by Renee Dyer
I didn’t need her to point that one out to me.
She beamed with pride over finding the “heavenly pecker” and asked me if it was a sign that someone was getting lucky up above. I shook my head and said it would be nice if someone was getting lucky right here. I wasn’t expecting her to pull her t-shirt off. I figured she’d roll her eyes at me and announce it was time to go home. That’s what wives do.
Must be my kick ass picnicking skills.
Her shirt coming off led to my shirt coming off. Then her jeans, so I took off mine. It was a game of tit for tat. I really just wanted to say tit, or get to hers—they’re so damn soft and mold to my hand. Getting off track here…Brenna led the charge. She didn’t stop until we both lay naked, with the breeze teasing our skin, and the cloud pecker dispersing above us, which was good. The only dick I wanted in this equation was mine.
Kisses led to nips and nips led to me trailing her body. I wanted to hear how Brenna sounded with nature’s acoustics. Her moans started low and grew, building my ego along with her pleasure. As she writhed below me, I rejoiced in the moment, gave myself an atta boy, and suckled her harder, readying myself for the moment she fell apart. It was going to be colossal. How could it not? The day. The atmosphere. Outdoor sex.
Her cries ring out, and I scream, “Yes, Yes, YES!” in my head, until I realize she’s crying and yelling, “Oh God. I think my brain just blew up.”
That’s a good thing, right?
“Get off me, Nick!” One hand shoves at me and I finally pick my face up to look at her. Tears stream down her cheeks and one of her hands squeezes her head. “Fuck!” She’s gulping air as her chest jumps up and down.
“Bren?”
I climb away from her and she curls into a ball on her side. Her sobs ring out into the field and echo back to me. She lies there in pain, her hands clutching her head. I say her name again, but she doesn’t respond. I want to pull her into my arms, hold her tight to my body, but I’ve learned when she’s having these pains, I have to let her ride it out. Standing, I grab the corner of the blanket and cover her. I quickly dress and sit behind her. All I can do is rub her back and wait for her to be able to talk to me.
I’m useless—again.
Chapter Thirty
Brenna
I had hoped the episode, as I called it, with Nick, was nothing. I wanted it to be a fluke, but the headaches and that episode were just the start of my symptoms returning. Soon, I was having visible weakness in my right side, even experiencing falls due to loss of any feeling at all. The dizzy spells were back. After having a spell and falling off the treadmill at the gym, I was asked by the manager to please consider giving up my membership before I hurt myself. It wasn’t the only incident that had occurred, and I wasn’t angry with him for asking, but I was pissed at my body for betraying me again.
I had to stop taking walks, too. It was no longer safe for me to go out with the boys because we didn’t know when I might fall. Showering became an issue. The water streaming on my head would cause my body to tingle and my legs to give out, so I began sitting on the tub floor.
By late fall, I couldn’t deny how bad I was getting. Nick and other family members were worried. I had to stow my pride and make an early appointment with Dr. Wendell.
Dr. Wendell ordered an MRI. There were no changes from my last one—nothing that could explain why I was having this influx of shit happen. He said it was time to send me to a new doctor, get a fresh set of eyes looking at me. I panicked. Not that he could see, but he had been my doctor for years and I trusted him. His reasoning was sound. The doctor in Boston specialized in Chiari and had better equipment. Maybe he could find answers Dr. Wendell couldn’t. I understood he was looking out for me, but I felt like I was being abandoned. The appointment didn’t get any better from there. He prescribed me a cane and a shower seat, stating it was for my own good. My own good. Thirty-five years old and he wanted me to use a fucking cane and shower seat. He didn’t see how humiliating it was. It was a matter of safety in his eyes. What I saw was a woman who used to be alive, who used to go dancing. I hiked mountains and played football with the guys. I was a goddamn force to be reckoned with.
Now, I’m just a shadow…a damn remnant of that woman.
I can’t teach my boys to ride a bicycle. I can’t throw the ball around with them. Forget trying to run. Pushing them on the swings brings me to my knees. And he wants me to add a cane and shower seat to that mess.
Sure, let me get right on that.
I tried not to feel hostile over the new additions in my life. I tried to understand the necessity of them, but when Nick brought me to pick them out, I snapped at him. I told him he needed to wait in the car because he couldn’t understand what I was going through. He tried to comfort me, but I couldn’t let him. I felt weak enough accepting these things as extensions of myself.
The woman who helped me seemed to sense my unease. She went slow and didn’t use the typical, in-your-face salesman bullshit. I probably would have lost it if she had. She was patient and showed me the different types of canes, how the handles have different textures and are made of different materials. She had me walk around with each type to see what felt comfortable. She even showed me which ones came in funky designs. Luckily, the handle I liked also came in a great pattern. I figured if I had to walk with the damn thing, it should at least have some bling to it.
Next, she showed me the many shower seats. I was overwhelmed and finally told her I wanted simple. I needed something I could transport when we went to camp. Some of the seats were huge and had cup holders. Why the hell would I need a cup holder in the shower? I’m not in there for morning tea. She found a seat that fit my criteria. I paid for my new additions and headed out the door. With the box containing the seat under one arm, I walked with the cane like I was now supposed to. It was embarrassing. I scanned the parking lot to see if anyone was staring, hating that I cared. Opening the back door, I threw them both in the seat, and slammed the door, wishing they would be gone when we got home. Nick didn’t say a word when I got in my seat. He didn’t say anything most of the ride home. About ten minutes from our house, he finally spoke.
“It won’t be as bad as you think, Bren.”
“Says the person who doesn’t have to use the shit,” I snap.
“You’re right. I don’t, but it doesn’t make me any less angry that you do. We’re in this together.”
“Together? You can’t walk with the cane for me.”
“I’m not letting you pick a fight with me. I know you’re pissed. I know you don’t want any of what’s happening, but you don’t really have a say, so how about you lose your attitude before we get home? You and I both know Brady is going to have a ton of questions. If you’re upset, he’ll get upset.”
His eyes stay on the road and I let his words sink in. I do need to get my attitude in check. Not just for Brady, but for myself.
But that was easier said than done. We got through the night with Brady and Nate okay, but the next morning was a different story. I got up early to take my shower, wanting to figure out the shower seat before anyone else was awake. I was tired of sitting in the tub like a child to get clean, but this…this somehow felt worse. It was verification that my body was giving up a fight. I stand in my kitchen, eyeing down the box, willing it to give me lip, anything that would allow me to beat it to a pulp with the cane, but it remains silent, mocking me with its quiet victory.
Defeated, I open the box, pull out the seat, and walk to the bathroom with my head down. If I were an animal, my tail would be tucked between my legs and this would be my retreat.
In the bathroom, I undress, dying a little inside as I remove my pajamas. It isn’t the chill of the morning that has me standing there shivering, unable to put the damn thing in the shower. How had this become my life? How had a tiny, circular piece of plastic reduced me to feeling like a shadow of who I used to be? Trying to tell myself I’m still a warrior, I grab the seat, pull back the curta
in, and place it in the tub. Nothing about it being in there is right. It’s a giant eyesore and seeing it shows me I’m weak. I can’t even stand on my own two goddamn feet.
Maybe I should just shower from the tub floor.
The thought rushes through my mind quickly, but I shake my head and start the water. I can do this. I can show this seat I’m not afraid of it…right?
It’s so stupid, being afraid of something that can’t even move. I try to rationalize with myself, tell myself it’s to keep me from falling and cracking my head open. I envision all kinds of gruesome scenes that could happen if I didn’t have the seat, hoping it will make sitting on it easier.
It doesn’t.
My body is still failing me.
I start to wash myself at a feverish pace, wanting this over as quickly as possible. The plastic under my ass is slightly bumpy. I’m sure it’s so I don’t slide off, but it’s distracting me. Every time I move to put shampoo or conditioner in my hair, wash something, try to shave, I feel the abrasion across my back side. I whisper to myself to stop nit-picking so much and focus on the job at hand. Soap. Lather. Rinse. There’s a mission and I need to complete it.
As I’m shaving my left leg, the bathroom door closes. I freeze with the razor mid-swipe. I could have sworn I locked it. I chastise myself for being too wrapped up in the seat to pay attention to what I was doing. Unable to move, I wait for someone to speak. My eyes move back and forth, tension builds, and I clench the razor.
“Morning, babe.”
Nick’s head pops through the curtain, scaring me, almost causing me to cut myself.
“Jesus Christ, Nick! A little warning next time,” I mumble, irritated. He knows I hate when he does that.
He chuckles, looking sexy all rumpled from just waking up. I can never stay mad at him. His hair is going every which way and he has that half asleep, lazy smile that makes me melt. He has no idea the appeal he has.
“Hey, you’re using the seat.”
My heart stops. I literally feel it crash in my chest. There’s no thump, thump. I flat line for a few seconds when I realize he’s seeing me at my ultimate weakest—all because I forgot to lock the fucking door. He never saw me shower from the tub floor. That’s when I started locking him out. I couldn’t have him see me like that. Not Nick. I’ve always been strong and independent in his eyes. He loves that about me. Now, I’m just…broken. Nothing about me works the way it should and every morning will be a reminder of that.
“How do you like it?” he asks, unaware of my inner turmoil.
“It scratches my ass,” I joke.
“Better to have it scratched than have a hair across it, right?”
“Right,” I answer robotically. Nick always says I have a hair across my ass because I shed worse than a dog. We find my hair everywhere, including across my rear on a daily basis.
“The boys are up, so I’m going to get them fed.”
I nod because I can’t keep up this happy façade. I’m the furthest thing from feeling cheerful. When the door closes, I bury my face in the water and cry. One trick I’ve learned since finding out I have Chiari is when you cry in the shower, you don’t come out with red, puffy eyes.
I don’t have to make my family suffer with me.
Chapter Thirty One
Nick
The first few weeks, maybe even a little over a month, Brenna struggled to get used to having the cane and shower seat. Her moods were all over the place. She was short with me and the boys. Normally, I would be all over her about that, but I knew she was trying to come to grips with the changes in her life. I won’t say there weren’t days where I wanted to shake her, tell her to suck it up, other people were dealing with worse—but I would look in her eyes and knew I couldn’t. I could never fathom what she was dealing with. Her body was tearing her down from the inside out. Bit by bit, she was losing pieces of what she felt made her the person she was.
My patience paid off. The Brenna I’ve always known fought her way through. One day, the bathroom door wasn’t locked when she showered. I didn’t go in even though I wanted to make a big scene and tell her how proud of her I was. She stopped looking around when we were out in public. So many times before, her eyes would scour the area around us, watching to see if anyone was staring at her. People did, and it bothered me when they would, but I think it’s because it hurt her.
But she got used to the stares and even turned them into jokes. At the movies one night, an elderly man told her she was too young to walk with a cane. Brenna gave him her kindest smile and said, “Yes, I am, but my brain likes to think I’m archaic.” She winked at him and kept walking. He smiled after her and told me to keep her in my life, stating, “She has spunk.” I nodded, knowing exactly what he was talking about.
A few weeks later, we took the boys to the mall so they could show us what they may like for Christmas. Their excited squeals sounded out through the corridors as we went from store to store. Brady wanted to show Nate everything. Toys, decorations, trees, lights—you name it, he wanted his brother to see it. Brenna was having a hard time keeping up. I could see the pain she was in, but she kept a smile on her face so our boys could have a fun day. When we stopped to eat at the food court, a little girl walked up to Brenna and asked her what her cane was.
I froze.
The little girl’s mother froze.
Brenna didn’t falter. She turned in her seat so she was facing the girl and with a smile, said, “This is my ‘see me’ stick. These guys are always running ahead of me so fast. This stick makes it so they can always see me. Pretty cool, huh?”
The little girl’s eyes got wide like a child’s do when they are fascinated by a story and she smiled at Brenna. She looked from the cane to her mom, and squeaked, “You need one of these, Mom. I lose you all the time.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. The little girl’s mom was not amused. She mumbled something about people watching what they say to children as she hustled her daughter away. I’m not sure whether she thought Brenna really said something inappropriate or she was worried we thought she was leaving her daughter places. We just figured it was a kid being a kid. They say funny things. Sometimes parents lose sight of that.
While Brenna was getting used to the new additions in her life, we met with Dr. O’Brien and his P.A., Ethan, in Boston. I was on edge about her seeing another surgeon. Brenna had mailed all her scans to them ahead of time so they were prepared when we arrived. She liked Dr. O’Brien right away. I think it was because the first thing he said to her was she wasn’t crazy. “Chiari just makes patients feel that way. Many symptoms of Chiari mimic multiple other conditions so doctors often try to tell you Chiari isn’t the issue, when it is. They make you jump through hoops for treatment.” He told her he’s had patients who had doctors tell them they were, in fact, crazy and they never should have been treated that way.
Her shoulders dropped away from her ears and she eased back into her seat. She normally looks like she’s about to bolt from the room, but she was relaxed as she explained her history to him. Even talking about her symptoms didn’t cause her to start wringing her hands. When she told him she started each day at a four to six pain level and where her pain ended always varied, she looked at me. I’m sure it’s because I ask her why she’s in pain all the time. She gets frustrated, but I want answers. I think doctors should say more than, “Chiari causes it and surgery can relieve the symptoms.” We’ve found out the hard way that surgery can cause more problems.
I liked his P.A—Ethan kept things light. He was funny and added humor during tense situations. I felt he was as knowledgeable about Chiari as Dr. O’Brien, or pretty damn close. They worked hand in hand, giving information, answering questions, going over the scans. It was impressive. Dr. O’Brien let us know if we ever couldn’t reach him, we could speak with Ethan, and I was confident in his abilities to be able to help us. I can’t say I’d ever felt that way with a P.A. before.
One of the scans gave Dr. O’Bri
en pause. There was a chance Brenna had a pinched brain stem. He was up front with us about what to expect if that was, in fact, the case. Of course, it would mean another surgery. But he also explained it could be the positioning of her head on the last scan and sometimes scans aren’t completely clear. He scheduled her for a flexion extension scan.
He also asked her if she was aware she had a pseudomeningocele. Brenna and I looked at each other in confusion. Neither of us knew the term and her expression, I’m sure, mirrored mine—panic. Medical terms are frightening. He showed us a mass—at least, that’s what it looked like to me. Brenna popped right up, and said, “Oh, that’s my fluid pocket. It’s been there since my first surgery. Dr. Wendell said it was nothing to worry about. It’s been dissipating on its own.”
When she said that, I did remember what she was talking about. He didn’t want to open her back up because he didn’t want to chance hydrocephalus again. And where it was dissipating on its own, he felt it was best to let her heal on her own time. Dr. O’Brien confirmed that they can resolve on their own, but it should be monitored. If it started to expand, it would need to be drained or we would need to discuss a shunt. In ten minutes, I heard pinched brain stem and shunt. I felt like I was going to throw up. Brenna grabbed my hand, almost like she could read my thoughts.