Chapter 17 - Flatline Warning
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In Operating Room Three, the silence was deafening.
The surgeon held a tiny, frail body wrapped in sterile blue towels. My daughter weighed barely three pounds. Her skin was translucent, her limbs limp. She wasn't breathing.
"No pulse," the neonatologist announced grimly. "Starting CPR. Intubate immediately."
My father stood behind the observation glass on the upper floor, his hands pressed tightly against the window. He was praying—something Harrison Vance hadn't done in forty years.
"Come on, little girl," the doctor whispered, applying microscopic chest compressions with two fingers. "Fight. Your mother fought for you."
Thirty seconds passed.
Flatline tone: BEEEEEEEEEP.
"Adrenaline push, 0.1 milligrams," the doctor commanded.
One minute passed. My blood pressure on the adjacent table was dropping rapidly as the surgical team worked to stop my internal bleeding.
"She’s slipping," the nurse cried out.
Suddenly, a tiny, raspy cough echoed through the operating room.
Gasp.
The monitor flickered.
Beep... beep... beep.
"We have a heartbeat!" the neonatologist shouted, tears springing to her eyes. "Respiration established! Move her to the incubator!"
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From my place on the operating table, half-conscious under the anesthesia, I heard that faint, delicate cry.
My tears soaked into the surgical pillow. "Aurora..." I whispered softly before drifting into darkness.
