My fingers were locked around the cold metal rail of the hospital bed, gripping it so hard my knuckles had turned pale. I remember staring at my hands as if they weren’t mine, disconnected from the rest of me. Somewhere behind my head, a monitor beeped steadily, completely unconcerned that my sense of safety had just shattered.
Tears streamed down my face without warning or effort. I wasn’t crying loudly or breaking down—I was numb. Shock had taken over. My best friend stood beside me, holding my hand tightly, speaking in a low, urgent tone to keep me present. One nurse spoke calmly, explaining things with practiced ease, while another worked quickly, focused on stopping the bleeding. My legs shook uncontrollably as my body hovered between pain, fear, and disbelief.
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People like to paint first experiences as awkward but sweet—nervous laughter, a little embarrassment, maybe some clumsiness. No one tells you it can end with blood-soaked sheets, towels pressed between trembling hands, panicked phone calls, and bright hospital hallways that feel endless and unforgiving.
I expected discomfort. I never expected to be moved through three different hospital rooms.
Earlier that evening, everything had felt normal. I trusted the person I was with. I trusted my body. I trusted that something so common, so talked about, couldn’t possibly go this wrong. There were no warning signs, no sense of danger—just nerves, curiosity, and the quiet assumption that my body would handle it.
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