Impulses (80 page)

Weakened by another wave of the hampering pain, I hold my breath in an attempt to ride it out, but it’s of no use. The cramping in my lower abdomen begins radiating through my back.

I notice the hallway light shining through the crack of the bedroom door as I sit myself up and rub the area soothingly.

“Ah,” I call out, before my breath is knocked from my body. My right arm clutches my stomach as I double over.

“Sam?” Hayden pushes the door open and enters the room. He’s in his slacks and white tank top and is at my side within a second. “What’s wrong?” He rubs his hand up and down the length of my back.

“My stomach,” I wince, the pain intensifying by every passing second. “It really hurts.”

“It’s probably something you ate, beautiful. Come on let’s get you to the bathroom.”

“It feels like something’s tearing,” I mutter urgently between panting as Hayden drags the comforter off my body.

I fight through the agonizing pain and strain to shift to the edge of the bed, but it’s too severe, too excessive and my body immediately bows to the agony once more. I raise my right leg upwards and hang my head, holding my breath in a feeble attempt to end the searing cramping in my gut that clinches at my heart and lungs.

I am swamped by instant fear, a sheer terror. I begin to hyperventilate.

“Hayden!”

“Oh, fuck!”

HAYDEN

I’m paralyzed with fear.
Oh, Rose.
What do I do? What the fuck do I do?

Samantha is sat up in the bed, my white T-shirt bunched up around her hips. The snowy sheets soiled with bright red blood.

Oh, fuck.

Channeling my flaring trepidation and fear into judicious actions, I mutter, “Okay, Sam. Just stay there,” and lunge forward to the dresser, pulling open the second draw from the top. I recover a pair of cotton panties, gray sweats and a black camisole, before shoving the draw shut with panicking, brutal force.

“Come on, baby. Let me help you put this on.” Grasping the hem of the T-shirt, I pull it up over her body, and slip on the black camisole. “Can you move?”

Wincing, Samantha slowly twists herself, her legs dangle off the edge off the mattress.

“Ah, Hayden, it hurts,” she gasps and stoops over. Tears stream their way down her face as her profile crumples with the pain. I try to oversee the panic, try to maintain level-headed and rational. But seeing her like this…oh my, God, the blood.

“I know baby. We are going to slip this on.” I help her into her panties, pulling them up to her knees before I shred the top she was wearing a moment ago. “This may not feel comfortable okay, but it’s only until we get to the hospital,” I fold the ragged material up, and place it inside her underwear.

“Hayden, something’s wrong,” she sniffles, and I look up at her from my bended position on the floor. Placing my hand on the side of her face, I caress her cheek, and wipe away a falling tear with my thumb.

The hardest thing to do in a time of crisis is to look the person you love straight in the eye, see their fear, knowing that you’re both feeling and secretly aware of the same thing, but also knowing you have to try and quell their dread.

I stare into her frightened, guileless eyes––“Sam, we’re going to the hospital. I’m sure everything is fine, some people do bleed when they are pregnant,”––and I lie. I would lie a hundred times to get her through this. Still, the contemplation of maintaining optimism, upholds a shard of hope for myself.

With the life raft offered in the form of reassuring words, she nods her head faintly, and places her hands onto my shoulders in an attempt to steady herself as I continue to get her clothed.

With my arm wrapped around her waist, we make our way down the corridor. I fetch my keys and wallet from the table beside the door and stuff them into the pockets of my slacks. As soon as I open the door, Samantha stills and buckles again, clutching her stomach while groaning loudly as the pain lances through her, and it pierces my heart knowing that I cannot be of any help, knowing that I have to see her like this. But I know I have to stay strong and rational.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay,” I sweep her off her feet, holding her close to my chest and stride across the hall. With my left arm supporting her legs, I repeatedly push the button for the elevator. “Come on, come on, come on,” I mutter under my breath between clenched teeth.

Watching the overhead numbers change as the car climbs to the thirty-eighth floor, I feel her entire body tense in my arms. She’s grimacing and panting, the rapid intakes of air whistling between her teeth.

I plant a kiss on her forehead and blink away my tears. “It’s okay, baby. Everything will be okay.”

After sliding her into the passenger seat, I slam the door shut. I am overrun by terror and agitation. I’m expecting to wake up and in a cold sweat and screaming––I
hope
I wake up in a cold sweat and screaming. I jog around the front of the car, open my door and slide in.

Leaning over the console, Samantha writhes again as I buckle her seatbelt. I place my hand on her knee offering a reassuring squeeze. The muscle in her legs tensing as she’s inundated by the wave of pain.

Securing my own seatbelt, I press the ignition, along with my foot to the floor, and head south to San Francisco General.

Please, Rose, please be okay. God, if you are listening, please don’t do this, please…

It’s 1:58 a.m., and I am grateful for how desolate the streets of San Francisco are at this time. I run two red lights, but to be honest, I wouldn’t think twice about knocking down anyone who was in my way. Within eleven minutes, we pull up at the entrance of SFGH.

Slamming the door shut behind me, I dart around to Samantha’s side, scoop her into my arms and rush under the teal colored awning into reception.

“Can I help you?” The receptionist asks, fiddling with her glasses which hang from a chain around her neck.

“My fiancée, she’s seventeen weeks pregnant, and she’s bleeding…a lot.”

Sam’s grip around my neck tightens as does the remainder of her body as she begins to whimper and gasp.

“You need the birthing center, sixth floor; the elevators are just to the side,” she points around the corner and offers a hopeful grin.

“Thank you.” I make a beeline to the bank of elevators, hoping and praying that I can maintain the pretence of my composure, for Samantha’s sake.

Six floors higher, we approach another reception area, the nurses and midwives wear dark navy with white-trimmed coveralls.

“Please,” I gasp and two of the women turn in unison to face me, “my partner is seventeen weeks pregnant, and she’s started bleeding heavily, and she’s in a lot of pain,” my pretence slips, my voice breaks while my bottom lip trembles and tears sting my eyes.

“And the name, please,” the woman tucks something into her overall pocket.

“Samantha Kennedy.”

“Have she taken any pain relief?”

“No. She woke up in agony, and––”

“How much blood would you say she has lost?”

“A lot––please, you have to help her.”

She nods. “If you will follow me please, sir.” She escorts us to a private examination room down the narrow hallway.

The examination table is the first thing I see, as the door is opened at the foot of the bed. The room is basic, with white walls and a black tiled floor. A sonogram machine is to the left of it, and a washbasin and unit along the right wall.

“If you pop her onto the table,” she gestures to the frame and rolls the trackball on the machine. “Samantha, on a scale of one to ten, how much pain are you experiencing, lovely?” the woman’s voice is loud and clear, as if she is trying to gain any attention Samantha can muster over the pain.

“Twenty.”

“Okay. I will get you some pain relief, I need your top up and pants lowered, please.” She meanders around us to the unit along the right wall. She opens a cabinet in the corner, overhead the basin. Popping out a small, white pill, she places it in a tiny plastic cap, and fills a plastic cup with water.

Please, let them both be okay.

I roll up Sam’s camisole and draw the elastic waistline of her gray sweats down over her bump, to her pubic bone, while the woman hands Samantha the tablet. She knocks it back without a second thought.

“Hayden,” her voice is small and weighted with fear. She peeks up at me, holding my hand forcefully as her lip quivers. “I’m scared.”

Lowering myself, I kiss her hairline. “It’s okay. I’m right here. We will find out what’s happening, and if it is something, we’re in the right place. They will do everything they can to stop it,” I strive to uphold my positivity, and grant a small, tightlipped, concerned smile.

She jolts momentarily as the woman squeezes the gel onto her abdomen, followed by the probe. She rolls it back-and-forth along Samantha’s growing belly. We watch vigilantly as the image of Rose appears on the screen; her head, her belly. She moves the probe again and the image morphs and I discern the tiny collection of bones of her spine which looks like a string of pearls.

The middle-aged woman glances at us, briefly grins before inspecting the screen again. Samantha’s grip on my hand tightens when she peeks up at me. “It’s okay,” I mouth. And we both focus on the monitor again.

“Well? Is the baby okay?” I enquire, breaking the deafening silence while pleading for hopeful news.

She hangs her head ephemerally then returns our gaze with a contrite expression. “I’m sorry,” she shakes her head, “but there’s no heartbeat.”

I shake my head rapidly. “No, no you got to be wrong. Check it again.”

“I’m sorry––”

“Check it again!” I bark my demand.

Abounded with regret, the woman hangs her head.

I return my focus to Samantha, who’s distorted through my own accumulation tears. Her chest is heaving, her eyes swimming. “No, no, no, no. Not my baby, please. Not my baby.” She leans into me, and I enfold her in my arms, allowing her the freedom and support to wail uncontrollably.

“I’m sorry. I will give you a moment.” The bearer of bad news dismisses herself from the room in silence.

“This can’t be happening, Hayden. Everything has been going so well. Why did this happen?” She cries into my neck.

I brush my hand up and down the length of her spine. What do I say? I’m lost in an assemblage of confusion, anguish, helplessness. I pray with everything I am, that I will wake from this nightmare, yet, I still remain next to Samantha as she weeps in my arms in the austerity of the hospital room.

“What did I do wrong?” She squeaks through the lump in her throat. I stroke my fingers along her scalp, tip my head back and look up at the white tiled ceiling. Knowing she cannot see me, I allow the tears that have been constraining against my barrage, to fall unashamed down my face.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Sam,” I sniffle.

Constricting the grip of her embrace around me, she buries her face further into the crook of my neck. “I must have, otherwise we wouldn’t be here now.”

Our moment is cut short by a tiny tap on the room door. Before we can grant access, a different woman in her late-thirties strolls into the room. She draws a chair up in front of us and takes a seat.

“I am truly sorry for your loss,” she murmurs with palpable sympathy shrouding her words. “My name is Janna. I know you’re both still in shock, but we need to discuss your options.”

“Options?” I glower, pulling away from Samantha, but letting her head rest peacefully on my shoulder. I encircle my left arm around her. “What options?”

Janna licks her lips and radiates rueful intention. “We can fit Samantha with an osmotic dilator placement––”

I shake my head not understanding a word this woman is saying, I don’t even know what these
options
are she was mentioning. “A what?” I breathe.

“It is similar to a tampon; it will swell and help dila––”

“Let me stop you right there. It has barely been fifteen minutes since we were told that our baby doesn’t have a heartbeat. We haven’t even begun to process this yet, and you come in here, and instantly start talking about how you want to––”

“I know it seems inconsiderate and uncaring, I understand that fully, Mr. Wentworth. But it will eliminate any risk of infection, as well as helping to progress through the grieving period, if it’s done sooner.”

I fall silent for what seems like a lifetime. Samantha’s sobbing wans, until only the irregular sounds of her struggled breaths and bouncing of her shoulders vibrates against my immobilized form. I focus on the white strips between each tile on the flooring.

“What are the options?”

Janna gives brief details about each of the routes that are applicable to us. “We will give a moderate sedation––”

“No, this procedure is not a conscious decision. Money is no object. If she is to have this procedure, it has to be under
full
sedation. She is already going through one harrowing experience; I am not having her experience
that
,” licking my lips, I taste the salt from my fallen tears.

Janna nods her head understandably.

I shift and Samantha lifts her head off my shoulder. Hastily brushing my tear-streaks from my cheeks, I rest my hands on her thighs and sink to the floor in front of her.

“Sam,” I whisper. She stares at me vacantly, her expression impassive. Her cheeks are tearstained, she looks emotionally numb. “Samantha, baby, are you there?” I ask softly, as though talking to a child.

Her lips begin to tremble, her eyes fill with a wall of water as her face blotches. I know she is with me. Reaching up with my right hand, I tuck an auburn tendril behind her ear. I feel my sinuses burn and eyes sting as more tears threaten. But I keep them at bay…I have to keep them at bay.

“I know this isn’t the right time, baby. But which choice would you want to do?”

When her eyes find me, they are wide with palpable alarm. She vaguely shakes her head. “I don’t…” she whispers, her head shaking more forcefully, more insistently with grave determination. “I don’t…” she snaps, grief-stricken, before pushing herself from the bed and scampering out of the room.