The fluorescent lights above me were just white smears, turning the trauma bay into a surreal tunnel. Every movement sent a hot, wet ache rolling through my abdomen. Somewhere nearby, monitors beeped in a rhythm that didn’t match my frantic heartbeat.
My phone was slippery in my hand—later I would realize it was sweat, but in the moment, I thought it might be blood.
The message from my mother glared up at me in the too-bright light of the screen. Stop being dramatic, Lucy.
You are killing the vibe. Jessica has been planning this outfit for months.
We are at the concert.
Call an Uber for the kids. For a second my brain refused to process the words. My thumb smudged across the glass.
Maybe I misread it.
I forced my fingers to move. Mom, I am in the ER.
Internal bleeding. They’re taking me to surgery.
I NEED you to get the twins.
Please. The three dots never appeared. Instead, the text got a little gray exclamation point: Message not delivered.
I tried again.
Message not delivered. I tried my father.
Jessica. Nothing.
I changed apps and went to my contact list, tapping my mother’s name.
The call ended instantly. Slowly, as if the realization were rising through thick liquid, it hit me. They had blocked me.
My parents and my sister had blocked my number.
A nurse leaned over me, her dark hair twisted into a bun, a crease between her brows. “Lucy?
You with me? We’ve got your consent for surgery.
The OR’s ready.”
“My kids,” I rasped.
“They’re three. I need someone to get them from daycare.”
Her eyes softened. “We’ll get social work on it.
Right now we need to get you upstairs before your blood pressure drops any further.”
I turned my head toward her, the motion sending a bolt of pain through my side.
“I don’t have anyone. My family blocked me.
To go to a concert.” A strangled laugh came out of me. “They blocked me so my medical updates wouldn’t interrupt their night out.”
Her fingers closed around my hand, strong and steady.
“Hey.
Focus on breathing. We’re going to take good care of you.”
Tears blurred my vision—not from the pain, not even from the fear that I might not wake up, but from something else. A raw, animal grief.
As they rolled my stretcher toward the OR, I thought of my twins.
I saw their faces as clearly as if they were hovering over me: Ethan’s serious little frown when he was concentrating on a puzzle, Nora’s wild curls bouncing when she ran, her laugh bright and high. I had dropped them at daycare that afternoon with a distracted kiss to each forehead.
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