"It's in there."
"I don't know what it is"
So in comes the doctor, with the little portable ultrasound machine, the same one that told me my daughter was dead. Luckily I can still hear this baby's heart thundering like hoofbeats on my monitor, so my adreniline does not pump too fast.
He slides the wand upwards, over my ribs.
"There's the head," he says. He meets my eye. "This baby's coming out the other way."
This is when I start to cry, because I realize that the scenario that I have played out a million times in my mind, the scenario in which they save Charlotte, is happening. And it is happening to my new baby, and they are going to get him out in time.
Then, my midwife, "Bring this woman her baby," and the doctor complies, he brings to me this beautiful, gorgeous little boy, this tiny, male carbon-copy of my lost daughter, with wide-set eyes, a tiny nose, and a cheerio mouth. I cannot hold him, but I put his cheek to mine, breathe in his newborn smell. I can't turn my head. I can barely speak.
They come in droves.