The Fight for Hannah [POV: Nate]
The rhythmic beeping of the monitors was off. Too slow. Too erratic. I didn’t need the numbers flashing on the screen to tell me that Hannah’s condition was going south fast.
Even after stabilizing her wrist wound and pushing fluids, she wasn’t improving the way she should. Her blood pressure stayed low, her heart rate too fast. She was slipping, and the usual interventions weren’t doing enough to bring her back.
Something else was wrong.
I sat at the workstation, pulling up her records, scanning through the information for anything we might have missed. Past medical history, lab work, medications—it was all there, but none of it explained why her body wasn’t responding.
Then, I saw the name listed under her prenatal care.
Dr. Abigail Jones.
I let out a slow breath, tension easing for the briefest moment. Good. Abigail had her full medical history—previous ultrasounds, blood work, any complications that could explain what was happening. This would make things easier.
I grabbed the hospital phone and paged her.
No answer.
I tried again, fingers drumming against the desk as I waited.
Nothing.
A flicker of frustration rose in my chest. Come on, Aby.
She wasn’t on call today, but this was her patient. She’d want to know. Even if she had no personal stake in this, she would at least answer the damn phone.
I pulled out my cell and dialed her directly.
Straight to voicemail.
Damn it.
I resisted the urge to slam the phone down. I didn’t have time to sit here and wait for a call back. Hannah was getting worse, and I didn’t have the luxury of waiting for more information.
I was about to pull up her most recent ultrasound scans when Rachel, one of the ER nurses, rushed toward me, her expression tense.
“Dr. Wood,” she said, slightly breathless, handing me fresh lab results. “Her hemoglobin just dropped again. We’re losing her.”
I scanned the report, my stomach tightening. The numbers were bad—really bad. Even factoring in the blood loss from her wrist, this much of a drop wasn’t normal.
A sinking feeling settled in my gut.
I moved fast, stepping back to Hannah’s bedside, grabbing the ultrasound probe. The first time I had checked, I’d only been looking for fetal distress—making sure the baby was still holding on.
But now, I was looking for something else.
I pressed the probe against her abdomen, shifting it across her lower stomach, eyes locked on the screen.
The grainy image flickered, shifting as I adjusted the angle—then stilled.
Blood.
Pooling in the uterus.
I clenched my jaw. Internal hemorrhaging.
The baby was still alive, but not for long. If we didn’t act fast, neither of them would make it.
I turned sharply, reaching for the phone again, this time paging Dr. Owens.
He picked up immediately. “Owens.”
“It’s Nate Wood in the ER,” I said, keeping my voice even despite the urgency clawing at my chest. “Female patient, mid-twenties, approximately 16 weeks pregnant. Self-inflicted wrist laceration, but she’s actively hemorrhaging from the uterus. Confirmed on ultrasound. Her vitals are crashing. We need to get her into surgery now.”
There was a beat of silence on the line. Then a quiet curse.
“How bad is fetal distress?” Owens asked, his tone already shifting into surgical mode.
“Fluctuating,” I admitted, adjusting the IV drip. “There’s still a heartbeat, but it won’t hold if we wait any longer.”
“Get her up here,” Owens ordered. “I’ll meet you in the OR.”
I hung up and turned to Rachel. “Call anesthesia, let them know we’re bringing her in. Make sure the OR is prepped and waiting.”
She gave a sharp nod before hurrying off.
I moved quickly, helping the other nurses unhook her from the ER monitors and transfer her bed toward the hallway. Time was running out.
Hannah’s skin was waxy pale, her breathing shallow. The once faint beeping of the monitor now dragged out painfully long between each beat.
She didn’t have much left to give.
As we wheeled her toward the elevator, I reached into my pocket and tried calling Abigail one last time.
Voicemail. Again.
I exhaled sharply, jaw clenching. Where the hell are you, Aby?
