Chapter 9 - The Smallest Hernandez
"We have a boy," Dr. Aris announced, his tired face breaking into a wide smile over his surgical mask. "Thirty-three weeks, four pounds two ounces. He’s breathing on his own, mom. A little small, but his APGAR scores are fantastic."
The pediatric nurse brought the baby over, wrapped in a warm flannel blanket, showing him to Mariana and Diego for a brief five seconds before he had to be taken to the premature infant unit for observation. He had a thick tuft of black hair, just like Diego’s, and tiny, perfectly formed fingers that waved wildly against the cold air.
Mariana let out a long, ragged sob—not of pain, but of a profound, spiritual release. The ghost of her past, the grief that had locked her in that dark Queens bedroom for months, finally vanished into the bright lights of the delivery room.
The next twelve hours were critical for Mariana’s recovery. Because of the reversal of the blood thinners for surgery, the medical team had to carefully balance her medication to prevent new clots from forming at the surgical site while ensuring she didn't bleed. Diego remained by her side, helping her take her first small sips of water, rubbing her back when the surgical anesthesia wore off, and updating the constant stream of family members calling from Miami and New York.
By the second day, Mariana was well enough to be placed in a wheelchair. Diego pushed her down the long, quiet hallway to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.
The room was filled with the gentle hum of incubators. In the corner, next to a window overlooking the East River, was their son, labeled Baby Boy Hernandez. He was hooked up to a small feeding tube and a heart monitor, but he was wide awake, his dark eyes tracking the light.
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The nurse carefully lifted the tiny baby and placed him directly against Mariana’s bare chest for skin-to-skin contact. Mariana closed her eyes, her chest rising and falling in perfect sync with her son’s tiny breaths.
Diego leaned over the back of the chair, his arms wrapping around both of them. For three years, they had survived New York in the small, noisy ways—the overtime shifts and the cheap groceries. But looking at his wife and son, Diego knew that the foundation they had built in that tiny apartment wasn't small at all. It was strong enough to hold up the world.
