April 20, 2024
It started quietly. A tightening in my lower abdomen that came and went—not enough to panic, but enough to pay attention. At first, I chalked it up to stress or dehydration. But something in me whispered otherwise.
I went to the first hospital. Explained what I was feeling. The pressure, the cramping, the subtle shifts I couldn’t quite name. They monitored me briefly, told me everything looked normal, and sent me home with the usual advice: Take Tylenol. Drink water. Rest.
I tried. I wanted to trust them. I wanted to believe I was just overthinking, just an anxious mom-to-be on edge. But the symptoms persisted.
When the discomfort turned into undeniable pain, I went to the second hospital.
Again, I explained. Again, I was told it was probably Braxton Hicks. That I was fine. That the baby was fine. They gave me the same speech. The same suggestions. And they sent me home again.
But I knew. I knew. My body was talking—and this time, it was screaming.
When I was finally admitted, everything moved fast. There was no more “You’re fine.” No more warm reassurances. The moment they saw what was happening, they rushed me to the back. And then—chaos.
Seven nurses. Two doctors. Needles stabbing into both arms at once. They were shouting orders, calling out vitals, scrambling to keep things under control. Blood splattered onto the walls. My veins collapsed. They kept sticking me, trying to draw what they needed. I wasn’t just a patient anymore—I was an emergency.
No one told me what was happening. They just moved. Urgently. Desperately.
And all I could do was lie there and pray.
It was the scariest moment of my life—
but somehow, in the middle of it all, I held on to the one thing I had left: my voice.
And tomorrow, I’ll tell you what happened when the silence finally broke.
The Story Between Storms 
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