Chapter Text
Historia gave birth on the 21st of December. Four days before Christmas. Three days before Christmas Eve. Twenty-five days before her birthday. The 21st of December was the day the baby she and her wife Ymir worked hard to conceive, was born. Donor after donor, doctor’s visit after doctor’s visit, countless nights of crying on the bathroom floor, a negative pregnancy test on the countertop or a bundle of bloody cells in the toilet bowl. Try after try, they finally made it. A positive pregnancy test, a miracle in Historia’s eyes. That was on the 10th of March, seventy-nine days after.
Ymir, her wife of five years, was with her through the whole journey. When Historia would go to the clinic and get inseminated, Ymir was holding her hand. When Historia went to the gynecologist, Ymir was waiting in the lobby. When Historia cried after another miscarriage, Ymir was there, holding her in her arms.
Ymir bought everything a baby would need. She renovated her own office into a nursery; she bought countless toys and baby bottles, and heaps of baby formula. Historia was planning on breastfeeding, but Ymir insisted on purchasing the formula anyway. She wanted to be prepared. Wanted, but in reality wasn’t.
The 21st of December. The evening was cold, snow was beginning to fall. Historia was sitting on the couch watching a show, a bowl of salt and vinegar chips drizzled with caramel on top, a weird craving she developed throughout her pregnancy, perched on top of a 40-week bump. Ymir remembers well. She was in the kitchen, making herself some food. She had just gotten off work, a whole week’s worth of vacation ahead of her. The Christmas tree was up in the corner of the living room. It was a small artificial one they found at the store, but Historia found it cute and Ymir had to agree. She’s glad she agreed.
The lights wrapped loosely around the tree gave out a warm hue to the dim lit room. Ymir remembers how Historia looked. Her blonde hair was practically a strawberry tint, her sapphire eyes were an electric blue, her pale skin a light shade of pink-ish orange.
Ymir remembers the calm before the storm.
Historia had risen from her spot on the couch and headed into the kitchen, an empty bowl in hand. She placed it by the sink, next to the microwaved burrito wrapper and the dirty fork she scolded Ymir to clean. She walked past by Ymir, her hand was idling at her waist as she gave a chaste kiss to a freckled cheek. She whispered in Ymir’s ear, “Don’t take too long, your two favorite girls are waiting.”
Ymir remembers it well. Remembers the gasp and groan that came out of Historia as she was heading towards the couch. The clutching of her stomach. The ragged breaths. The puddle of liquid formed at her feet. Ymir remembers dropping a knife on the floor, the butter on it smearing across the tile. She remembers running to Historia’s side.
The car ride to the hospital was agony. Historia was struggling to breath, the pain from her navel travelling to her chest. She was drenched in sweat. Ymir can recall her ears ringing from all the screaming Historia let out, but Ymir never scolded her, she never said anything other than the occasional “were almost there.”
They reached the ER. Historia was placed on a gurney, rushed by a few maternity nurses, Ymir hot on their heels. To her ear was her phone. She was telling Sasha that Historia was giving birth. They reached the hospital room.
Ymir remembers how stuffy it was in there, how bright it was with the luminescent lights above. How hair-pulling the beep of the vitals monitor was. Ymir still hears Historia’s screams, the nurses’ yells and orders, the scratching of wheels against hospital tile from the extra trays of instruments that had to be brought.
She also vividly can recall the face of anguish her wife bore. Her face was pale, her lips almost blue. Her eyes struggled to stay open and her screams turned into groans.
The baby’s head had exited, she was crying. The nurses tried desperately to get her out. Historia became quieter, her breathing was inconsistent. She had turned her head to Ymir, “Is that her?”
It was a strangely worded question, but Ymir promptly answered with a yes. The baby girl was pushed completely out of Historia. One of the nurses handed Ymir a pair of scissors to cut the umbilical cord. It was snipped and the baby, covered in blood and vernix from the placenta, was delivered to another nurse. Ymir was ushered towards the baby. She watched as the nurse instructed her on how to clean the baby.
Her ears were bombarded with frantic shuffling and a tenacious beep of the vitals monitor. The sound would repeat, staccato in her ears. The nurses called for substances she couldn’t pronounce or even remember. The sounds blended together. The baby was crying again and the nurse who was with her had left to attend to Historia. Ymir didn't know what was happening but knew later on.
Historia’s blood pressure spiked. Her heart rate was dwindling. Her kidneys were failing and she was barely coherent. Panic ensued when she had a seizure. She was unresponsive and her organs continued to fail. She was going into postpartum preeclampsia and was quickly ushered out of the room.
Ymir struggled to chase after Historia, being held by a security guard and another nurse. Their baby was taken to the special care nursery. Ymir tried to chase her too but was restrained. She continued to fight until she could no longer and became limp in the arms of the nurse that held her.
Her head began to spin, her palms were moist with sweat, her heart pounding in her chest. She felt like she couldn’t breathe and had to be calmed down by another nurse in the middle of the maternity ward hallway. She shouted for Historia, not caring who heard. She just wanted the love of her life back.
Hours passed. Ymir was in the waiting room with the security guard. He briefly explained what was going on, verbatim from the nurse. Ymir let tears roll but she wasn’t sobbing. She was in shock. She stared at the navy blue carpet for the hours she sat there, tracing all the ridges and gaps between clumps of threads. She created patterns that had no meaning. It was a good distraction, until she started making out the face of Historia on the carpet.
She intensely watched the lines, retracing them, making Historia’s face more vivid. Another round of tears streamed down her face, but no sound left her mouth. Just pure shock.
The 21st of December. Four days before Christmas, Three days before Christmas Eve. Twenty-five days before her birthday. Seventy-nine days before that pregnancy test. The 21st of December, at 11:01 PM, Historia was pronounced dead. The 21st of December, at 6:43 PM, her baby, named after her beloved sister who too had passed, was born.