Chapter 33

DELILAH

Dr. Maud finishes stitching me up, and I'm left lying in this hospital bed, feeling the weight of exhaustion and worry pressing down on me. My body aches, and my mind races with anxiety. They took Posey away so quickly, her tiny form disappearing out of the room because her heart rate was dangerously high. I haven't even felt the warmth of her tiny body in my arms yet. Every few seconds, I glance at the door, my heart racing with each tick of the clock, desperate for any news.

A knock on the door startles me, and I whip my head toward the sound. The door creaks open, and a nurse steps in, her expression serious, her eyes shadowed with concern.

"Your daughter's heart rate won't drop to normal. We've tried several interventions, including an ice bath, but nothing is working."

Tears well up in my eyes, blurring my vision, and a sob escapes my lips. It feels as though someone is tearing my heart out of my chest.

"What does that mean?"

The nurse's voice is calm. "We're going to cardiovert her. If that doesn't work, she will be life-flighted to UW-Madison. Dad can go with her."

"I'm going with her," I insist, my voice trembling, my heart clenching with fear. There's no way I'm letting her go without me.

"Unfortunately, you can't do that. With the epidural, you need to be monitored, and your doctor will want to watch you for at least twenty-four hours." She shuts the door quietly, leaving me with Wells, who looks just as distraught as I feel. She didn't give us much information and her demeanor was less than friendly.

"No way in hell I'm staying here if they take her anywhere. You can go with her, but I'll have someone drive me. Hand me my phone," I say, my voice shaking.

I refuse to be left behind.

Wells gives me my phone, his fingers brushing mine, and I immediately FaceTime Derek. He answers quickly, concern etched on his face, his surroundings a blur of motion. "What's wrong?"

I explain the situation, my voice breaking with each word. "If she goes, could you give me a ride to Madison?" I ask. "I'll check myself out against the doctor's wishes. I need to be with Posey."

"Okay. Let me know. I'm here and ready." Derek's calm voice is a small anchor in the storm warring inside me.

I hang up and immediately Google what the hell a cardiovert is because the nurse didn't explain it. My heart races as I read: it's a procedure to restore a normal heart rhythm by sending electric shocks to the heart. Tears flow down my face, blurring my vision as the room spins around me.

They're going to shock my baby's heart. What if it doesn't start again?

"Wells, they're going to stop her heart and restart it by shocking her. What if it doesn't start again?" My voice trembles, barely audible.

"It will," he says confidently.

I can see the worry in his eyes. He's putting on a brave face for me and Posey, but I can sense his underlying fear.

"You don't know that," I sob, and he comes over, wrapping his arms around me, laying his head on my chest. "She's going to be fine, Little Doe."

I want to believe him, but I'm struggling. My entire being is overwhelmed by a sense of fear and uncertainty.

As we wait for more information, Wells takes out his phone. "I'm going to tell my parents and brother she's here and what's happened—if Derek hasn't already."

"You can go to the waiting room and see them if you want," I murmur, knowing that he might want or need his family's support right now.

"No. I'm not leaving you. They'll understand why they're getting a text."

With that, he sends a message to our group chat.

Wells: The baby is here. A little girl. Posey Grace Covington. 8lb 9oz, 21in. They took her to the NICU. Her heart rate is dangerously high. That's all we know for now.

The responses come almost immediately.

Rhonda: Oh my goodness! What a sweet name. I can't wait to meet her. We're praying for her. Keep us updated, please. Give her all our love. How's Delilah?

Roy: Hang in there, son. She's got Covington in her blood, she'll be okay.

Jonas: Is Delilah okay? Let me know about Posey as soon as you find out anything.

A while later, a nurse walks in, her smile bringing a sense of relief and easing the tension in the air.

"If you can get up to go to the bathroom, we can go down and see your daughter."

"She's okay?" I ask, hope flickering in my chest.

"Sounds like it went well." She helps me sit up, the bed creaking beneath me, and slides my legs off the bed. "Go slow, and we'll go to the bathroom." She pushes a walker my way. "Use this if you need to."

With shaky legs, I manage to stand up and guide the walker straight toward the bathroom. "Okay." She laughs softly. "You're ready to go, huh?"

Every fiber of my being is fueled by sheer determination. The epidural or the pain doesn't matter. I want to see Posey. I reach the restroom, the nurse in tow, and she helps me pull up my gown, handing me a bottle. "No wiping. Just squirt this as you pee to clean up."

I push to pee and gasp as it feels like lava coming out of my fucking coochie.

"Holy shit." I spray the bottle on my bits to soothe the burn and grab some toilet paper to pat dry. I can't stand the feeling of drip-drying.

The nurse helps me into a giant diaper, the absurdity of it almost making me laugh, and then into a wheelchair. She wheels me down to the NICU with Wells beside me, his hand on my shoulder. We reach a room, and I stand up, my legs still wobbly, and see Posey—chubby, adorable, but also very swollen and red, sound asleep in the NICU warmer.

"She's sedated," a nurse says from behind us, her voice a soft murmur.

"Is she okay?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper, my heart in my throat.

"She's doing well now. Her heart rate remained at a staggering 390, unaffected by any attempts to lower it. But Dr. Cupo had Dr. Von Bergo on video, and he watched her rhythm and instructed us when to cardiovert her."

I try not to panic that my child had her heart shocked into rhythm via video call. I look at Posey and smile. She's perfect, even in her fragile state.

"She'll be pretty cranky when she wakes up. Do you want to breastfeed, or are we using formula?" the nurse asks.

"I want to try to feed her," I say.

"Okay, you can pump in your room, and the nurses up there will send it down, labeled. Otherwise, we can call up to the room if she wakes so you can feed her."

"Okay," I reply, feeling a strange mix of relief and anxiety.

We stay and watch her sleep, her tiny chest rising and falling.

Wells whispers, "She's perfect." I look over and see him wiping his eyes, but I don't call him out on it. The sight tugs at my heart.

An hour later, we're back in our new room in the maternity ward. A new doctor comes in.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Cupo. I worked on your daughter. From the EKG and consulting with Dr. Von Bergo in Madison, he's diagnosed her with Wolff-Parkinson-White syndrome."

"What does that mean?" I ask.

"In a nutshell—and he can explain it better—it means your daughter has an extra electrical pathway in her heart that causes her to go into supraventricular tachycardia or SVT."

"Is this a forever thing, or is it fixed now?" Wells asks, his brow furrowed.

"Hard to say. She has a good chance of it resolving itself within the first year. But if it doesn't then we'd be looking at doing an ablation when she's five or so. For now, we manage it. When you're discharged, you'll need to go to UW-Madison to see Dr. Von Bergo. He can answer any questions better than me—WPW is his specialty."

I settle into the bed, the soreness and exhaustion catching up with me. I pump a little and wait for them to call and tell us she's awake. I can't wait to hold her. To feel her body against mine.

I read that having skin-to-skin contact is crucial, and it saddens me that neither Posey nor I have had the chance to experience it yet. She needs us.

"Nap, baby. Rest for when she needs you," Wells whispers softly, his words filled with concern.

"Okay," I whisper, closing my eyes, hoping for a few moments of peace before the next wave of challenges crashes over us. As I drift off, I try to cling to Wells' words and hope for the best.

Every time I shift, a dull ache reminds me of the beautiful life I just brought into the world. I glance over and find Wells seated next to me, his tired eyes looking back. The sight of him brings a fresh wave of emotion—his concern, his exhaustion. My heart aches to see him like this.

"Morning sleepyhead," he says softly.

My mouth feels dry, my throat tight. "How is she?" I manage to ask, my voice barely above a whisper. I'm desperate to know, to see my baby.

Wells' gaze softens. "They just called. She's awake and ready to eat."

I try to sit up, but pain shoots through my body, and I fall back against the pillows. Wells is immediately at my side, his hand gently supporting my back.

"Let me help you," he says, his voice filled with concern.

My heart races as Wells and I walk hand in hand down to the NICU.

When we reach her room, the sight of Posey in her incubator brings relief and anxiety. She looks so tiny, so vulnerable, connected to various machines that monitor her heartbeat. I can hardly believe that this is my daughter, my little girl, surrounded by so many medical devices. My breath catches in my throat, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.

The nurse gently helps me into a recliner and then carefully places Posey on my chest for skin-to-skin contact. The warmth of her tiny body against mine is a balm to my soul and a reminder of how fragile she is. I close my eyes, trying to focus on the sensation of her breathing, the slight movements of her little body.

"Hi, sweet girl," I whisper, my voice trembling. "Mommy's here."

Wells stands beside me, his hand resting gently on my shoulder. "She's beautiful," he says, his voice rough with emotion. I can feel his love and support as he leans down to kiss Posey's head.

Despite my efforts, Posey's tiny mouth refuses to latch as I try to breastfeed. A wave of frustration washes over me, making me feel defeated. This was supposed to be a beautiful moment, a bonding experience, but instead, it feels like another battle. Tears well up in my eyes as I struggle to get her to latch. Each failed attempt feels like a personal failure.

Why is this so hard? What if I can't do it? What kind of mother am I if I can't even feed my baby?

A lactation consultant comes in, offering advice and her tips are well-intentioned but don't seem to address the heart of the problem. I feel overwhelmed, exhausted, and defeated. I just want to nourish my daughter the way I'd always imagined.

By day two, we're introducing formula while I pump, trying to find a balance. The formula feels like a compromise, a concession that stings more than I care to admit. Watching Posey drink from the bottle brings relief but also sadness. It's not what I wanted, but it's what she needs. But I also never dreamed that my baby would be in the NICU.

I'll worry about that later, though. Today the family is coming to meet our girl. They've given us space to bond with her ourselves but they've been chomping at the bit to meet her.

Their concern is evident as they walk into the room escorted by a NICU nurse, their expressions mirroring the anxiety that Wells and I feel.

Derek is the first to approach, his eyes softening as he looks at Posey. "She's beautiful, Delilah," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

He gently places a hand on my shoulder. "How are you holding up?"

I manage a weak smile. "I'm hanging in there. It's been tough, but so far we're okay. She's stubborn and not wanting to eat from the tap, so we started mixing formula with my milk."

"Hey. We read that fed is best. Don't beat yourself up. She's eating, that's all that matters."

Jonas steps forward, his face cracking as he looks at Posey. "She's amazing."

He reaches out to gently stroke Posey's cheek. "You're going to be just fine, little one."

As I watch them interact with Posey, my heart swells with gratitude. These men, my family, are here for us. They're here for Posey. The fear and uncertainty that has been gnawing at me doesn't disappear, but it fades into the background.

We're not alone in this.

Later in the day, Roy and Rhonda arrive. The moment they walk in, Rhonda rushes to my side, her eyes brimming with tears. She envelops me in a hug, her arms warm and comforting.

"Oh, Delilah, she's perfect," she says, her voice choked with emotion.

Roy, standing beside her, nods in agreement. His usually stern face softens as he looks at Posey.

"You did good, kid," he says, his voice gruff but full of pride.

I can see the love and concern in their eyes as they take turns holding Posey.

Rhonda gently cradles her, whispering soothing words, while Roy stands protectively nearby, his eyes never leaving his granddaughter. The sight of them with Posey brings tears to my eyes. This is the family I've longed for, the support I've needed.

"Thank you for being here," I say, my voice trembling with gratitude. "It means the world to us."

Roy smiles, a rare and genuine smile. "We wouldn't be anywhere else."

Rhonda hums softly to Posey, her eyes filled with love and adoration. She tells me stories of when Wells was a baby, her voice a soothing lullaby.

I find myself not wanting visiting hours to end because I'm enjoying them being here with us. It makes it seem normal and not like we're trapped here because our baby isn't perfect .

They hug us goodbye, promising to visit as soon as we're home, and I hope with everything in me that's soon.

With each passing day, the NICU becomes more and more like our temporary home. I spend every moment I can with Posey, holding her, talking to her, trying to comfort her. The nurses are kind and supportive, but the fear never fully fades. Every beep of the monitors, every shift in her condition, makes my heart race. What if something goes wrong? What if we can't take her home?

After what feels like an eternity, the day we've been waiting for finally comes—the day we're told we can be discharged. The thought of bringing Posey home fills me with happiness but fear.

Can I really do this? Am I ready for the responsibility?

As we pack up her things, the monitors suddenly start beeping frantically. Panic surges through me as doctors and nurses rush into the room.

"Step back!" one of them commands, and we're pushed out of the way.

My world spins, a wave of terror coursing through me. Not again. Please, not again. My legs feel weak, and I grip Wells' arm tightly, trying to steady myself.

Wells' face is pale, his hand gripping mine. "She's strong, Delilah," he says. "She'll be okay."

I want to believe him, but the fear is suffocating. My stomach is heavy and my ribs tighten, I'm utterly helpless.

What kind of mother am I if I can't protect my own child?

Minutes feel like hours as the medical team works frantically. My heart aches with every moment that passes, every beep that pierces the silence.

Please, let her be okay.

Finally, the doctor turns to us, his expression serious but reassuring. "We've stabilized her. She had another episode of SVT, but with the IV back in place and a dose of Adenosine, we've managed to get her heart rate back to normal. We'll keep her for a few more days to monitor her."

"Thank you," I manage to say through my tears.

The doctor gives us a reassuring nod and leaves the room.

As we settle back into the room, I look at Posey, her tiny chest rising and falling steadily. I reach out and gently touch her hand, feeling the warmth of her skin.

"You're so strong, my sweet girl," I whisper. "We'll get through this together. I promise."

The next day we're in her room, trying to create some semblance of normalcy in this situation.

A knock on the door draws our attention, and a doctor steps inside.

"Hello, Delilah, Wells. I'm Dr. Von Bergo. I'm usually in Madison but come down once a month," he says with a warm smile. "I've reviewed Posey's case and like to discuss our plan moving forward."

As he speaks, his thoroughness and genuine concern becomes evident. He goes into great detail, making sure we fully comprehend Posey's condition and the necessary steps for managing it.

"I'm going to start Posey on a medication called Propranolol," Dr. Von Bergo says. "She'll need to take it every six hours. It's important to keep a strict schedule with this medication to manage her heart rate effectively."

I nod, absorbing every word. The thought of my tiny baby needing such vigilant care is overwhelming, but Dr. Von Bergo's confidence reassures me.

"Every six months," he continues, "I want you to bring her in for an EKG and monitoring. If she has another SVT episode, take her to the ER immediately."

He teaches us how to recognize SVT episodes at home, pointing out subtle changes in her behavior and physical appearance. Then, he shows us a few home cardioversions we can try before heading to the ER—an ice bath, hanging her upside down, and blowing in her face. Each technique is demonstrated with care, ensuring we feel comfortable and capable of handling these situations.

"You're doing great," he says, offering a smile. "Posey is strong, and with your love and care, she'll thrive."

Before he leaves the room, Dr. Von Bergo imparts some last words of wisdom. "Trust your instincts. You know your baby better than anyone. If something feels off, don't hesitate to seek help."

The doctor's words continue to reverberate in my mind.

Trust my instincts. I can do this. I have to be strong for Posey. I have to believe that we can handle this.

The weight of the past few days begins to lighten as Wells drives us home, signaling the start of our journey toward a new normal. Instead of pulling into our driveway, he comes to a sudden halt in front of the house I was looking at online.

"What are we doing here?" I ask, my stomach fluttering.

Wells turns to me with a smile. "I wanted to tell you on Thanksgiving, but we had Little Boba back there. It's our new home."

My skin tingles and adrenaline rushes through me. "You're serious?"

"Yeah. We can move in whenever."

I unbuckle my seatbelt and throw my arms around him, tears pooling in my eyes. "I'm so excited. Once we get into a routine, then we can move. I don't want to do too much yet."

"Whatever you want, Little Doe," Wells says, his voice full of warmth and love.

His words comfort me, but there's an unspoken promise that seems to linger between us, a promise I've been hesitant to voice. It's as if our hearts have been tiptoeing around this moment, afraid to disturb the fragile balance of what we've built together. But now, with the world feeling new and daunting, the emotions I've held back seem silly.

I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of what I'm about to say, and my heart pounds against my ribcage. This is the first time I'm letting these words escape, and the vulnerability of the moment makes my hands tremble slightly.

"I love you," I whisper, my voice barely more than a breath. I bite my lower lip.

His smile slowly spreads, a tender curve that lights up his entire face. The look in his eyes softens as he reaches out, cupping my face gently. The kiss he places on my lips is soft and sweet, but it carries a depth of emotion that words alone cannot express.

"I love you too," he murmurs, his voice thick with sincerity.

We sit there for a moment, basking in the promise of our future. With Posey in the backseat, her new medicine ready, and the love of my life beside me, I feel a sense of hope and determination. We've faced so much already, but together, we can handle anything.

We sit there in comfortable silence. The car's interior filled with the soft hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of Posey moving. I glance over at Wells, seeing him in a new light. It's strange and beautiful, this new level of connection. I've always known he was special, but now, with these words shared, it feels like a whole new chapter is starting for us.

As we drive away from the house that's now our new beginning, I let myself imagine the future. The road ahead is still uncertain, lined with both challenges and triumphs, but with Wells by my side, I feel an unshakable sense of determination. His hand rests comfortably on mine, a silent promise. Every moment with him feels like a piece of our story coming together, and I know we're stronger for it.

I steal a glance at Wells, my heart swelling with gratitude.

"Thank you," I say softly. "Not just for the house, but for everything."

Wells looks at me, his eyes filled with confidence. "We're in this together, Little Doe," he responds, his tone tender but full of reassurance.

As we continue to drive, I realize that, no matter what lies ahead, we have something incredibly special. It's a connection forged through trials, marked by love, and built on understanding. And with that, I feel a sense of peace settle over me. We may not know exactly what the future holds, but with Wells by my side and Posey in our care, I feel ready to face whatever comes our way.

I lean back in my seat, my heart lighter than it has been in days. I look forward to the journey ahead, knowing that with each step, we are creating a future filled with love and hope.