The Night I Was Cut Open and Left Alone
I whispered through tears after surgery, “Can someone hold the baby so I can rest?” Hours passed. No one came. The next morning, still bleeding and barely able to stand, I opened Facebook and saw my mom’s post: “The best family vacation!” Six weeks later, still weak and stitched, my phone lit up with eighty-eight missed calls and a text from my sister: “We NEED $5,000 NOW.” I kissed my son’s tiny forehead and typed back.
The Surgery I Didn’t Plan For
I never planned on a C-section. I thought I’d push like everyone else I knew. After seventeen hours of contractions with no progress, the doctor came in with that calm voice that somehow makes your chest sink and said we needed surgery. I didn’t argue. I was too tired to lift my head. The OR was bright and cold. My arms were strapped down, pressure heavy on my chest—then a cry. My son’s first sound. They brought him to my face for a breath of a second, then whisked him away while they closed me up.
