Page 7 of Longing for Liberty

I’d nearly died in my last pregnancy; actually, in all three I had been sickly, but that last one was rough.

Still, I remembered those years fondly. Mostly because Jeremy was so doting.

He was a dream, running out to get all my cravings, rubbing my back, talking to the babies, making me feel beautiful when I knew for a fact I was a bloated, stinky, swollen mess.

I let myself fall into the soft memories as the bus hissed and bumped me side to side.

Summer was my firstborn girl, the typical responsible one who loved crafts and singing. Then my wild child, Rainey, with her pointy chin, just like me, and her love of sports. And our sweet baby boy, Asher, born with a shock of bright red hair.

In my first two pregnancies, I developed preeclampsia, leaving me bedridden for one month with Summer and six weeks with Rainey.

With Asher, it turned into full-blown eclampsia.

I had a seizure that landed me in the hospital, where I had a series of seizures, even going partially blind and passing out at the hospital when I got up for the restroom at thirty-seven weeks.

I’d been terrified of losing Asher. Jeremy had been terrified of losing me.

At that point, when Roan had just taken office, one year before the war, a bill was passed that husbands had to approve their wives’ sexual health procedures.

It seemed to come out of nowhere with little to no press.

The news hadn’t covered any opposition to the bill, but I’d seen protesting in Baltimore firsthand, so I knew there was backlash.

I also knew a lot of people were being arrested at those protests.

I had a female OBGYN doctor at the time—this was eighteen months before females were outlawed from being medical professionals—who came to my hospital room while I had eclampsia. Her male nurse had stood by with his arms crossed, watching our interaction intently.

“My pregnancies have gotten progressively worse,” I explained to her. “I’d like to have my tubes tied after he’s born.” The male nurse glared at me, making me nervous. “I mean, if Jeremy agrees, of course.” I’d felt angry the moment the words left my mouth. My husband and I had squeezed hands.

“Of course I agree.” Jeremy sounded as angry as I felt.

The doctor had solemnly shaken her head, but the look she’d given me had been laden, like she had a lot of thoughts she was holding back. Her eyes had flashed quickly over to the nurse, then back to me.

“There’s a…” She cleared her throat. “Backlog for those types of procedures. I’m afraid we can’t schedule it at this time.”

“A backlog? Look, another pregnancy could kill her.” Jeremy rarely raised his voice. “Isn’t three kids enough? I want my wife alive!”

The male nurse cleared his throat and spoke now. “It’s not guaranteed that she would die. Just pray for God’s will to be done. He’ll say when you have enough children.”

The unamused laugh Jeremy let out actually gave me chills. “I’d like to speak to the doctor alone.”

“Sorry, that’s not possible.” The nurse did not sound sorry. It’s policy. A nurse must be present at all times to document everything appropriately.”

I’d watched the muscle in Jeremy’s jaw flex as he chomped down whatever retort was on his lips, and I squeezed his hand, silently begging him not to argue.

There had been too many rumors lately of people being arrested for ridiculous things.

It’s like the government was over-correcting in its effort to keep everyone safe after the terror attacks during the previous administration.

The look Jeremy flashed me was full of ire, but not for me. I knew that look. It’s the one he wore before every boxing match back in the day. He wanted to punch the nurse in the face. I squeezed his hand again, trying to convey just as much in my own look.

In the past six months, people who spoke out about the new laws were being fined for acts of anti-patriotism, and some were taken away to who-knew-where, never to return.

Two weeks ago, our neighbors two doors down had hung the American flag upside down—the sign of distress—and within twenty-four hours they, and their flag, were gone.

No, I didn’t want to get pregnant again, but we could be careful.

I knew my body. My cycles. It would mean not having as much sex as normal, which would suck, but we had other ways of taking care of each other.

If we only did it on non-fertile days, and he consistently pulled out, I might never get pregnant again.

Still, the thought of going through this in the future had made me reach for the puke bin.

Eight days later, when the baby’s heart rate and blood pressure plummeted in the middle of the night, that same doctor performed an emergency cesarean section with two female nurses present.

Afterward, she had taken my hand and looked down at me, squeezing my palm as she said, “I’m so sorry to tell you this.

” I felt her shaking, and saw that laden look in her wide eyes again.

“While I was doing the inspection of your reproductive system, I noticed you had dangerous cysts growing on your ovaries. I had to remove the cysts, but they were too large to save your ovaries. You…won’t be able to have more children.

I’m so, so sorry.” She glanced heavily at Jeremy, then back at me.

Jeremy, who’d been squeezing my other hand, let out a giant breath and said, “Thank you. We understand.”

“Yes,” I said, my chin already starting to quiver. “Thank you.”

We held tiny Asher on my chest as they stitched me up, and I had cried softly at first, then harder, then hysterically. Because I knew.

There were never any cysts.