She opened her eyes just enough to see the sunlight trickling in through her bedroom window. As much as she wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, she was a surgeon. Her job was important and her patients were waiting for her. She rolled out of the empty bed and walked into the bathroom to shower. She was used to being alone; she has been divorced for three years now. Tucker just wasn't cut out for her fast paced lifestyle. And yes, it was Tucker who was at fault. Miranda Bailey never made a mistake. She knew this would be a lot easier for people to believe if she wasn't in the situation she was currently in. The warm water felt wonderful against her aching back and she stood under the steady stream for as long as she knew she had time for. All of her muscles ached recently. She really needed to schedule that doctor's appointment.
The car ride was quiet and thoughtful, just the way she liked it. She dropped her son off at preschool when he was still half asleep so it was an easier transition for the both of them. The Hospital parking lot was cleared and salted. It had snowed last night and the four nights before that, but it had warmed up during the day so some of the snow melted, and the state was very good at salting the roads (which was extremely convenient for surgeons because people still need surgery, even when the weather conditions aren't ideal). Miranda loved to park at the top of the hill, near the Dogwood Tree; during spring the tree was lovely, but currently it was hibernating for winter and all of the leaves and flowers had fallen off. She almost related to the tree because she hated winter; she was always more tired. More depressed. More emotionally depleted. She was so caught up in her thoughts, she didn't see the ice on the stairs; the very long cement set of stairs. Her heel twisted from under her; she grabbed at the railing but failed to grip the cold metal covered in ice. She did manage; however, to pop her wrist. The pain went shooting up her arm, her million dollar hand damaged. Her briefcase and purse went tumbling around her. The cement was dreadfully hard, giving her a splitting headache the second her head cracked against it; first in the back and then in the front, with a forward-roll artfully placed in the middle. This happened only a few more times, she didn't know how many. She could feel the skin being torn from her knees, and bruises being formed all over her body. She felt like the fall lasted hours. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't wait to hit the bottom. In one last effort to stop herself and save her body from more pain, she straightened her legs. She felt it when her knee twisted too far the wrong way. She's seen that diagnosis many times. It took a surgery and weeks of rehabilitation. Just what she needed with a four year old running around. Her final battle with the cement was at the bottom of the stairs. She could see the end coming closer and closer each forward-roll she did. Then she felt it, a shooting pain up her nose, in her mouth, around her eyes. Face plant. The pain was unbearable. Each breath she took was shallower than the last, trying to preserve her composure. Her ribs were broken and each inhaled breath was like knives in her side. She wouldn't be able to be the amazing Nazi today. Today, she was not going to be Dr. Miranda Bailey. Today, she was Mira. She was a normal woman, a patient at Seattle Grace Hospital, if only someone would find her.
She laid there for what seemed like hours. Blood was pooling around her mouth, around her head, through her pants where her knees were. She tried a few times to lift her head, if only to see what her chances were of being saved, but she had hit her head way too many times. She was dizzy, light-headed, and nauseous. Her hands were scraped from trying to save herself, so even dragging her body behind her wasn't on option. This would be a terrible way to die. Oh, and Tuck. Her precious little boy. He was still learning how to read. A little boy learning how to read should never have to think about what he is going to do without a mommy.
"Dr. Bailey?" The words sounded shocked, exasperated, scared. "Dr. Bailey! Oh please, God."
She felt hands on her shoulder. Man hands. O'Malley hands. "I need a stretcher over here!"
She was on the gurney; O'Malley placed a large foil wrap over her trying to insulate whatever heat was left in her body. "You always seem to catch me at my most prideful times, don't you O'Malley?" She didn't realize how much blood was in her mouth and choked on it a bit before getting herself under control. He placed his hand on her shoulder, almost as if to say it's okay. "O'Malley…" She was hesitant. This was going to change everything. "Yes, Dr. Bailey?"
Her voice was almost a whisper; it was very wispy, maybe from the broken ribs, maybe from her moderate sense of delusion after hitting her head so many times, maybe she wanted to keep whatever dignity she had left. "I'm pregnant."