Chapter 3 - The Call for Help
At 2:14 AM on Thursday morning, a white-hot knife of pain sliced through my lower abdomen, tearing me instantly from sleep.
I gasped, sitting bolt upright in the dark bedroom, clutching the sheets so hard my knuckles popped. The pain flared, peaked, and then slowly ebbed away, leaving me panting, drenched in a cold sweat. I lay back against the pillows, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Braxton Hicks, I told myself desperately, staring at the ceiling fan spinning overhead. It’s just false labor. The doctor said they would get stronger.
I waited. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. Fifteen.
Then, a second contraction hit. This one was vastly different—deeper, sharper, pressing down into my pelvis with immense, undeniable physical force. I groaned, rolling onto my side, grabbing my phone off the nightstand. The clock read 2:31 AM.
I didn't panic. I followed the protocol. I sat up, drank a glass of water from the stand, and waited to see if the contractions would space out. Instead, at 2:44 AM, a third wave of agony crippled me, so intense that tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. My water hadn't broken, but my body was unequivocally entering active labor at thirty-four weeks.
I dialed my mother’s number.
It rang four times, five times, six times, before going to voicemail. My heart sank. I cleared the screen and pressed call again. On the eighth ring of the second attempt, a drowsy, irritated voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Mom," I breathed out, squeezing my eyes shut as a dull ache radiated through my lower back. "Mom, it’s Allison. Something’s happening. The contractions... they’re coming every twelve minutes. Ryan is in Frankfurt. I need you and Dad to come drive me to the hospital."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line, followed by the rustle of bedsheets and a heavy, exasperated sigh.
"Allison, sweetie... are you sure you’re not just having a panic attack?" my mother asked, her voice coated in a thick layer of sleep-induced condescension. "You’ve been so anxious about Ryan leaving. Remember what the doctor said about false alarms?"
"Mom, this isn't a panic attack!" I cried out, my voice rising as another contraction began to build at the base of my spine. "It’s real! I can barely stand up! Please, just come over. It takes twenty minutes!"
In the background, I heard the muffled sound of my father’s deep voice. Who is that? Why is she calling at three in the morning?
My mother must have handed him the phone, because a second later, Steven Collins’ authoritative tone filled my ear, entirely devoid of warmth or concern.
"Allison. What exactly do you expect us to do right now?" he asked sternly.
I was stunned. "What do I expect? Dad, I am in labor with triplets! I need to get to Saint Thomas Hospital!"
"If it’s a real emergency," my father said coldly, as if delivering a lecture to an irresponsible employee, "you should call an ambulance. We are not driving across town at three in the morning for what is likely a nervous reaction to being left alone. You’re a grown woman. Call the paramedics if you think you can't handle it."
"Dad, please..." I sobbed, the sheer cruelty of his words hitting me harder than the physical pain. "Ryan isn't here!"
"Then you should have thought about that before encouraging him to take an overseas trip," my father replied smoothly. "Call an ambulance, Allison. Don't be dramatic."
The line went dead.
I sat in the dark bedroom, the silent phone resting in my trembling palm, staring blankly at the wall. The rejection cut through me like shattered glass. My own parents, living less than fifteen miles away, had deemed my labor—and the safety of their three unborn grandchildren—an inconvenience not worth waking up for.
A sharp, searing contraction pulled me out of my shock. Wiping the tears from my face, I dialed 911.
Within twelve minutes, the flashing red and blue lights of an emergency vehicle illuminated the front blinds of our quiet home. Two young paramedics rushed into the bedroom with a gurney. As they carefully lifted my heavy, trembling frame onto the stretcher, I pulled out my phone and dialed Ryan’s international number.
He answered on the first ring, his voice crisp and clear despite the six-hour time difference. He was already awake in his hotel room in Frankfurt.
"Allison? What’s wrong?" The panic in his voice was instantaneous.
May you like
"Ryan..." I choked out as the paramedics wheeled me through our front door into the cool night air. "The babies are coming. I’m in the ambulance."
"Oh God," Ryan breathed out. I heard the sound of furniture scraping, papers falling, a suitcase slamming open. "I’m getting the first flight out. I’m coming home, Allison. Hold on. Just hold on!"
