You go into labor at just shy of eight months of pregnancy, shaking logan awake because the Braxton hicks don’t feel like regular Braxton hicks
You’re crying as you’re being helped into L&D, “but it’s too early- she’s not, she’s not fully baked” you bawl, hands gripped into Logan’s arm as you cry.
You’re run through the process of after you give birth. How she’s too premature, how her lungs might not be fully developed, you’ve been strong the entire pregnancy. Now it’s Logan’s turn to be strong for you, “it’s gonna be ok baby” he comforts.
When you give birth to Paloma it’s unmedicated, you’d wanted the drugs. But you’d been crowning by the time you’d gotten to the hospital you were already fully dilated, “she’s not crying!” You shout, “why-.” You hiccup, “why isn’t she crying” you try and look up from the drapes, you look to Logan, “go- go she needs to be ok”
Tears are streaming down your face as you strain for a sound- an inhale of air, a beat of a heart monitor that isn’t yours, “Logan” you whisper, “Logan” you’re heaving now, “Logan is she alive” your body is burning, your brain is telling you to get up, to hold her; to get to her.
“Ma’am. Your daughter’s gonna be ok, she just needs a little help breathing. We’re gonna take her to the NICU” The doctor says. You don’t know her name; she’s not your doctor.
Your doctor is off. You have no idea what’s happening, “what do you mean NICU? What’s wrong with her?”
You don’t get an answer.
The rest of the day is a blur, you sit in your hospital bed. Waiting. Looking to Logan for answers, asking what’s happened. But he doesn’t have answers either.
“I want to hold my daughter” You whisper to him that night, “I’m supposed to take her home and be having skin to skin, and breast feeding” you reach for Logan, locking your fingers with his.
“I know baby. But the doctor said she’s doing better. There’s no holes in her lungs, just a heart murmur that they’re monitoring” Logan explains, helping slide you to the edge of the bed so there’s a sliver of room for him to cradle you in.
“I want my mom” you whisper to him, “she would know what to do”
You go home empty handed, Paloma having to stay another month in the NICU. You’re tired, physically, mentally. In the week of Paloma’s life you’ve held her for a total of 45 minutes.
Logan kisses the side of your cheek, “she’s gonna be home in no time” He promises, “do you want to shower?”
You sink down onto the couch, “I want my daughter. I want her here. With her mommy and daddy and her stupid uncle Clay” You cry, tears crowd your eyes once again.
Paloma does come home, a week later when she can officially is cleared from the NICU.
You spend the first day with her soaking in the skin to skin you never got to have in the hospital. She’s small enough to fit in the crevice of your arm, hands so small they barely make a dent when she reaches to breastfeed.
Logan spends the day by the foot of the bed, his hand on your shin as you lay half naked, “she’s perfect” he murmurs, “she’s so small”
You smile, “barely baked” you laugh softly, “god she’s precious”
Your heart surges with love when she kicks her tiny feet out, making tiny sounds as she pulls away. Logan’s face softens when you look at him, “we made that” he says, thumb rubbing against your skin, “you and me baby”
You blink hard, kissing the downy blonde hair at the top of her head, “we made that” you repeat; bringing Paloma up to your chest. Soaking in the newborn smell. She’s two months old, and she still doesn’t feel real to you. Or to Logan
