The sharp, shattering crash of a dropped crystal punch glass mingled with the piercing, hysterical scream of my mother.
“Lauren! Oh my god, Lauren! What’s wrong with you?!”
I stood frozen on the porch for a fraction of a second, the horrific reality of Ethan’s words paralyzing my limbs. Then, the adrenaline hit.
Ethan threw open the sliding glass door, shooting through the opening like a bullet fired from a gun.
“Everyone step back! Move away from her! Give her room to breathe!” Ethan roared. The polite, quiet brother-in-law was gone. In his place was the commanding, authoritative voice of an attending trauma surgeon, a voice designed to instantly slice through chaos and demand absolute obedience.
The terrified guests immediately scrambled backward, pressing themselves against the walls, creating a wide circle around my sister.
Ethan dropped to his knees beside Lauren. She was lying on her side, her knees pulled up slightly. She was gasping for air, her chest heaving with rapid, shallow, terrifying breaths. A sheen of cold, clammy sweat had broken out across her forehead, and the healthy pink flush of her skin had been entirely replaced by a sickening, ashen gray.
“Lauren, look at me. Look at Ethan,” he commanded, his hands moving with lightning speed. He pressed two fingers firmly against the carotid artery in her neck.
“Pulse is incredibly weak and thready. Tachycardic. Her lips are turning blue,” Ethan fired the information at me as I fell to my knees on the opposite side of her. He placed both hands flat against her lower abdomen, his face grim.
“The uterus is completely rigid. It’s filled with blood,” Ethan confirmed his worst fear. “Severe internal bleeding. It’s a massive placental abruption. The placenta has detached from the uterine wall. Did you call 911?!”
