Chapter 7 - THE ORDER I COULDN’T GIVE
At seventeen weeks, Emily developed a fever.
She was admitted immediately.
I spent the night in a chair.
At 3:12 a.m., she woke.
“Ryan?”
“I’m here.”
“Were you sleeping?”
“No.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’ve deteriorated.”
She stared at the ceiling.
“If things go bad…”
“No.”
“Listen.”
“No.”
Her head turned.
“You said you wouldn’t control this.”
That stopped me.
Emily continued.
“If something happens and they ask about the baby—”
“They’re going to save you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know what I want.”
“This isn’t about what you want.”
I stood.
Anger rose because fear needed somewhere to go.
“I already lost two children.”
Emily flinched.
“So did I.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Her voice broke.
“Because sometimes it feels like you think my dying would somehow make losing a third child more acceptable.”
I stared.
“I don’t think that.”
“Then hear me.”
I sat.
Emily swallowed.
“I want them to try for her.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“But I also…”
She began crying.
“I don’t want to die.”
The confession seemed to shame her.
That broke my heart.
“Emily.”
“I spent weeks thinking wanting to live made me a bad mother.”
“No.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“You’re right.”
I took her hand.
“But you are allowed to want your own life.”
She stared at me.
“You’re allowed to want birthdays.”
“Coffee.”
“Bad movies.”
“Arguments about paint.”
“You matter even if you never give anyone a child.”
Emily sobbed.
I had spent years believing she needed me to reassure her she had not caused our losses.
What she also needed was to know her value had never depended on fixing them.
The next morning, she completed an advance-care discussion with her physicians.
Not because anyone expected the worst.
Because uncertainty demanded clarity.
Emily made her wishes known.
I sat beside her.
May you like
I did not give an order.
For once, I simply listened.
