Chapter 8 - The Emergency Call
The peace they had fought so hard for lasted exactly twenty-one days.
At thirty-three weeks and four days, Diego was at the auto shop when his phone rang. It was the automated alert from the continuous home monitoring system they had installed. Mariana’s blood pressure had broken through the safety threshold again, registering at 172/105.
Diego dropped his wrench, yelled to Mateo, and ran out the door without even wiping the grease from his arms. He drove his old pickup truck through the afternoon Queens traffic like a man possessed, running two red lights before skidding to a halt outside their apartment building.
When he burst through the door, Mariana was sitting on the edge of the bed, her overnight bag already packed, her face pale but calm.
"My water broke, Diego," she said, her voice remarkably steady. "And the contractions started ten minutes ago. We need to go."
The drive to Mount Sinai was a blur of sirens and rain. By the time they reached the labor and delivery unit, Dr. Aris was already waiting for them in the triage bay. The medical team immediately hooked Mariana up to the monitors. The news wasn't good: the high blood pressure was causing an early placental abruption—the placenta was beginning to separate from the uterine wall, cutting off the baby’s oxygen supply.
"We can't wait for a natural delivery," Dr. Aris said, his voice dropping into that familiar, urgent authority. "The risk of bleeding out is too high because of the heparin she took this morning. We need to perform an emergency Cesarean section immediately. We have to reverse the blood thinners with protamine sulfate right now, or she will hemorrhage on the table."
Diego felt the familiar panic rising, but this time, he didn't freeze. He looked at Mariana, who was being wheeled toward the double doors of the operating room.
"I'll be right outside," he shouted over the noise of the rushing staff.
"No, Diego!" Mariana called back, reaching out her hand. "Come inside! I need you to look this time! Don't let go!"
A nurse threw a pair of scrubs at Diego, and within ninety seconds, he was sitting on a small stool by Mariana’s head, behind the sterile blue drape. The operating room was cold, smelling of iodine and metal. Diego gripped her hand with both of his, his eyes locked onto hers, refusing to let her look at the surgical team working furiously at her abdomen.
"Look at me," Diego whispered, his tears hot against her knuckles. "Just look at me, Mariana. We're at the end of the road. We’re almost home."
May you like
"I love you," she gasped as a sudden wave of pressure hit her chest. "Diego, whatever happens—"
A sharp, wet cry cut through the sterile air of the operating room. It wasn't a loud, booming roar—it was a small, high-pitched, indignant squawk—but to Diego and Mariana, it was the loudest sound in the universe.
