For two days I paced, pressed buttons, screamed at the invisible monitors that I knew were there somewhere. I even threw a chair against one of the long clear windows in a final act of desperation. The chair simply bounced off without even leaving a mark.
For two days I ate and slept and watched vids like clockwork, but all the while fear gnawed at my soul.
On the third morning I woke to the now familiar sensation of my enlarged uterus contracting around the solid form of my baby.
I didn’t need to call anyone. Moments after the first contraction hit, my nurses entered the room and transferred me to a wheeled bed with swift efficiency.
“There’s been some mistake I think.” I spoke quickly between the contractions. “I remember you talking about parents. My child is supposed to stay with me. Ammon told me my baby and I would be safe.”
“Shh,” replied one of the nurses.
“No, I think there’s been a mistake. If I could just talk to him…”
My words were cut off as another contraction gripped me in a relentless vise.
I was wheeled into a room; the same room I’d been in before. The smell of sterilization coated the inside of my nostrils. An IV was poked into my arm; monitors were strapped around my distended belly.
I looked up and saw a large mirror, almost the full size of the wall.
When the light hit is just right, I thought I could see movement on the other side.
The parents wanted to watch the delivery.
I tore the IV from my arm.
“Ammon, are you there?” I yelled in desperation to the mirror. “There’s been a mistake. My baby is supposed to stay with me.”
That was the last thing I was able to say before my entire being, mind and body, became focused on bringing my child into the world.