Rushed to the Hospital
Lights flashed in a blur as the ambulance sped through the streets. I lay on the stretcher, heart pounding, gasping for breath. The paramedics worked feverishly around me, their voices urgent yet distant. “We need to stabilize her,” one said, his fingers probing my belly. “Blood pressure’s dangerously high.”
As we entered the hospital, I caught fleeting glimpses of the chaos inside. Nurses hurried by, pushing carts filled with equipment. I wanted to scream, to tell them my husband left me, but the words stuck in my throat.
“Rebecca, can you hear me?” A doctor leaned over me, concern etched on his face. The fluorescent lights above hummed like angry bees, their brightness overwhelming. “We need to move fast. Your condition is critical.” My mind raced. What did he mean by critical?
I strained to listen, picking up snippets of their conversation. “High risk for stroke,” said a voice to my left. “If we don’t deliver soon, she could lose consciousness—maybe even the baby.” Panic clawed at my chest. I might not even get to see my child if things went wrong.
