The First Cry
The operating theater was a symphony of cold metal and urgent commands.
"Scalpel."
Dr. Linwood worked with surgical elegance, cutting through layers of tissue with steady precision. Emma lay beneath the blue surgical drape, her consciousness drifting between searing pain and a distant, peaceful void. She could hear the rhythmic beep... beep... beep... of her heart monitor slowing down.
Stay, a voice inside her whispered. Just one more minute. Give him one minute.
"Suction. Clamp here. We have the head," Dr. Linwood announced. "Pediatric resuscitation team, step in."
At 10:14 PM, a sound broke through the sterile hum of the room—not a loud roar, but a tiny, raspy, fragile wail.
"Boy," the pediatrician called out. "Two pounds, eleven ounces. Respiration is shallow, but he’s fighting. Transferring to the neonatal intensive care unit immediately."
Dr. Linwood looked down at Emma. "We’re losing maternal pressure. Two units of O-negative on the rapid infuser! Emma, stay with us. Look at me, Emma!"
Emma’s eyelids fluttered. Through the haze, she caught a glimpse of a tiny incubator being wheeled toward the door—a small, translucent hand kicking against the plastic glass.
May you like
He’s alive, she thought.
And then, the cardiac monitor collapsed into a flat, unbroken tone.
