The shout woke Brenda, along with insistent tugging at her shoulder, and she moaned. "Dave...I was having a really awesome dream..."
He ignored her sleepy mumble. "Honey, you okay? The bed's all wet."
It almost made her laugh, almost made her joke about how wet that odd dream had made her, but the concern in his voice stopped her. She turned and reached as he flicked on the lamp at their bedside. The sudden light made her blink.
"Holy Jesus," he choked out, stumbling to his feet, knocking the phone to the carpet before lifting it in shaking hands and punching in a three-digit number. All she could do was stare at the growing red puddle between her legs, barely hearing his frantic words into the phone, before the first pain took hold. That call was followed by a quick one to the neighbor, to watch Teagan. Then the ambulance was there, its whirling lights and strobes serving as a beacon to the neighborhood's curiosity.
The pain was all consuming, the physical pain and the mental anguish that the knowledge of what was happening to her caused. The sting of the IV placed in her arm was nothing. The motion as she was lifted, dripping, from the bed to the stretcher made her want to vomit. Strangers were taking her away from her home, pushing her cart into the ambulance and slamming the doors closed between her and her haven, but that would have been fine with her if only they could make the pain stop. They couldn't.
That didn't happen until she had arrived at the hospital and was surrounded by a confusing array of people. Hands stripped away her own nightgown, exposing her before covering her with something a little rougher. There were so many questions, and she was able to offer precious few answers. "Her husband's not here yet," she heard someone say, "but we can't wait any longer."
She began to feel groggy. She didn't know if it was death or sleep claiming her, but the pain was easing and she didn't care.
(ow, that abrupt shift in POV really bonked my noggin here)
It's called a "classical" incision, the cut that he made from just below her navel down nearly to her pubic bone. He used that cut when the situation was desperate, when life and death took precedence over appearance. Speed was of the essence if anyone was to be saved here. Too late for the baby, almost certainly, though a pediatric team had been hastily assembled just in case. They waited by a radiant warmer bed, watching intently. Of their faces, he could only see the eyes. (clunk)
Surgery was impersonal like that. Everyone in the room was garbed so that little of their faces was visible. If they smiled, you might see it in their eyes, you might not. Of the woman whose abdomen he opened, he saw even less, just a square of pale skin that his scalpel cut cleanly through. The rest of her was draped, out of his view.
The tissues were pale too, a bad sign. He frowned slightly and quickened his pace even more.
The situation was one he'd dealt with before, but not often. Most of his surgeries involved healthy women bearing healthy babies. The mood in the room would be bright, filled with happy anticipation. He'd be the director, maybe joking with the other attendants or even the parents. The mother would be awake, a needle in her spine having provided all the anesthesia she'd need. He'd make a neat "bikini" cut, in no particular hurry, and pull out a baby. Like a magician. The room would hold its collective breath until the baby cried, then they'd cheer when he announced boy or girl.
There were no jokes in this room. The knife made hurried cuts through layers of skin, fat, muscle, all too pale as the woman's body tried to hoard what blood was left to sustain life in her limp body.
The womb opened at last, filled with dark blood. In his hurry, the surgeon had cut through the membranes and into the infant's leg. Not that it made any difference. He lifted the small gray form through the incision and handed it off, by force of habit noting it was a boy. He didn't announce it to the room. His attention went immediately back to the gaping wound, to the bleeding that refused to stop. Glancing up, he saw transfusion bags hanging. He nodded at the anesthesiologist, and went back to work.
this is a disaster.
first, you open with sudden birth...yawn.
it's so commonplace as to be totally boring in a novel unless you do something unusual (unusual does not include delivery in a taxi cab anymore either).
Then you shift abruptly to the surgeon. Even he is boring (cause he's so usual)
You had a charming hook and a captivating idea. Start with Jonas arriving at the door or the spiders or something other than this.