by Renee Dyer
“She’s not in labor at this time, so yes, you can drive her. But, that doesn’t mean you can drive like a maniac. I don’t want you hitting speed bumps at fifty,” he jokes.
I don’t find him funny. Any other day, I might, but today, I’m too stressed.
“Rita has already handled the paperwork. They have a bed waiting for Brenna. Rita will be in to get you unhooked from these machines and tell you what you need to know about the hospital. Then you’re free to go. Good luck.”
He shakes both our hands and leaves the room. Brenna says nothing and I don’t push. Whatever is going on in her head, I’ll give her time to work through. Rita pops in a minute later, gets Brenna off the machines, and gives us all the information we need. She wishes us luck and gives us hugs. Seems everyone is full of luck wishing here today.
I open the door for Brenna and watch as she sinks into the car. I wish she would talk to me, but she’s still not saying a word. I run around to my side and get in. When I start the car, I peek at her. I would swear she’s grieving, but we haven’t lost anyone. I want to tell her that, but I’m afraid to upset her more. Tension surrounds us and it only gets thicker as I start to drive. My cell rings and I hand it to her, knowing she prefers I don’t talk and drive. She looks at the screen and drops it in the drink holder.
“Who was it, Bren?”
“Your mom.”
She sounds like a child who’s lost her best friend.
“Why didn’t you answer it?”
“I just couldn’t.” She looks out the window, turning her back to me.
“Why? They’re picking up Brady and getting your car. What if they had a question about those things?”
Her head snaps around, a look I don’t understand in her eyes. “Really? That’s why you think she was calling? She wanted to check in. It’s what your mom does because she loves everyone.”
“What’s wrong with that?” I ask, confused.
“Nothing!” she screams. “Nothing is wrong with her. It’s me who’s always wrong! I’m fucking broken and now our son may pay for that.”
She turns away from me again and I search for the right words to say. How do I make her see that I love her no matter what happens? I want to tell her everything will be alright, but I have no guarantees. I don’t want to promise her something the specialists may take away.
“Hey, Bren. Do you remember the day we found out we were having a boy?”
She doesn’t answer right away, but from the corner of my eye, I see her smile in the window. It was a great memory for me, too. Today may not be going as we planned, but it doesn’t mean we have to drown in sadness.
“We didn’t know if we wanted to find out the sex. You wanted to know because you wanted to get the room ready and you said you didn’t want the baby dressed in yellow and green like Brady was,” I go on when she doesn’t say anything. “I loved the idea of waiting and being surprised. You gave me so much grief because I got the surprise the first time around. Remember that? We walked into the ultra sound bickering about who should get their way.” I laugh at how ridiculous we looked.
She turns in her seat to face me. “I told the tech if it was obvious to show us the screen and let us figure it out. I thought you were going to lose your shit.”
“But I didn’t. I didn’t think we’d ever be able to read one of those things.”
“Our little man had other ideas, didn’t he?” Her smile is beautiful.
“He saluted. Proud to show us who he was.”
“Thanks, Nick.”
“For what?”
“Knowing what I needed to hear. Now can you get me some food? This kid is starving.” She rubs her belly.
We make a quick stop to get her some chicken at a rest area and get back on the road. Her appreciative moans crack me up. She offers me a bite or two, but that’s all I get. She wasn’t kidding when she said the kid needed food. I joke that a child needs vegetables and milk to grow up healthy and she throws her balled up napkin at me. Not like we could have found anything remotely healthy at that rest stop. It helps to alleviate the worry we’re both feeling.
We don’t talk about what the doctors might say when we get there. Instead, we talk about middle names. We still don’t have one picked out. Family and friends have been asking what his name will be since we learned we were having a boy, but we’ve kept our lips sealed, telling them they’d find out when he makes his appearance in the world. Now, we need to get him to hold off a bit longer.
Things go fast when we get to the hospital. Brenna starts at emergency admitting. It’s weird because it’s not the emergency room. It’s a separate area for expecting women. It puts me on edge, the seriousness of the situation hitting me full force. She’s immediately connected to an IV, which, of course, skeeves me out. The thought of her having this until Little One is born makes me nauseous.
“Go sit, please, Nick.”
She shouldn’t be worrying about me, but she is. It’s written all over her face. She can see me starting to feel ill over the needles and tubes. There are wires everywhere. It’s like they’re making her bionic. The beeps start and my head wants to explode. She’s not due for eleven more weeks, how the hell am I going to handle this? What about Brady?
Shit, I gave the two week notice at his daycare. I’ll have to ask Sara if she can extend that. If Brenna will be here, I need to have him taken care of while I’m at work.
Brenna’s going to be all alone during the day.
The thought hits me and it takes my breath away, leaving me staring at my wife, who’s gabbing with the nurse about why women are absolutely allowed to love football as much as men. I smirk, thinking how weird people must find our house in the fall. Brenna screaming at the TV, cheering her Patriots on, while I’m cleaning or doing yard work. It’s not that I don’t like football, I just don’t love it. I’ll watch it with her because I think the way she gets all wound up is sexy. And when her team wins, she’s always in a real good mood.
She really is stronger than me. I’ve known it for years, but seeing her here, surrounded by medical staff sticking her with needles and hooking her up to more machines than I deem necessary, she doesn’t seem affected. She laughs with them and has normal conversations while I’m sweating through my shirt. If she hadn’t told me to sit down, I’d still be pacing. Now, I’m wringing my hands together because I need something to do. I don’t understand how she takes it all in stride.
“This is your bed,” the nurse announces. I look at her back, wondering why I never paid attention to her name. “We’re going to bring you to your room in just a few minutes right in this.”
“Ooh, plush accommodations,” Brenna teases.
“Only the best for our moms-to-be.” She puts her hand on Brenna’s shoulder and gives her a smile. “I’ll be back with another nurse in a minute. Then, it’s field trip time.”
In every possible bad medical situation, Brenna always cracks jokes and smiles. I can’t believe she’s actually happy. My head is spinning and my emotions are out of control—how does she put on a happy face?
“How do you do it, Bren?”
“Hmm, do what?”
“Smile and be friendly. I’m ready to lose it and you’re over there acting like you don’t have a care in the world. You make it look so easy. I want to live in your bubble because mine fucking exploded and left a mess everywhere.”
“Come sit,” she says, patting the bed. I do, needing to be next to her. “These people probably get screamed at by scared patients every day. It isn’t their fault I’m here. I guess I just figure if I’m mean to them, they probably won’t want to rush to my room if I need something. Besides, I feel more at ease when I’m acting normal. I can almost forget what’s happening to me. Sometimes, I need that bubble to protect me from the truth.”
“He’s going to be okay. You’re the strongest person I know, and you’re taking care of him.”
Her breath hitches and her eyes glimmer, but she doesn’t cry. I have a fe
eling she’s working extra hard to hold herself together for me.
Chapter Twenty Six
Brenna
Nine days. That’s how long I laid in the hospital bed listening to what the doctors had to say. Following every instruction. Praying for my baby to stay in another day longer. It all became a ritual. Vitals. Breakfast. Get cleaned up. Go over what tests would be done that day. Rest, rest, and rest some more.
My days were filled with hearing happy families come and go. Laughter filled the halls of the maternity floor. Balloons and flowers would go by my door. Bags of pink and blue, too. I could picture the smiles on the faces of the proud parents holding their babies. I ached to hold my son and worried over what would happen if he came too early. I would rest my hands on my stomach and talk to Little One, telling him I needed him to get bigger, grow stronger. I knew he couldn’t understand, but I would tell him everything we were doing on the outside to help him if my body couldn’t keep him in there. I explained the shots for his lungs and the antibiotics. I even talked to him about the amniocentesis.
No test Dr. Pinack talked about in those nine days was scarier than that. Nick had left that morning. I told him to. He wanted to stay with me until our son made his grand entrance, but we had no idea when that would be. Brady needed one of us at home and Nick needed to save his time off from work. He said he didn’t care about anything else. He just wanted to make sure we were alright. I never thought I’d be the logical one, but Nick has a blind spot in his thinking when it comes to me.
So, there I was, my first morning in the hospital, over an hour away from all my family, and the doctor tells me this test is necessary.
“You want to basically jab a skinny sword through my gut?” I ask, my nerves getting the best of me. “Why? We already know the fluid’s low.”
Dr. Pinack puts her hand on mine and stares me straight in the eye. Her brown eyes, so like Nick’s, are soft. When she smiles, I feel like she’s trying to send comfort through the air. Her copper hair is in disarray, several strands falling out of the pencils she’s stuck in the bun to keep it up. Something about her disorganized professionalism makes me feel better. Her appearance is funky, her water color scrubs and neon green Crocs only adding to her charm. But her aura is pure kindness. It soothes, even more than the fact that she is a fountain of knowledge. Every question I’ve asked, she’s had an immediate answer, and more explanation if needed.
“You do have a way of looking at things, don’t you?” She smiles. “Would it help if I showed you the needle before we go further with this conversation?”
“Uh, no!” Is she being serious? Who the hell wants to look at the gut ripper?
“Okay, I hear you.” She shakes her head, smirking at me. “We fill the syringe with a dye, which we’ll inject into the amniotic fluid. I’ll be using ultrasound imagery to direct the positioning so I don’t harm your baby. After the procedure, we’ll need you to start wearing a sanitary napkin. If at any time you see blue on it, then we know you’re still leaking fluid. That’s the reason for this test.”
Wait, still leaking fluid?
My voice shakes as I ask, “What happens if I’m still leaking fluid?”
Her hand tightens over mine. “We keep pumping fluids into you. It sounds crazy, I’m sure, but it’s one of the most important steps. As your pregnancy progresses toward the end, the fluid levels drop on their own. I know you still have over ten weeks, but we will push as many fluids into you as we can in hopes of replenishing them for your baby. If you’re leaking, we’ll have to see how fast the leak is. It will mean lots of ultrasound monitoring. If the fluid gets dangerously low or your baby goes into distress, we will have to perform a cesarean.”
Hearing her talk about taking him early sends my mind into a panic. The shots for his lungs haven’t even had time to work. He needs to stay where he is. He can’t come anytime soon. I need to protect him.
“What can I do to help keep him safe?” I choke out.
“Stay in this bed,” she says calmly. How do doctors do that? Talk like a tragedy isn’t happening? Don’t they see the turmoil happening right in front of them? “You will have a very limited amount of time you’re allowed to stand up. Even sitting up in bed will be minimal. I want you lying down. I know it’s boring and the nurses tell me your family doesn’t live around here, but it’s important you rest. For his sake.”
“I can do that,” I answer.
“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at ten. Let’s keep this little guy in there as long as possible.”
She pats my hand and leaves the room. All I can do is stare at the door as she exits.
I gave a stern talking to Little One about staying in place and told my body to leave any and all fluid where it was. Two hours after Dr. Pinack left the room, I called my mom to ask her to be with me for the amniocentesis. There was no way Nick could be. Just thinking about him in the room with that large needle made me laugh. I could just envision Dr. Pinack pulling out the needle and the thud that would reverberate through the room from him hitting the floor. It really wasn’t funny, but I was humored by the images flowing through my mind. It was all I had to hold onto as I called my mom, told her what was happening, and sighed a breath of relief when she said she’d be there.
Time can be precious, but it can also be your worst enemy. When the seconds are ticking down to a moment you’re dreading, the clock morphs into a prison. The hands into chains. Trapping you in a vicious cycle of tormenting thoughts. Torturing you with your own mind. The constant tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, droning on, dropping you from one mad delusion to the next. Leaving you wrung out and devoid of existence.
That’s how I felt the next morning when my mom arrived. I spent so much time worrying over this procedure, I was awful company when Janice and Bryce came to visit the night before. Missing Nick and Brady, knowing I had the amnio in the morning, and feeling like a failure added up to me being an asshole. They understood, but I should have tried harder to be pleasant. They drove a ways to see me. I should have sucked it up and waited to sulk when they left.
My mom tried telling me I wasn’t acting that bad and I told her she’s obligated to say that. It’s part of the mom oath. When your kid is down and out, you have to do and say whatever you can to build her back up. She just laughed and said I was being ridiculous. I laughed too, and it felt good. It was the first time I had really enjoyed myself since being in Dr. Bastine’s office. My mom always had that effect.
“Are you ready?” Dr. Pinack asks, peeking her head in the door.
“Of course she is,” mom answers. “This right here is the strongest lady you’ll ever meet.”
“Glad you think so, Mom.” I wish I could have her faith. I haven’t stopped shaking the last hour. As soon as she got here, I reverted to a five-year-old, letting her hold me and chase away my fears. What is it about a mother’s hug that makes everything easier to bear?
“I’ve read her file,” Dr. Pinack replies, walking in. “Today will be a cake walk for her. She’s already been through all the tough stuff. Actually, I’d like to talk to you after the amnio about a study I’m trying to get a grant for.”
“A study about what?” I ask.
“Always so full of questions. I like that.” She smiles. “I believe certain neurologic conditions speed up the gestation period and can cause, or be part of the cause, for several issues women face in pregnancy, including premature delivery.”
“Sounds fascinating,” my mom pipes in.
“It is,” Dr. Pinack says. “Chiari is one of the conditions on my list. I’d like to talk to you more about it and if you like what I’m trying to do, see if you’d be willing to sign a waiver stating I can use your records in my study should I get the grant.”
I nod, overwhelmed to hear someone who isn’t in the neurology field speaking openly about Chiari. In the three years I’ve known I’ve had the condition, I’ve found it difficult to find doctors in the field who understand the condition well. I kee
p getting told they’re learning more about it every day. Hearing that she wants to include it in a study has me excited.
“I’ll ask again. Are you ready?”
“Let’s do this shit.” I think of Nick as the words fly from my mouth.
“Yes, let’s do this shit,” Dr. Pinack mimics, cracking my mom and me up. I like her. A lot.
A nurse brings in a wheel chair and a robe. Thank God my ass won’t be flapping in the breeze for all to see. I was starting to wonder about that. She slides slipper socks on my feet and off we go.
Mom and I crack jokes the whole way. Dr. Pinack joins in. The nurse looks a tad uncomfortable. Either she’s new, she’s a tightwad, or she’s afraid to let loose in front of the boss. I’ll try to figure it out when she does rounds later. Whatever the case, I needed this frivolity to loosen me up before going in for this damn test.
Dr. Pinack opens a door, the nurse pushes me through, I get a look at a bed in the middle of a decent size room, and I’m intimidated all over again. I stop talking, all jokes gone from my mind. Mom’s hand comes down on my shoulder and I try to smile for her, but I can’t.
“You’ve got this, sweetheart.”
“Of course she does,” Dr. Pinack pipes in. “Brenna, you’ve survived brain surgery. This is going to be a cake walk.”
Something in her eyes speaks truth to me. I nod a few times and the nurse helps me to the bed, hitching my IV bags to the stand beside me.
“After I insert the needle, I will inject the dye, and then I’m going to take a small amount of amniotic fluid. We talked about this yesterday, Memére,” she says, directing her comment to my mom. “That fluid will allow me to see how developed this little guy’s lungs are and to test for some possible illnesses. I’m looking to rule those out.”
My mom nods and looks at me. I give her a small grin. It’s the best I can do. She grabs my hand and together, we look at Dr. Pinack.
“I’m going to lift your gown now and get your belly prepped. When it’s time, I want you to relax your belly as much as possible and breathe nice, slow, even breaths for me, okay?”