctor answers. “How long was the patient unconscious?” he asks the nurse as though it isn’t my stomach he’s doing an ultrasound on.

“Do you know how long you were out for?” the nurse repeats his question to me.

“I’m not sure. It felt like a while, but I don’t know for sure.” My mind flashes back to my struggle with Lisa in the bathroom and then my world slowly fading into black. The next thing I saw was Colt’s face and Lisa being walked out of the room in handcuffs.

How long did it take for the cops to get there?

“She isn’t sure,” the nurse relays my answer back to the doctor like a translator at the UN.

“Okay, let’s get Mom on oxygen and an IV. Also, get someone in here to sew up that gash.” He waves at my head, reminding me of the throbbing pain in my forehead. “Put a belt on her and get a steady readout. I want an update every twenty minutes unless it changes, then come get me straight away.” He barks orders like a drill sergeant and the nurses and aides around him scramble like they’re private recruits in the army.

“Excuse me! What is going on with my baby? What’s happening?” I yell, tired of being treated like I don’t exist.

“Joanne, you take care of this.” He snaps off his rubber gloves, tossing them into the garbage can, and leaves the room without acknowledging me.

Prick.

There is another flurry of activity as someone clips a thin belt and sticks what look like tiny suction cups to my belly. A printout begins to start on a machine the belt is attached to, and she watches it for a while, pushing some buttons. Another nurse pokes an IV into my hand and tapes the tube against my skin.

“What’s going on?” I beg. “Is my baby going to be okay? Someone tell me.”

“Everything is gonna be just fine,” the nurse by my side, the only one who has been treating me like a human the entire time, assures me. “Your baby is just a bit shaken up right now, so we need to get it to calm down. We see this all the time. It’s nothing to worry about. The best thing you can do for your baby right now is try to relax.”

The aide who just taped the IV to my hand is holding an oxygen mask in front of my face. “Okay, so I just need you to keep this on and take deep, steady breaths.”

I nod and lean forward so she can slip the strap over my head and secure the mask to my face.

“Don’t worry. I know it feels impossible, but just try to relax. Someone will be up here shortly to stitch up your head. In the meantime, deep breaths and relaxation are the best things you can do, okay?” my angel nurse reassures me.

As the room clears out, my head is spinning. My body is covered in straps and tubes, and I have no idea what’s going on with my little bean. My mind keeps flopping back and forth between relaxing and flipping the fuck out. I lay my head back into my pillow and close my eyes, silently communicating with the baby inside me.

You can do this! Please, keep fighting. I can’t bear to lose you now!