Three days earlier, I had been rushed into an emergency C-section.
One minute, I was arguing that my blood pressure numbers could not possibly be that bad.
The next, Kevin was gripping my hand beneath fluorescent lights while a nurse told me to focus on her voice and keep breathing.
Everything after that came in pieces.
A mask.
A bright ceiling.
A doctor speaking quickly.
Kevin saying my name.
Then a cry so small I almost thought I imagined it.
Rosalie arrived six weeks early and weighed four pounds, two ounces.
I saw her for only a moment before the medical team moved her away.
She was tiny enough that every adult hand near her looked enormous, and the fear that entered me in that room never really left.
By the time I was taken to see her in the NICU, tubes were taped to her cheeks, wires crossed her chest, and the ventilator was pushing air into lungs that had not finished getting ready for the world.
The clear incubator separated us by less than an inch and by everything that mattered.
I could see her.
I could not pick her up.
I could place my hand through the opening when the nurse allowed it, but I could not hold her against my chest and promise that I would fix this.
Every time the ventilator changed its rhythm, my muscles tightened.
Every time the monitor shifted, I stopped breathing until the numbers settled again.
Brooklyn watched me watching Rosalie.
“Is she sleeping, Mommy?” she asked.
I looked at the rise and fall beneath the tape and plastic.
“Yes, baby,” I said. “She’s resting.”
That was the safest answer I had.
