He Loves Me Healthy, He Loves Me Not

by Renee Dyer

  Together, we pick up the snack and sit down to watch an episode of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. He claps his tiny hands and tries to sing all the words. Somewhere during the episode, we lay down on the couch. Brady cuddles under my arm, and we fall asleep. That’s where Nick finds us.

  Chapter Eleven

  Nick

  They say God only gives us what we can handle. I want to find out who they is and punch them in the face. My life got flipped upside down and the professionals who should have helped us, didn’t. I can’t believe God put that plan in place. That he willingly sat back and watched while Brenna suffered. I understand he gave us free will, but no one is going to make me believe that he let the chips fall in place based off the decisions we all made, like we were pawns on a chess board.

  Brenna’s life was at stake and we almost lost.

  My choices almost left her not coming back to us.

  I don’t know how to be alright with that. She’s getting frustrated. I see it every day, in the little things she does. Each time she washes dishes, or climbs the stairs by herself. When she cooked dinner the first time. Every accomplishment she’s made, it feels like she’s telling me to back the hell off. I’m trying, but I can’t get the images out of my head.

  Her lying on the couch, not moving, eyes rolled into her head—those moments were easier than when she was moving because I couldn’t tell she was in pain. When she would throw her arm over her eyes, whimpers falling from her lips, I knew it was bad. Watching her get sick, the shivering—so much time spent with her huddled under blankets, freezing on the couch. She couldn’t get off it. I hate that fucking couch. I’d like to burn it. She wasted away in front of me and I didn’t stop it. Didn’t help her. I made all the wrong choices.

  I failed her.

  I can never make that right. There’s no giving her back those weeks. No bringing Brady back to stay with us and saving him from being afraid of his own mom. There’s no time machine to rewind the weeks of torment and allow me to handle things correctly. I don’t know how to explain this to her.

  How do I tell her I’m not the man she married? I vowed to honor and cherish her, and I broke those vows. There was no bend. I full out broke them. I chose to think I knew what was best, ignored the opinions of those we love, and let men who don’t know us tell me what my gut knew was wrong. Always listen to your gut. How many times has Brenna said that? But that’s just it, I couldn’t think without talking to her. She brings me out of my logical mind and helps me see things the way the rest of the world does. Things aren’t always black and white. It’s a lesson she’s been trying to teach me for years. I tried putting myself in the gray area. I thought talking to her, asking her what she wanted when she was lucid, was the right thing to do.

  I was so wrong.

  I could have lost her.

  I deserve the stares, the judgment I see in people’s eyes. What they don’t understand is they will never be as harsh as I am on myself. A few have been brave enough to pull me aside and ask me what the hell I was thinking. They asked if I was trying to kill my wife, if I stopped loving her—I thought watching her wither away in front of me was devastating, but having family, friends, people I thought knew me, question my love for Brenna has been damaging in a way I’m not sure I can return from. As much as I wanted to scream, rail at them, I couldn’t. She continued to get sick because I made poor decisions. I have to live with my actions and their harsh words. Even if their words have caused a crevice to form in my heart that may never close.

  I’ve thought about these questions for days—weeks, actually. How could I not? When you’re accused of not loving the person who means the most to you, of wanting her dead, how does that not leave an impact? I never answered their questions. I walked away with my head down, a beaten man. What I wish I had said was, “There are many decisions I would change if I could. I’ve been asking myself, what if I had brought her to the hospital, what if I had forced the doctors to see her, what if she hadn’t had the first surgery at all, but Brenna has always told me you can’t live your life on what ifs. The one thing I do know is nothing any of you say will make me feel worse than I already feel. I was responsible for my wife and I let her down. I didn’t make the right decisions and she got sick. You can choose to forgive me or not, but the only person I really care about forgiving me, is her.”

  Too bad I didn’t think of that when they were in my face. It’s hard to explain the relationship Brenna and I have without making myself look like a weak man. I’m not. I just know where we work best and I accept it. I believe in allowing us to be happy and not fight what makes us great together. That’s my logical mind.

  I handle the finances and budget. Brenna sucks with numbers. She’s ecstatic not to have to touch anything banking related. She loves doing schoolwork with Brady and I let her. It makes me uncomfortable, especially crafty things. I’m not into glitter and glue. She does the cooking, but the grilling is my area. We both bake. I love cookies and how the house smells when they’re in the oven. We break up the housework. She does dishes. I don’t mind laundry. Yard work used to be divided between both of us, but Dr. Wendell said shoveling snow and raking are things he no longer wants Brenna doing. Even the things we enjoy work well. When I play video games, which she has no interest in, she’ll cuddle up to my side and read a book.

  We work.

  The best thing about us, though…we don’t fight. Yeah, we bicker sometimes, but I can only think of a time or two where our voices really raised. We believe in communicating and saving our passion for we’re it belongs—in the bedroom. Too many couples waste their lives angry at each other. We choose to enjoy life. Friends and family say we’re crazy, that it’s not that simple, but it is.

  It was.

  I wonder how we’re going to be changed from all that’s happened.

  Brenna used to be the one I would talk to about this, but I don’t know how to bring it up. I couldn’t even talk to my friend, Eli, when he stopped by to check on her. What was I supposed to say? I’m questioning myself. My choices. My marriage. He would have asked me to tell him why and that would have involved too much explanation.

  Brenna makes me a better man. She has since she stepped into my life. I was twenty-one the first time I saw her. I was hitting the clubs four to five nights a week with the guys, drinking too much and acting like an ass. I was about to graduate college and I worked, but life was just a party. I could have easily become an alcoholic. She never expected me to change, never asked me to, but I started to on my own. She became my center. It doesn’t mean I gave up my friends or going out, but slowly, she filtered into the circle. Things weren’t as fun if she wasn’t with me. It’s how I knew I was in love with her. It took me completely by surprise.

  It was simple back then. I called her, told her where I would be, and she’d show up. I always knew when she got there. Like there was a magnetic charge between us. I didn’t care how many of my friends joked about me being pussy-whipped. I joked right back that she could whip me all she wanted. I guess, in their eyes, I did become weak because of her, but I never saw it that way. I found the love of my life when most guys were screwing up theirs. I wasn’t ashamed to admit it either, no matter how badly they hassled me.

  Eventually, I learned who my real friends were. Those who accepted my feelings for Brenna stayed in our lives. Those who believed life was a never-ending party filtered out. I guess that’s just part of growing up. It doesn’t mean I handled it gracefully. There were times I resented her, thought she chased away people I’d known since childhood. Then I realized it isn’t how long you know someone that matters, it’s the quality of the relationship you have with them.

  It sucks that I’m questioning what the quality of our relationship will be now. I should probably give it more time. Let her heal more, but I’ve already seen little changes in her. It scares me. Brenna has always been determined, but not in a mean way. She would never step on someone else to get to the top. Actually, she’s the kindest
person I know. Giving, to the point of her going without so others can have what they need, and even just want sometimes. She doesn’t know how to say no, even when it makes me frustrated. I’ve seen her hurt too many times by others taking advantage of her compassion.

  I guess that’s why I was floored when she picked a fight with her brothers. Brenna despises confrontation, runs from it when she can. She had only been home five days and had just been feeling better from a setback when she told me she was sending an e-mail to them. The downcast set to her eyes told me the message wouldn’t be a good one. I tried talking to her, begging her to think before she sent something she couldn’t take back, but she told me it was something she had to do. Pain laced her words when she asked me, “If I had died, could you remember the last thing I said to you?” I told her of course I could. A tear slipped down her cheek as she said, “Well, my brothers couldn’t.”

  “Brenna, please don’t do this. I know you’re hurt right now, but think of how they felt knowing you were that sick,” I beg.

  “How they felt! How they felt, Nick! What about how I felt? How you felt? Did they ever ask if they could take Brady from my mom or yours? Did they think about how he was doing? Did we matter?”

  “You know we did, Bren.” I try to console her, pulling her into my arms, but she pushes me away.

  “No, I don’t know that. Where were they? I was sick for weeks and they couldn’t be bothered to show up, or call and check on me. What the fuck is that?” she screams. I know she isn’t angry at me, but I’m not used to rage coming from her.

  “Jeremy did come here to see you after the first surgery. It was hard on him. He had to keep leaving the room,” I answer slowly, trying to feel out her mood. “They all called your mom. Every day.”

  “My mom didn’t need to hear from them. I did. Don’t you get it? I needed to hear from them. I needed them to tell me to keep fighting. They’re my big brothers. The people who have fought for me my whole life fucking abandoned me when I needed them the most.”

  “I’m sorry, Bren.” I reach for her again and this time, she doesn’t stop me.

  “I wanted to give up, Nick. So many times, I wanted to give up because the pain was overwhelming. Your voice kept me alive. Don’t you ever apologize to me again. And don’t try to stop me from doing what I need to do.”

  That was five weeks ago, but that day keeps replaying in my mind. Watching her sit in front of the computer, crying as she poured her heart into every word. Jeremy was on the phone with Helen when he got the e-mail and it brought them both to tears. Seth called Helen shortly after. Austin remained silent for a few days, which didn’t surprise anyone.

  They all did reach out to Brenna and what they said was no surprise to me. I think it was to her, though. She has never understood the impact she has on others. Her brothers, one by one, explained that she is the light of the family. They listened to Helen tell them how sick she was and it broke them. None of them could handle knowing that light was being diminished. Her laugh is infectious and hearing she hadn’t laughed in days kept them away. When her laugh hadn’t returned due to the pain, it made them bigger cowards. If she was going to die, they didn’t want the memory of her sick to taint the wonderful memories they had.

  Should they have visited? Yes. Should they have called? Yes. Could they bring themselves to do it? No. Jeremy told her after seeing her when the hydrocephalus had first started, he went back to his partner, Tate, and told him until she was better, he would not see her again. It broke him down so badly, he had nightmares about being at her funeral.

  Each call, I watched her get angry, question them, calm down, laugh, and joke that they’re emotionally handicapped. By the end of the week, she found peace with them and it felt like the woman I loved was coming back, but then the restlessness kicked in. Not being able to turn her head much or pick it up became an issue. She hated that she couldn’t lift Brady or clean the house. The little she could do wasn’t fulfilling her. She started fighting me when I would tell her she needed to rest. She had thrown out her pain meds a few days after coming home, saying she would rather feel everything than be drugged up and unaware if she started going downhill again.

  I was constantly worried. What I should have been worried about was the day her staples were removed. I didn’t think it would be a big deal. In fact, I thought she’d be relieved to have the bandage gone. I’m starting to wonder if my way of comprehending makes me less capable of understanding feelings.

  I watched in wonder as the staples were removed. It was eerie seeing the marks left on her. I had questions I wanted to ask. Was it supposed to be so red? Would the little holes lining the suture scar remain or would they fade? I was ready to speak, but then I saw her face in the mirror. There was a melancholy that wasn’t there when we arrived. She was happy when we left our house, said she was ready not to be a metal head, but something changed. I tried to get her to talk to me in the car, but she claimed she was tired. At home, she avoided the subject. To this day, she still hasn’t told me what upset her.

  Now, the light through the window shines off her blonde streaks. I’ve always thought her hair was beautiful. She once told me she has hair most women would kill for. It’s long, straight, and naturally looks like she went to a salon for the color. She calls it dirty blonde, but I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean. She explained it one day about the brown and the blonde, how they streak together, but I got lost as she ran her hands through her hair, wishing my hands were hers, wanting my lips on hers. Why women think we care about hair color is beyond me.

  I’m nervous about the appointment to get her stitches removed today. Whatever happened weeks ago is still bothering her, and I’m afraid of what may happen now. I read online that using staples for this procedure runs a higher risk for a leak. Dr. Wendell didn’t tell us this before surgery, and I’ve been too much of a pussy to tell Brenna. I don’t want her scared. Will this increase her chance for infection? Will it make her scar worse?

  “Do you think Dr. Wendell will let me start physical therapy now?” she asks, breaking me out of my thoughts.

  “Do you think you’re ready for that?” I reply, not really thinking before speaking.

  A small huff sounds out in the car. Instantly, I regret my words. “I need to be able to move better, Nick, and you need to be able to start working more than half a day at the office. Your boss has been great, but really…we need to get back to our lives.”

  Silence fills the space again as we both fall back into thought. I’m sure she’s wondering what Dr. Wendell will say. I am, too, but I’m more worried about us. I can’t stop worrying where we stand and if we’ll be okay. We seem off, but I don’t know how to set us on the right path again.

  “It’s okay, Nick. It’s all going to be okay,” she says, placing her hand on my thigh.

  I don’t know if she’s talking about her appointment or us, but for now I’ll take the assurance.

  Chapter Twelve

  Brenna

  Nick’s unease washes over me and I can’t wait for this car ride to be over. I know he’s nervous to see how my latest scans look, but I can’t reassure him any more than I have since they were taken the other day. There’s only so many times I can say I’m feeling stronger every day. He has to choose to hear it. Maybe Dr. Wendell can make him see that it’s time to stop treating me with kid gloves.

  The sigh he lets out drags me from my land of resentment. It’s a place I hate to be, but lately, I find myself going there too easily. The anguish in his chocolate eyes makes me feel like a horrible person. Here I sit pissed off because he wants to be reminded that I’m not falling apart after I did just that…for weeks. He had a front row seat to my unraveling. I guess it’s not asking too much to assure him one more time.

  So, I do. I pat his thigh and tell him it will all be okay. We fall into silence the remainder of the ride. It’s not the comfortable silence we used to have, but it doesn’t feel as tense as it did a few minutes ago. It’s…
I don’t know. Peaceful, maybe? I can only hope I brought him some peace.

  In Dr. Wendell’s office, we sit with our hands locked together. It’s how we face every appointment and it’s the first time things have felt normal since I’ve been released from the hospital. I focus on the warmth of his fingers, how his hands are larger than mine, how strong they make me feel. I need that strength. I couldn’t tell Nick how scared I was for this appointment. Not with how anxious he’s been. He may have lost his mind, and I had to protect him—it was the least I could do.

  He thinks he’s let me down, but I don’t see it that way. I understand him, how his mind works. A lot of our family and friends are angry with him, but I say fuck that. They don’t have the right. I’d like to see how they’d handle things if they were put in his place. He didn’t give up on me, not once. He was calling the doctors, daily, multiple times. They were adamant what was happening was normal. He was following the advice of experts. And he was listening to me. God bless his heart. He did his best. I believe that with all my heart. It tears me apart every time he apologizes.

  He keeps trying to make up for not helping me sooner. Picking up after me. Telling me to rest. Watching everything I do to make sure I don’t push myself too hard. The problem is all of that is making me angry. He treats me like I’m glass that’s about to shatter. I want to scream that he can take the handle with care sticker off me, but he’ll get this vacant look in his eyes, and I lose my gumption. I’m not the only one who needs to heal. I just need to keep reminding myself that.