for this. It’s kind of silly, but this moment feels huge to me. The next big step in our journey, and for months now I’ve imagined Winter and me doing this together. That he’s not here feels all wrong.
Taking some deep breaths, I fill the syringe the way the nurse showed us. My hands are shaky so I slow myself down. “You can do this, Birdie. You just have to stick the needle in your stomach. It’s not hard.”
Shit.
Why does it feel hard then?
Good God, do not cry, woman.
“I’m not going to bloody cry,” I mutter, exasperated with my emotions.
Sitting, I gently pinch my stomach together as shown and bring the needle to it.
You can do this.
Seriously, just do it.
My breaths grow shallow as I give myself a stern pep talk. At my age, it feels dumb to still be afraid of needles. However, it’s not so much that causing my emotions to fray, it’s my silly wish that Winter was here. I mean, it’s just an injection. He’s not missing out on anything important tonight.
“Okay, let’s just bloody get this done,” I tell myself before finally pushing the needle into my stomach and giving myself the shot.
After, I sit quietly for a long while thinking about the significance of what I’ve done.
We’re going to have a baby.
We’re making this happen.
I’m going to be a mummy.
Winter is going to be a daddy.
For the first time in weeks, I feel a sense of calm wash over me. I don’t understand it, but all the anxiety and stress that’s been coursing through me has disappeared, and all I feel now is wonder and belief that this is going to happen. It’s like I needed to see that needle going into my stomach to fully believe we were doing this. Up until this point, it’s just been a whole lot of planning and talking. Now we’re taking action and my brain has finally caught up to understanding what’s happening.
The rumble of Winter’s bike pulls me out of my thoughts and I head for the front door to meet him, relief flooding me that he’s okay. However, when I open the door, the first thing I see as he walks my way is blood. A lot of blood. His shirt is soaked in it. He’s got his hands pressed to his stomach, but that doesn’t seem to be helping stem the flow.
My heart beats faster and my chest tightens with fear. “Oh my God.” I rush towards him. “We need to get you to a doctor.” A million thoughts speed through my mind. Why is he here instead of at the hospital? What happened? Has he been shot? Where is all that blood coming from?
“No,” he clips. “Go inside.” His hard voice catches me by surprise, but it also causes me to do what he says.
Once we’re inside, he takes off down the hallway and into our bedroom. “Gonna need your help, angel,” he says as I trip over my feet trying to keep up with him.
Of course I’ll help him, but at this point, I’m not sure what he thinks I can do for him. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. “Okay.” I enter the bedroom behind him, my heart still pounding hard. “You want me to stitch you up?” It’s a joke, my way of dealing with stress. I never expect the answer he gives me.
Without stopping or looking at me, he enters our walk-in robe. “No, I’ll do the stitching, but I’ll need your help with it.”
My legs stop moving.
My heart beats faster if that’s even possible.
What?
Surely I misheard.
“You’re kidding, right?”
Still not looking at me, he says, “No.” Rummaging through his belongings, he locates what he’s looking for and then turns to face me. “Doc is away until tomorrow and I can’t go to the hospital for this.”
It’s like I don’t recognise my husband. I mean, I know he learned a heap of shit in the army that I have no clue of, but I never for one second imagined he’d ever say to me “hey, let’s sew me up so I don’t have to go to the hospital.”
“Umm, Winter, you’re losing a lot of blood. I know you’re capable of many things, but I’m not sure we can add doctor to that list. Not when there’s this much blood.”
Why are we even having this conversation?
Why are we not getting him to the hospital?
Oh, God, I’m going to lose my shit soon.
Leaving me, he heads for the en suite. “It’s