Chapter 182
Mia’s POV
“KYLE!” My scream echoed through the hospital corridor as they wheeled him away, his blood leaving a horrifying trail on the white floor. The medical team moved with terrifying urgency, their faces grim.
“BP critical at 70/30!” “He’s tachycardic, pulse 14” “Blood loss approximately two liters!” “Move, people! We’re losing him p>
I lunged forward, desperate to reach him, my hands outstretched toward his motionless form. His face had turned an ashen gray, lips tinged blue, eyelids still. So still. Not like Kyle at all.
“Ma’am, STOP!” A nurse blocked my path as they rushed Kyle through swinging doors marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. “You can’t go in there p>
“He’s dying!” I sobbed, my voice breaking. “He took that bullet for me p>
“If you want him to live, you need to let the surgical team work,” she said firmly, gripping my shoulders. “And you-” her eyes dropped to my blood-spattered belly, “-need immediate medical attention too p>
My legs gave out suddenly, pain shooting across my lower back with such intensity that I cried out, doubling over. The nurse caught me before I hit the floor.
“Get OB down here now!” she barked to another staff member. “Possible labor p>
“No,” I gasped, panic clawing up my throat.” It’s too early p>
The world tilted and spun as they helped me into a wheelchair. My heart hammered so violently I could feel it in my throat, my ears, behind my eyes. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think.
Kyle was dying. My babies were coming too soon. Everything was falling apart.
“Please,” I begged.
Another wave of pain tore through me, this one worse than before, radiating from my spine around to my abdomen like a vise. I gripped the armrests of the wheelchair, a primal sound escaping my throat.
“That’s definitely a contraction,” the nurse said, her voice suddenly distant beneath the roaring in my ears. “Let’s move p>
They rushed me toward the elevator, the fluorescent lights overhead blurring as tears streamed down my face.
“Breathe through it,” the nurse instructed, pressing the elevator button repeatedly, as if that would make it arrive faster. “In through your nose, out through your mouth p>
I tried to follow her directions, but panic had taken over. My chest heaved with hysterical sobs that I couldn’t control. Blood rushed in my ears. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision.
The elevator finally arrived, the doors opening to reveal a medical team with a portable ultrasound machine.
“Thirty-two weeks, twins, possible preterm labor,” my nurse reported crisply. “Extreme psychological distress p>
“I’m Dr. Levine,” a woman in scrubs announced, kneeling beside my wheelchair as we ascended. “I need to check you immediately p>
“Get her into Room 4,” Dr. Levine ordered. “Fetal monitors, IV access, complete labs. And page NICU-tell them we might have thirty-two-week twins coming p>
“No,” I moaned, gripping the sides of the wheelchair as another wave of pain crashed through me.
They transferred me to an examination table, efficiently stripping away my blood-soaked clothes despite my trembling limbs and continuing protests. Someone attached monitor belts around my swollen abdomen, and the rapid, galloping heartbeats of my sons filled the room.
“Good strong heartbeats, the doctor noted, her expression giving away nothing as she prepared to examine me. “When did the contractions start p>
“I don’t know!” I cried, my thoughts too scattered to focus. “My back started hurting in the helicopter p>
A sharp, tearing pain cut off my words, and I arched off the bed with a strangled cry.
“That’s a strong contraction,” Dr. Levine confirmed. “I need to check your cervix p>
The examination was quick but painful, made worse by another contraction that hit just as she was finishing.
“You’re already at four centimeters,” she announced, her expression grim, “And 80% effaced. This is active labor, Mia p>
“No!” I shook my head violently, tears streaming down my face.
“Get me magnesium sulfate,” Dr. Levine ordered a nurse. “And start the betamethasone for fetal lung maturity. We’ll try to slow this down, but I want to be prepared if we can’t p>
More medical staff entered the room, bringing equipment, medications, attaching monitors and IVs to my body. I barely registered their actions, lost in a storm of pain and panic.
“Breathe, Mia,” Dr. Levine instructed. “Try to breathe through it p>
“I can’t do this,” I sobbed when the contraction finally eased.
“We’re trying,” she assured me, her voice steady as she monitored the magnesium beginning to flow into my veins. “But you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that these babies are coming today p>
A flash of urgent conversation at the door caught my attention-Dr. Levine conferring with another staff member in hushed, tense tones.
“What is it?” I demanded, trying to push myself up despite the monitor wires tangling around me. “Is it Kyle? Tell me the truth p>
Dr. Levine approached, her face professionally neutral but eyes betraying concern. “Mr. Branson is in emergency surgery. The bullet fragmented near a major artery. They’re transfusing blood products and working to control the bleeding p>
“Is he dying?” I choked out the words.
“They’re doing everything possible,” she said, carefully extracting her arm from my grip.
Another contraction slammed into me without warning, twice as powerful as the previous ones. I screamed, my back arching off the bed, the monitor wires pulling taut.
“That was less than two minutes from the last one,” a nurse noted, watching the monitor with growing concern.
“The magnesium isn’t working,” Dr. Levine muttered. “Let’s move her to delivery now p>
“Mia, you need to calm down,” Dr. Levine said firmly. “This stress is only making the labor progress faster p>
As if responding to my hysteria, a sudden warm gush erupted between my legs, soaking the bed beneath me. For one horrible moment, I thought it was blood.
“Water broke,” the nurse announced, already moving to change the bedding. “Clear fluid p>
The contractions instantly transformed, becoming so intense that darkness edged my vision.