The ambulance ride came back in pieces. A medic cutting away my sleeve. Someone asking me what month it was. Me trying to say, “My baby, my baby,” over and over again because I couldn’t move enough to turn and see him.
At Franklin Memorial Medical Center, a doctor with tired eyes and a calm voice explained the damage. Fractured pelvis. Torn ligament in my shoulder. Severe bruising across my chest.
“You’re lucky,” she said gently, which felt like a strange word for a day like that. “But you’ll be here for several days, and you won’t be able to lift your son for a while.”
That part hurt more than anything else.
My husband, Jacob, was in Denver for work and grounded there because of a storm system that had shut down half the flights. He was frantic on the phone, apologizing for something that wasn’t his fault, promising he was trying every route home. I could hear airport announcements in the background and panic in his breathing.
Meanwhile, Owen was in the hallway crying so hard he had that breathless, wounded little gasp between wails. A nurse was rocking his car seat with one hand while checking on another patient. She was kind, but she was also working, and I could see in her face that this was not a long-term solution.
I needed one person. One family member. One adult who could come take my six-week-old baby for one night.
So I called my mother.
