Chapter 13 - THE COUNTDOWN
Twenty-six weeks.
Then twenty-seven.
Every extra day mattered.
The baby grew.
Emily weakened.
The disease remained controlled enough to continue.
Not comfortable.
Controlled.
I stopped making plans beyond forty-eight hours.
Emily noticed.
“You finally stopped trying to conquer the calendar.”
“I’ve matured.”
“You lost your label maker.”
“That too.”
At twenty-eight weeks, the NICU team met with us.
They explained what premature delivery could mean.
Machines.
Breathing support.
Feeding assistance.
Long hospitalization.
Uncertainty.
Emily’s hand trembled in mine.
Afterward she said:
“I can’t lose her.”
I looked at her.
“I know.”
“No, I mean I can’t.”
Her breathing became fast.
“We painted the room.”
“We named possibilities.”
“I let myself imagine holding her.”
“Emily.”
“What if I did it again?”
“What?”
“What if I let myself love her too soon?”
I turned toward her.
“There is no too soon.”
She cried.
“What if she dies?”
“Then loving her won’t be the thing that killed us.”
Emily stared at me.
I had spent years believing withholding love could soften grief.
It could not.
It only made grief lonelier.
I placed my hand over hers.
“We love her now.”
“Whatever happens.”
May you like
Emily nodded.
“Whatever happens.”
