He Loves Me Healthy, He Loves Me Not

by Renee Dyer

  “That’s excellent news. Would you mind if I check your reflexes and see if you’re feeling sensations the same on each side?”

  “Ah, the pin prick test. Thought I’d get away without that one today,” I sigh.

  “You are already here. Might as well check you over.”

  He does his thing. Has me walk for him and tests my strength. My right side shows slight weakness and a small amount of sensation loss. Nothing that seems overly concerning, but he says he’ll keep an eye on it. He tells me he’ll get some messages out to a few doctors who can get me the information I need and he’ll call as soon as he has answers for me.

  The walk to my car is filled with more uncertainty than when I went in. All I can do now is wait.

  I’ve always considered myself a patient woman. That is, until I want something—and I want to be a mom again. Feel Nick’s hands on my stomach as it grows. See his face light up when those tiny feet kick from inside. Go through the battle of picking the perfect name. Even the worry of how Brady will react to being a brother. I want it all. When Dr. Wendell said he would reach out to a few colleagues, I expected to hear back within a few weeks.

  Three months was damn torture.

  I tried to control myself. Every day there was no call, I told myself I needed to keep waiting, but a few times, I lost the war with my mind and found my fingers dialing his office. I was so sure he’d forgotten about me. He’d assure me he was still gathering information and he’d call as soon as he had all the answers. He never faltered in his tone. There was no nervousness. Nothing that should make me question his intentions, but I’d hang up the phone and my mind would race.

  How many doctors had he reached out to? Were they blowing him off? Does he not like the answers he’s getting? Is he afraid to tell me the truth?

  I wanted to ask him these things, but fear that I’d never be able to give Nick another child, lodged the questions in my throat. Being raised in a large family, I grew up wanting to have at least three children of my own. That was the plan Nick and I had discussed since before we were married. He wanted two girls and a boy. I was hoping for either all boys, or two boys and a girl, but I always wanted a boy first. I loved growing up with my overprotective big brothers. I’ve always had a special place for that relationship and would enjoy watching the dynamic in my own children. I never imagined Brady may be my only one.

  Nick has been my sounding board, listening as I vent about how I know I should be grateful we have Brady. There are so many out there who can’t have any children. And I am, so much so, I can’t find words to explain my love for my son. He showed me how much my heart could expand to include him. I thought it was full with the love I have for Nick, and then I met my little man. It’s hard to explain to someone who’s never met their own baby for the first time. The very first second you look into his teeny face and touch one of his hands, only half the size of one of your fingers, it’s like someone poured a million gallons of Miracle-Gro over your heart. In an instant, you feel more affection for this tiny person than you’ve ever felt for anyone before. Saying you love him is such an understatement. You live for him now. Everything you do from that moment forward is for this child and in just a few seconds, you know that.

  But, although I’m grateful we have Brady, it doesn’t stop me from hurting over the possibility of not being able to create another child, another person to live for.

  No one knows Nick and I are going through this. We decided to keep it to ourselves. We didn’t want to get anyone excited, and with the disappointment we know we’ll feel, we didn’t want to put that on anyone else. Disappointment. We keep using that word, but the truth is, we’ll be devastated.

  I don’t quite know how to explain it and maybe it’s old-fashioned of me to feel this way, but it’s a woman’s God given right to have children. If we find out I can’t have another one, I’m afraid Nick will see me as less of a woman, as inadequate. Maybe I’ll see myself that way. I kind of already do. Even though I’m doing better since surgery, our life has changed. It’s been in small ways, but we cater to me because there are things I can no longer do. I don’t want Nick sacrificing his wants because I’m inadequate.

  “Nick loves you,” I tell myself in the mirror. “You have come back from hell and are stronger because of it. Chin up. Put a smile on your face when he gets home. You are a bad ass.”

  Pounding at the door jolts me from where I was leaning against the vanity. My feet slide on the tile and I have to grab for the faucet to steady myself.

  “Mommy, who are you talking to?” Brady yells.

  “No one,” I answer.

  “I heard you. Who’s going potty with you?”

  I chuckle, thinking I can no longer use the bathroom as a hiding spot when I need a minute of peace. This used to be the place I could go where Brady wouldn’t follow me. Not anymore. Sometimes, a mom needs a couple minutes of quiet time. And not because she needs to tinkle, but just because she wants to hear herself think.

  I open the door and big brown eyes greet me. “See, buddy? No one’s in here. Just me.”

  He walks in the bathroom and looks around. He must think I’m hiding someone because he opens the shower curtain, and there’s a pout on his face when he closes it. “Ah-ha!” he shouts, dropping to his knees. I stifle my laugh with the back of my hand as he searches behind the toilet. I’m not sure who he thinks could fit back there. Maybe a Smurf. “Nobody,” he huffs.

  “I told you it was just me,” I answer.

  “Why were you talking?” he asks, his little nose bunching up.

  “Sometimes, I have questions and the answers are already in my head. Talking out loud helps me get to them.”

  He stares at me a minute, then shrugs. The answer must suffice because he runs off to his pile of blocks and starts building, our conversation forgotten. I’m glad he’s content. I’m tired from work and still need to cook dinner. While he’s amused, I get started.

  Nick likes to pick on me for being a planner. Well, tonight it worked to my favor. Actually, it saved my tired ass. Last night, I boiled the chicken and chopped the vegetables for tonight’s soup. All I have to do now is get it cooking. In an hour, we’ll have a homemade chicken noodle soup that will taste like I spent all day on it.

  Score one for the planner.

  Humming to myself, I grab the ingredients from the fridge and sauté the vegetables for a few minutes, just long enough to soften them. I’m about to add the chicken when the phone rings. Assuming Nick is running late, I pick up the phone.

  “Hello.”

  “May I speak with Brenna St. James, please?” a familiar male voice comes through the line, but I don’t instantly place it.

  “This is she.”

  “Good evening, Brenna. This is Dr. Wendell. How are you tonight?”

  “Oh, Dr. Wendell. Hi. I’m good. And you?”

  “I’m very well. I’ve heard back from my colleagues and I was wondering if you wanted to talk over the phone or make an appointment to discuss the information?”

  Make an appointment? Does that mean the findings are bad? Sweat breaks out on my forehead and I begin to feel nauseous. Going into the office normally means bad news. Oh, God. I can’t have children. I sit in the middle of my kitchen floor, trying to make myself speak, but my tongue feels like sandpaper, scratching against the roof of my mouth. How will I tell Nick? Shit, is that his car door closing outside? Please don’t be home now.

  “Mrs. St. James?” Dr. Wendell questions.

  “Brenna,” I croak out as Nick walks through the door.

  They both say my name at the same time—one out of concern, the other in question. I start to stand as I ask, “Is an appointment necessary?”

  Nick’s eyes meet mine, and he mouths, “Dr. Wendell?” I nod and he takes one of my hands in his. I walk to the stove and turn it off as the doctor tells me he can go over the findings with me now if I’d like. My heart starts to race. Mine and Nick’s hopes ride on this phone call. I ask i
f he minds being placed on speaker so my husband can be included and he gives consent. They go through their pleasantries while I feel like I’m dying a little inside. The wait is unbearable.

  “Can I have children?” I blurt out. I look at Nick and he smiles at me while squeezing my hand. The elephant in the room is now roaming around, waiting to be captured.

  “Yes, Brenna, you can.”

  I want to shout, “Fuck Yeah!” from the rooftops, but I manage to stay composed. I grip Nick’s fingers much too tight, but he doesn’t say a word or flinch.

  “Physically, there is no reason you cannot have children.”

  And the floor drops out from under my feet. This is where the “but” comes in.

  “But?” I ask.

  “But, you can’t have a child naturally. Because of the pressure placed on your brain from pushing, a natural childbirth is not an option for you,” he replies.

  “So, I have to have a caesarean. That’s not so bad.”

  “You also have to be put under anesthesia. You cannot have an epidural. It is not recommended that anything be placed in your spine. You would run the risk of a leak.” His tone is serious, much harder than I’m used to with him.

  “So, Nick wouldn’t be able to see his child born.” Oh, fuck. Nick wouldn’t be able to see his child born. He would miss out on the moment our child enters the world and cries for the first time. Then, it dawns on me, so would I.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  I need to move on before I start fixating on this one fact. It’s not the end of the world, but at the moment, it seems monumental.

  “Will I pass Chiari on to my child?”

  I know I’m gripping Nick’s hand far too tight now, but if I let go, I may lose myself to my emotions.

  “I can’t answer that one hundred percent. There’s a lot of argument in the neurological community over this at the moment. This was the hardest part for me to get answers on. Some doctors feel there is a genetic link, and others don’t. At this time, there is no research that overwhelmingly proves a genetic link.”

  “Does this mean there are enough cases out there to support the possibility of it being genetic?”

  “I believe there are,” he answers honestly, “but I also believe you have more of a chance of a child being born with Down Syndrome or Autism.”

  “So, you think we should try for a child?” I ask.

  “I can’t make that decision for you. The only thing I can say is every pregnancy comes with risks. Even parents who are perfectly healthy can have a child born with medical abnormalities. You having Chiari doesn’t stop you from being a mom.”

  Nick and Dr. Wendell talk a minute. Nick asks the same questions I did and Dr. Wendell gives him the same answers. Hearing him say it a second time makes me feel a bit better. It doesn’t sound like the odds are so bad. Before he ends the call, he says something I don’t expect. “If you’re on social media, I suggest you look up support groups. See how others with Chiari are coping. It may help you.”

  I thank him for the information and hang up. Nick is quiet, so I go back to cooking dinner. I need to think, too. I understand his lack of talking. Problem is, I can’t think about the call right now. It’s too overwhelming. Instead, I focus on the food. Chicken’s heated. Add veggies, add broth, and add apple juice. That’s right—apple juice. Just a small amount to give it an extra nice flavor. Pepper that up and leave to boil. Okay, time to get the rolls ready.

  “What are you doing?”

  Nick blocks me from walking across the kitchen.

  “Um, I was going to start getting the rolls ready. You know? Part of dinner.”

  “Did you not hear what the doc just said?”

  “I did, but I’m not sure what that has to do with me fixing food.” I glare at Nick, hoping he’ll get to his point.

  “You can have a baby. We can have lots of sex! We should be celebrating!” he shouts, grabbing me by the waist and spinning me around. “Fuck cooking. We’re going out.”

  “Are you crazy? I’m more than halfway done.”

  “Who cares? We’ve waited three months to get this news. Let’s celebrate, babe.” His mood is infectious.

  “Alright.” I kiss his lips, loving that he doesn’t see the obstacles I still see. For tonight, we’ll just be excited. “How about you order pizza and I’ll finish making the soup so we have dinner already made for tomorrow?”

  “I want pizza,” Brady pipes in from the living room.

  “Of course he does,” I giggle.

  “Did I ever tell you how sexy you look in the kitchen?”

  “If you say I’d be even more sexy pregnant and barefoot…”

  “How’d you know I was going there?” He smirks and I can’t help but hug around his waist.

  Tonight, we can definitely be excited. We’ll deal with the obstacles later.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Nick

  For a few weeks, Brenna and I debated whether or not we should start trying for another child. I was ready to start right away. And not because it would involve lots of sex with the hottest woman I’ve ever met—that was just an added bonus. I was on that call with Dr. Wendell too, and the pros outweighed the cons. Brenna keeps saying Dr. Wendell didn’t say she won’t pass Chiari on to a child, but I tell her he didn’t say she will. Worry over passing Chiari on is her only argument against having another child, and I understand her hesitancy…sort of.

  I can never fathom what it feels like in her body. I’ll never know the pain she has to endure. Or the strength it takes to deal with this condition breaking down her body. I see how pissed off she gets about not being able to help me rake the yard or shovel snow. She’ll stand in the window watching me, her arms folded over her chest. Brenna has always believed a relationship only works when the couple is willing to split duties fifty-fifty. These small changes in her life have left bigger scars than the physical ones. No matter how many times I tell her she can fold a couple extra loads of laundry or bake me some new goodies, it doesn’t take away from the fact that she’s lost a step. Her words, not mine. To me, she’s even stronger than ever. Brenna still fights every day, but she gets down over what she can’t do. It kills her when she can’t reach for things or if something is too heavy. Having restrictions is a burden on her heart.

  This is what gave her pause over having another child. She didn’t want to put this trauma on a kid. Facing it as an adult is hell. She couldn’t imagine how a child would perceive it.

  I listened as she told me the horrors of living with Chiari. I didn’t want to. It made the weeks she was sick jump right back to my mind—not that it’s ever far away—but hearing her tell me how her body attacks her reminded me of the weeks she was like a child. Weak and needing to be taken care of. I didn’t speak. I just sat there and let her get out all her worries. I wasn’t sure I’d get through it. Old guilt rushed back, too. Yelling at her for her headaches, not taking her to the hospital—it all came back.

  Hearing how she had suffered was a living nightmare, but at the same time, it made me realize something. We were both still here. We came through it and we were stronger now. I wanted a child with her more than I could explain. I needed this. Maybe it was selfish of me, but I was ready for us to have a miracle. Something that felt heaven sent.

  I wrapped her in my arms, letting her tension melt into me. For too long she had been strong. Now, it was time to let someone else carry her burdens.

  “I wish I could take it all away for you, Bren. I wish that every day. But life isn’t a fairytale. As much as you read, I can’t make that shit real.”

  “I know.” She sniffles into my chest.

  “So many nights, I lay awake, wishing there was a magic lamp I could rub, some way I could make it so none of this ever happened, but we both know that life is never simple. One thing that is simple, is loving you.”

  I hug her tighter to me, not sure how she’ll take what I’m going to say next. There are times when I want to see her eye
s, know how she’s feeling. Right now, I just want her to hear my words.

  “I know you’re scared, Bren. Bringing a child into the world is reason enough to be frightened, but what we’re dealing with—it would make most people freak. We’re tougher than that. I’m not freaking, and I’m asking that you don’t either. I want to watch your stomach grow, knowing my child is in there. I want to see Brady’s face when he realizes he’s a big brother. And I only ever want to do this with you. There’s no running with us, babe, unless we’re running to something great.”

  She doesn’t move for several minutes, but her sniffles increase. I’m not sure if I broke or fixed her, and I refuse to assume. Sometimes saying nothing is the best form of comfort.

  “How have you never thought yourself romantic?” she mumbles, shifting her face from my chest.

  Her eyes are red, and I place a kiss on each one.

  “I wasn’t trying to be romantic. Just trying to show you my heart,” I answer honestly.

  “Your heart is beautiful,” she whispers.

  “Beautiful? Damn it, Bren. You never call a man beautiful,” I huff, only half kidding.

  “Oh, yeah? Why is that?”

  “It pussifies us.”

  “Pussifies? Did you just make that up?” She giggles as she wipes the tears from under her eyes. I like seeing the sadness start to disappear.

  “Of course not. Ask any guy. They’ll tell you it’s true.”

  “I may just go text Eli right now,” she challenges.

  “Go ahead. My boy will have my back.”

  She rolls her eyes and gives me a little shove. “Of course he will. You two act like children.”

  “Speaking of children…you ready to make another beautiful baby with me?”

  She shakes her head at my use of the word beautiful, but she can’t stop the smile that breaks across her face. “Let’s run to something great.”

  Talking Brenna into having a baby was the easy part. Sort of. Hearing about her suffering will never be easy, but I’ve been trying to get her knocked up for a few months now and…nothing. I’m starting to get a complex. If we weren’t having a lot of sex, I would say we’re missing the mark, but something has to be wrong. Brenna is stressing. She assumes it has to be her. She thinks her brain must have broken something else. I keep telling her not to worry, but I’m starting to worry.