THE 30-WEEK WAR
By week 30, the pain was a constant scream in Kayla’s body.
The cancer was spreading, unchecked, feeding on her strength.
She couldn’t eat. She could barely breathe. But she refused the heavy narcotics.
“Just a little longer,” she whispered to her belly every night.
Suddenly, the monitors began to wail.
“Her vitals are dropping! We’re losing her!” a nurse yelled.
Kayla felt a cold sweat break across her forehead. The room began to dim.
Don’t let me close my eyes. Not yet.
They rushed her into the operating room. The clang of surgical tools hit the metal trays.
“Prepare for emergency C-section!”
The first cry was thin and sharp.
Then the second. The third. And finally, the fourth.
Kayla caught a glimpse of a tiny hand before the world went black.
“Code Blue!” a voice screamed. “We’re losing the mother!”