And now the pregnancy everyone had feared might endanger me had revealed the very thing that might have eventually killed me.
The following months were some of the hardest of my life.
My doctors monitored me constantly.
There were appointments where I cried before even walking through the hospital doors.
There were nights when Thomas and I stayed awake wondering whether we could emotionally survive another loss.
But our son kept growing.
And I kept fighting.
At thirty-seven weeks, the doctors decided it was time to deliver.
Labor progressed faster than expected.
A few hours after arriving at the hospital, I heard a baby cry.
A nurse placed him on my chest.
I stared at his tiny face.
“Hi, Liam,” I whispered.
Then I completely broke down.
Thomas thought I was crying because our son was finally here.
But I was thinking about the dream.
The dark hallway.
The crib.
