Darren drove up to the apartment in the middle of the night. Portia’s car was there and lights were on inside. The front door stood open. Darren jogged in, excited to see Portia.
The house was disheveled, two of the legs of the kitchen table were broken, and the table turned on its side. Portia lay crumpled behind the table in a small pool of her own blood.
“Portia? Portia!” shouted Darren as he rushed to her side.
Portia failed to respond as he rubbed her shoulder and hair. He plucked his cell phone from his pocket and dialed 9-1-1. Within moments, the squad truck arrived.
Darren rode along as they rushed to the hospital. Doctors and nurses met them as the paramedics unloaded Portia from the ambulance. Darren began making calls while Portia was whisked away. His first call, of course, was to Alex.
“Hey, bro, what’s up?”
Alex’s tone was cool and casual. Darren cleared his throat as he attempted to speak.
“Hey, Alex. Something’s happened to Portia…” his voice cracked.
“Where are you?”
“Allegheny General. Portia had a miscarriage.”
“I’ll be there as quickly as possible.”
Alex rounded the Gatteau troops and took everyone to Allegheny General. When they arrived, the news was as good as it could be. Portia hadn’t miscarried, but the doctors were forced to induce labor to save Portia.
“Are you the father?” asked a doctor.
Darren nodded.
“We probably need to terminate the pregnancy.”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“You’re doctors,” spat Mrs. Gatteau, “There has to be something you can do.”
“Ma’am, the mother is only 21 weeks along. This baby is 4 months early. It’s not even half grown. Organs haven’t developed and the fetus is extremely fragile.”
“This is the Intensive Care Unit. You do this all the time.”
“We don’t deliver 21-week-old preemies all the time. Even at 24 weeks, there’s only about a 50/50 chance. The chances are significantly reduced for each day before that cut-off date.”
“You do what you can to save it.”
“Ma’am, there are likely to be complications. They baby will have disabilities, if it even makes it.”
“Earn your damn money for once.”
Alex held his mother back as he urged the doctor to do everything in his power to save the fetus. The doctor turned to Darren. Darren agreed.
Portia was wheeled into NICU with a cadre of surgeons.
“Miss Gatteau? You’re at Allegheny General. We’re taking you to the Natal Intensive Care Unit to induce labor.”
“What’s wrong with my baby?” asked Portia.
“There’s been a partial miscarriage. The amniotic sac has broken and the uterus is rejecting the fetus early.”
“What’s wrong with my baby?” she repeated.
“Ma’am, we’re inducing labor.”
“You can’t.”
“We don’t have a choice, ma’am.”
As soon as they positioned Portia’s gurney in the middle of the surgical arena, the doctors went to work. Nurses quickly undid her blothing and draped Portia in a hospital gown. A blue surgery drape was pinned over her chest and the abdomen and groin were exposed. Nurses lifted her feet into the stirrups and the obstetrician crouched between her legs.
He carefully prodded the birth canal with his fingers.
“She’s ruptured the placenta. We might be able to take the fetus through the canal.”
Another doctor placed the stethoscope on her belly, listening for a pulse. The baby’s heart was beating smoothly, but rapidly. She then squirted jelly on Portia’s abdomen and waved the transducer over the abdomen. The baby’s image appeared on the screen.
“The baby’s alright, but it’s in danger. See this cloudy area here? That’s the uterus. That faint line is the placenta. It’s done something called placental abruption. When the placenta tears away from the uterus, blood fills the uterus. This puts both the mother and fetus in mortal danger. We need to operate right away. We need your permission to perform a Caesarian birth.”
Portia quickly signed the papers and the doctors went to work.
“Portia, we’ll have to administer spinal anesthesia. This will help ease the pain you already feel from the hemorrhaging. This will also help us extract the fetus quickly and safely.”
The nurse placed a wad of heavy gauze beneath Portia as he pulled her to an upright position. The doctor ran his fingers over her back, probing her vertebrae. The doctor then administered a dose of anesthesia. She waited a few moments before inserting another needle into Portia’s back. Portia felt the stiff pressure, followed by a sudden numb sensation traveling along her back and through her legs.
“Oooh, wow.”
“You’ll feel completely numb in no time,” advised the doctor.
“Will I be asleep?”
“Not with a spinal. We need you awake for this.”
They returned Portia to her back with her legs in stirrups. Two doctors stood over her. The one holding the scalpel made one long stroke across her belly. It perforated like a stuck whale, a layer of fat peeling away from the abdomen. The other doctor tugged at the top end as the surgeon made smaller incisions, cleaning up the cut.
“Gauze,” he said plainly.
The nurse applied a fresh towel across the cut, soaking up the excess blood, while the other doctor continued tugging on her skin. A fourth doctor held a variety of tools: forceps, scissors, and clamps. Portia’s heart monitor beeped rapidly, twice per second.
Portia raised her head and peered over the curtain. She could see the bloody mess they were cutting. Seeing her own blood made her woozy. She laid her head back down and pressed her cheek against the gurney. The cool, plastic mat felt good on her face.
She felt the hooks now, jabbing into her skin and prying her new body cavity open. They were cutting again. Portia assumed they were puncturing heer uterus. The nurse pulled a wad of towels off the operating table and tossed them into a bin. They were pink and red, soaked in her blood.
“We see the head,” said the nurse.
The two surgeons poked and sawed with their scalpels as forceps pried the incision up and away from her body. Another doctor evacuated the cavity with water as the surgeons continued to saw through her uterus.
“Here’s the head,” said the surgeon. He’s doing just fine.”
“It’s a boy?”
“I guess you didn’t know. Yes, it’s a boy.”
Portia smiled weakly as the surgeon twisted and pulled the fetus from its home. The baby was tiny and reddish-purple, almost maroon. He cradled the baby in one hand as he pulled the feet up with the other.
“Clamp it,” said the surgeon, “and cut it.”
The nurse pulled the infant away from Portia. She used a suction tube to clear the nose and throat. She dabbed the tube into the baby’s mouth again. It cried.
“Can I see it?”
“Not quite yet.”
The nurse cleaned the fetus and measured it.
“11 inches and 15 ounces, Portia.”
“Is that good?”
“A little underdeveloped,” said the nurse.
The nurse took the infant from the room as the doctor’s tended to Portia. They stitched her up and turned her onto her side to remove the catheter. The heart monitor squelched and then resumed it’s rapid, but normal, pace.
As Portia rested, her baby struggled.
Its top layer of skin had not yet formed. NICU nurses applied salve and bundled the preemie in light gauze. The infant aspirated hoarsely, gasping for air. A doctor intubated it, providing pure oxygen for its tiny, underdeveloped, overwhelmed lungs.
The nurse placed the preemie in the incubator and assisted the doctor with the myriad of tubes and monitors connected to the infant. Afterwards, the nurse went to the waiting room.
“We’ve successfully extracted the fetus by C-Section and it’s been moved to an incubator. It’s doing just fine.”
“Thank goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Gatteau.
“It’s not all good news, though. The infant is extremely premature. Usually, the hospital has to keep preemies for several months while they develop. There’s also no guarantee.”
“No guarantee of what?”
“More than half of preemies at this stage do not make it through the crucial first 72 hours. We’ll monitor the baby closely and do all we can, but like I said….”
“Can we see the baby,” interrupted Mrs. Gatteau.
“Sure thing. Follow me.”
Phoebe and Mrs. Gatteau were the first to go inside the NICU. Mrs. Gatteau led the way, first to see the infant. Monitors pulsed and beeped, the ventilator wheezed evenly. The infant was barely longer than her outstretched hand as she pressed it against the glass. It looked like a baby bird, eyes swollen and fused shut and its skin purple and wrinkled. Mrs. Gatteau stared at the baby. When Phoebe approached, she let out a small gasp. The tubes extending from the infants body overwhelmed it. Surgical tape covering the tubes also covered the infant’s face.
“It’s…” Phoebe was at a loss for words. She thought it looked hideous. Its arms were fragile and spindly, its feet crumpled and violet. It didn’t look like it would survive the night, let alone 72 hours, even under the best of care.
While Phoebe and her mother hovered over the newborn child, Alex and Darren waited patiently for their chance to see Portia, watching Court TV with people more interested in trials than their loved ones. Finally, Alex approached the Information desk.
“When can I see Portia Gatteau? G-A-T-T-E-A-U.”
The clerk typed on her computer.
“She’s in NICU. Hold on one moment.”
The clerk made a call and talked on the phone for a moment.
“She’s in recovery. Go to the end of the hall, take a left and look for the information desk. Take a right and it’s right there.”
“Dad, we’ll be right back. We’re just going to visit Portia for a moment.”
“Go ahead,” said father, “I can wait.”
The boys went to the Portia’s room. She was tired and pale. She reached a hand out to Alex and he held it gently.
“You alright?”
Portia nodded.
“What happened?”
“I was over at Darren’s apartment with Marcus. He shoved me against a wall and pinned me behind the kitchen table. I thought he was going to kill me.”
“I think we should go beat the shit out of him,” said Alex.
“We should tell the cops,” replied Darren.
“Nobody fucks with my little sister,” said Alex.
“Alex, I’m fine, really.”
Alex’s temper was rare, but when it boiled over, it raged. He liked to fist fight, especially if provoked. It was probably why he liked the raw, unbridled emotion of boxing. As they waited with Portia, the nurse paid them a visit.
“Miss Gatteau? Is this Darren?”
Portia nodded.
“I have someone who needs to talk to you.”
The nurse escorted a young woman into Portia’s room.
“Gentlemen, can you wait outside while we talk to Miss Gatteau?”
The nurse led Darren and Alex to a nearby waiting area. Meanwhile, the young woman spoke with Portia.
“I work for Job and Family Services for Allegheny County. I’m also a Social Worker here at Allegheny General Hospital. It’s my job to investigate cases like yours. We can just start by talking freely. Just tell me what happened to cause you to deliver prematurely.”
“I fell…”
“Your injuries don’t indicate a fall. They indicate domestic violence and show signs of abuse.”
“No, I fell.”
“You can’t protect your boyfriend if he’s willing to harm you and your baby. Abusers can and will repeat their crimes.”
“You think it was Darren? It’s a lot more complicated than that.”
“Start from the beginning and tell me everything.”
“It’s not Darren. I can promise you that.”
“If you don’t tell me what happened, I might be forced to involve police investigators.”
So, Portia told the complete complex story, from the day she hooked up with Darren to the day she arrived at the hospital. After she finished interviewing Portia, she retrieved Darren and led him to a conference room. Behind closed doors, he told the same story. The separate but parallel stories convinced the Social Worker. She filed a report with P.P.D.‘s Domestic Violence Unit.
Portia’s secret was safe with Alex, out of respect for his little sister. Mr. Gatteau and Alex traded places between the waiting room and the NICU. After Mr. Gatteau had a chance to visit with Portia, he took the Gatteaus home. Alex and Darren took the first shift in the waiting room, allowing Portia and her baby to rest.
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