Please be here, Erik. I need you.
I imagine Erik walking through the door, perspiration on his brow from runninglate. The part of me that wants to berate him is quickly muted by a sense of relief,forgiveness, and gratitude that he is back in my arms.But Erik is not in my arms. Erik is nowhere to be seen, and the thought of mylife as a 29-year-old single mom with two babies makes me want to throw up all overthe cold cement floor.
“I don’t . . . feel so good.”
My insides twist around and around, swirling like a dust-filled tornado. Theagitation pounds at my abdomen, scraping at the deep layers of my skin. I have no ideahow I will raise these girls without him.The tall, male anesthesiologist leans in to comfort me, his green eyes peeringover his surgical mask.
“Let me know what you need.” No doubt the hospital staff is also shocked at my husband’s absence. Just 19
ore, the same doctors and nurses had witnessed Erik’s tears of joy at ourfirst daughter’s birth.
Now the room is somber, filled by the presence of educated individuals whohave no explanations.
I nod to the anesthesiologist. “I need, uh, something else. I’m feeling . . . veryupset.” Lizellen, my obstetrician, says, “Give her the works. She has had to go withoutmedication for far too long, but you did good, kid. You’re going to have another healthy