Rain hammered against the ambulance as the paramedics rushed me through the emergency entrance of St. Catherine’s Medical Center in downtown Chicago. I drifted in and out of consciousness, one shaking hand pressed to my swollen belly as if I could somehow shield my babies from the nightmare unfolding inside me.
“Thirty-two weeks,” one paramedic shouted as the gurney raced toward the elevator. “Twin pregnancy. Suspected placental abruption. Blood pressure crashing. She collapsed during her shift at a packaging warehouse in Cicero. Heavy bleeding. No family. No emergency contact.”
The voices around me faded in and out like echoes underwater. Nearby, a nurse pulled back the soaked blanket and quietly took in everything my body showed—callused hands from endless work, an old burn scar on my arm, fading bruises no one had ever asked about, and a body far too worn out to be carrying two babies.
“Get OB down here now!” someone yelled.
