manager cupped her hand over her mouth. “Your wife, she’s bleeding heavily.”
The officer murmured, “Holy mother of God,” and bit his lip.
“Would you please hold our baby?” I asked the Chanel lady, not sure if I was begging or demanding.
“Of course,” she answered, gently taking our now peaceful Paulette back into her arms.
Right now, I needed to hold Gloria. My beloved angel.
She was sobbing uncontrollably. Gutting me.
“Hang in there, angel,” I said as she heaved in my arms. I kissed her everywhere I could.
“Payton,” she cried out.
“It’s okay, angel. We have a beautiful healthy baby.”
She wept. Nothing I could say could comfort her. Her body contorted with pain and endless tears poured down her face.
The cop did a Hail Mary. Securing Paulette in one arm, the Chanel lady followed suit. Never one to be religious, I silently prayed to God for a miracle.
Our prayers were answered. Just as the President passed by in his black Lincoln Navigator to raucous cheers, the barricade lifted; a siren roared in my ears. In a flash, an ambulance pulled up to us. A team of three paramedics jumped out of the vehicle.
They immediately examined Gloria who was losing blood by the handful.
“Twin B is in breech,” said the female paramedic.
“What do you mean?” I panicked.
“He’s in a transverse position. This happens often after the birth of Twin A.”
Our Payton. The athlete! I loved him and damned him at the same time. “What are we going to do?” My eyes bounced from my poor Gloria, who looked like all life had drained from her, to the paramedic whose expression was intense. She glanced down at my bloodstained jacket.
“We’re going to do a breech extraction: pull the baby out by his legs.”
The cop crossed his heart; the Chanel lady bit down on her lip, and some in the crowd folded their hands in prayer.
Before I could utter a word, the paramedic inserted her long-fingered hand into my Gloria, now delirious. I held my breath. And could hear my heart pounding. A few long minutes later, a miracle appeared. My son. Our son. Payton. He was wailing at the top of his lungs. I swear the little guy already had my don’t-fuck-with-me attitude. He was going to be one handsome cocky little devil. Just like his father.
Another paramedic, a young Latino, washed him off and then grabbed the blue cashmere shawl from the Chanel lady and wrapped him up. He was still wailing loudly.
“I think your wife has just given you one fine, healthy boy.”
“Gloria, did you hear that?” My smiling eyes connected with Gloria’s, except hers were rolling back in her head. My heart leapt into my throat.
“Gloria’s, what’s wrong?” Blood was still pouring out of her by the bucketful.
The female paramedic, her dark eyes wide with alarm, quickly took Gloria’s pulse. She bit down on her lip.
“Is my wife okay?” My voice wavered.
To my utter horror, Gloria, white as a ghost, began to convulse. “Gloria!”
“Your wife is hemorrhaging. She’s in hypovolemic shock.”
The next few minutes were a total frenzied blur. Surreal. For the second time in my life, I was in the back of an ambulance with my beloved angel…this time unconscious, strapped down on a gurney hooked up to IVs and wearing an oxygen mask. Her breathing was labored. Our beautiful babies slept peacefully in my arms. But my reality was an ugly nightmare. Gloria might die.
CHAPTER 11
Jaime
D r. Marcy Bernstein, Gloria’s gynecologist, met us at the entrance of the emergency entrance to Cedars. She was a handsome, dark-haired woman in her early forties, the sister of my best bud, Blake Burns. Several paramedics and nurses accompanied her. The pinched expression on her face told me she knew Gloria was in trouble.
“Move it, move it!” she shouted out as the paramedics swung open the ambulance doors and worked at breakneck speed to get Gloria out of the ambulance.
Everything happened so fast. A couple of nurses took the
The officer murmured, “Holy mother of God,” and bit his lip.
“Would you please hold our baby?” I asked the Chanel lady, not sure if I was begging or demanding.
“Of course,” she answered, gently taking our now peaceful Paulette back into her arms.
Right now, I needed to hold Gloria. My beloved angel.
She was sobbing uncontrollably. Gutting me.
“Hang in there, angel,” I said as she heaved in my arms. I kissed her everywhere I could.
“Payton,” she cried out.
“It’s okay, angel. We have a beautiful healthy baby.”
She wept. Nothing I could say could comfort her. Her body contorted with pain and endless tears poured down her face.
The cop did a Hail Mary. Securing Paulette in one arm, the Chanel lady followed suit. Never one to be religious, I silently prayed to God for a miracle.
Our prayers were answered. Just as the President passed by in his black Lincoln Navigator to raucous cheers, the barricade lifted; a siren roared in my ears. In a flash, an ambulance pulled up to us. A team of three paramedics jumped out of the vehicle.
They immediately examined Gloria who was losing blood by the handful.
“Twin B is in breech,” said the female paramedic.
“What do you mean?” I panicked.
“He’s in a transverse position. This happens often after the birth of Twin A.”
Our Payton. The athlete! I loved him and damned him at the same time. “What are we going to do?” My eyes bounced from my poor Gloria, who looked like all life had drained from her, to the paramedic whose expression was intense. She glanced down at my bloodstained jacket.
“We’re going to do a breech extraction: pull the baby out by his legs.”
The cop crossed his heart; the Chanel lady bit down on her lip, and some in the crowd folded their hands in prayer.
Before I could utter a word, the paramedic inserted her long-fingered hand into my Gloria, now delirious. I held my breath. And could hear my heart pounding. A few long minutes later, a miracle appeared. My son. Our son. Payton. He was wailing at the top of his lungs. I swear the little guy already had my don’t-fuck-with-me attitude. He was going to be one handsome cocky little devil. Just like his father.
Another paramedic, a young Latino, washed him off and then grabbed the blue cashmere shawl from the Chanel lady and wrapped him up. He was still wailing loudly.
“I think your wife has just given you one fine, healthy boy.”
“Gloria, did you hear that?” My smiling eyes connected with Gloria’s, except hers were rolling back in her head. My heart leapt into my throat.
“Gloria’s, what’s wrong?” Blood was still pouring out of her by the bucketful.
The female paramedic, her dark eyes wide with alarm, quickly took Gloria’s pulse. She bit down on her lip.
“Is my wife okay?” My voice wavered.
To my utter horror, Gloria, white as a ghost, began to convulse. “Gloria!”
“Your wife is hemorrhaging. She’s in hypovolemic shock.”
The next few minutes were a total frenzied blur. Surreal. For the second time in my life, I was in the back of an ambulance with my beloved angel…this time unconscious, strapped down on a gurney hooked up to IVs and wearing an oxygen mask. Her breathing was labored. Our beautiful babies slept peacefully in my arms. But my reality was an ugly nightmare. Gloria might die.
CHAPTER 11
Jaime
D r. Marcy Bernstein, Gloria’s gynecologist, met us at the entrance of the emergency entrance to Cedars. She was a handsome, dark-haired woman in her early forties, the sister of my best bud, Blake Burns. Several paramedics and nurses accompanied her. The pinched expression on her face told me she knew Gloria was in trouble.
“Move it, move it!” she shouted out as the paramedics swung open the ambulance doors and worked at breakneck speed to get Gloria out of the ambulance.
Everything happened so fast. A couple of nurses took the
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