Eye Contact

by Stacey Grice

  “That’s great!” Hattie replied approvingly. “How blessed you are to be able to work that out.”

  “It works great when you’re actually able to leave on time,” I chimed in.

  “I can’t up and leave in the middle of a surgery. It doesn’t work like that.”

  “I know. It just seems like your twelves are turning into eighteens lately.”

  “Give the girl a break, Vaughn. It’s still not twenty-four hours. It could be worse,” Ms. Hattie admonished.

  “Yeah, Vaughn! Give your girl a break,” Andie heckled, leaning into me for a chaste kiss.

  Chapter 54

  Andie

  Getting to know Vaughn even more through Hattie’s eyes was really special. The man I had grown to love so much already was planting himself deeper and deeper in my soul, and my body warmed at the thought of us being together for the long haul. The trouble was that with all of the good, I was constantly reminded of the major life-changing misfortune we were soon going to face. I sat listening to memories, anecdotes, and fond trips they’d shared, so many important milestones and events. I even got to look at photo albums capturing the essence of a broken young boy who’d been healed by one woman’s love and a sense of real family with his foster brother.

  My twenty-three-week-old baby, growing and kicking inside of me, would never—could never—be healed. She would never get to experience just how much we loved her. I would never get to hear her baby giggles or video her learning to blow raspberries with her lips. Vaughn would never be able to toss her up in the air and catch her out of the breeze. We wouldn’t be hosting any birthday parties or attending a silly kindergarten graduation. I wouldn’t even be able to ever place a bow in my daughter’s hair. The sadness engulfed me and I had to excuse myself.

  The second I got into the bathroom, I sank down to my haunches and buried my face in the palms of my hands. Fighting to keep it all together and resisting the growing urge to let myself cry, I choked the emotion back. I had to maintain equilibrium and rein in the pregnancy hormones.

  When I returned to the living room, I approached slowly and couldn’t help but overhear Vaughn and Hattie speaking about the baby.

  “Don’t ask her about that. She’s having a hard enough time with everything already.”

  “That’s exactly why I should ask her,” Hattie whisper-yelled.

  “I already told you, she’s not religious. I don’t want her feeling pressured to do something she’s not comfortable with to appease you or gain your approval.”

  I cleared my throat, walking back in confidently, or at least looking the part as best I could.

  “Ask me about what?” I challenged, his look sheepish and regretful. “It’s okay, Vaughn. I’m not one who’s easily swayed. If I’m not comfortable with something, I’ll say so.”

  “I know. I wasn’t trying to—”

  “You’re being protective, and I appreciate it, but you should also respect that if there’s something Ms. Hattie wants for her first grandchild, she should at least be able to ask for it.”

  Her eyes lit up and her entire face smiled. “Thank you, Andie,” she said as I sat next to her on the sofa. “I was asking about having a pastor there when the baby is born, to pray for you both, and for her. In my faith, we believe in dedicating the baby to the Lord.”

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Vaughn interrupted, dismissing her rather brashly. “You don’t have to feel forced into anything, Andie.”

  “I also don’t need you to speak for or decide anything for me, Vaughn.”

  His face registered hurt.

  “Is the presence of a pastor something that makes you uncomfortable?” I questioned, looking at him.

  “Well, I’m sorry…but yes, kind of. I think so.”

  “Can you do it? Instead of a stranger, I mean—can you dedicate the baby and pray over us?” I requested of Ms. Hattie, reaching out and bringing her hand into mine.

  “It would be the highlight of my life,” she replied, choked up. “There is nothing I can think of that I’d rather do for you all.”

  “Perfect. It’s settled then. It would mean so much to us both if you were able to be there for the birth, and after, to help us…through it all.”

  “Are you sure, Andie?”

  “I’m sure, Vaughn. It’s something I’ve been thinking about, actually.”

  “It is?” He was sweet and gentle, but taken aback.

  “Yes. Don’t act so shocked. I believe in God. Just because I’m not religious doesn’t mean I’m not spiritual.”

  “I know, I just didn’t think—”

  “If there’s anything I believe, it’s that there’s a reason for all of this and a purpose for this child of ours that’s bigger than we’re able to comprehend.”

  Vaughn came over to sit on the other side of me and we all embraced in a three-way hug of grabbing arms, tight embraces, tears, and sniffles.

  On the way home, we had to drive over one of the many bridges that connects downtown Jacksonville to the rest of the city. The colors in the sky were exploding as the day was slowly turning into night, so vibrant and beautiful, reflecting off of the surface of the St. Johns River. With pinks, oranges, blues, and grays, fire and water merged into one.

  “Remember when you thought my favorite color was blue? On our date?”

  “Yeah,” he answered with a chuckle. “You told me I was wrong.”

  “You were,” I declared. “This is my favorite color—sunset.”

  Vaughn looked over at me longingly.

  “How can you see a sky like this, painted this perfectly, and not believe in God?”

  “I didn’t say I don’t believe,” Vaughn replied defensively.

  A few moments passed, both of us just resting in the silence.

  Eventually, I spoke up. “I read something recently that I can’t get out of my head.”

  “Yeah?”

  “A C.S. Lewis quote.” I tried hard to remember the exact wording. “Something like ‘I believe in God like I believe in the sun—not because I can see it, but because by it I can see everything else.’”

  Vaughn didn’t respond with any words of affirmation. He just squeezed my hand tighter, and through our connection, I felt his love. I felt God right there in the car with us.

  Chapter 55

  Andie

  When you’re pregnant, it’s amazing how many people say things to you that they would never ordinarily say. It’s like it’s a free ticket of admission to converse with you when before they wouldn’t have even smiled in passing. It’s a commonality or relatable life circumstance that everyone has either experienced themselves or been a part of in some way, making introverts magically have the gusto to pry and be forward.

  The problem was, I didn’t want to talk about my pregnancy. I didn’t want to be asked how I was feeling. How I felt, at any given moment, was that the wall of my chest was slowly and meticulously being chipped away with a sharp barb, so small that, little by little, layers were being carved away to expose my breaking heart. It was an image equivalent to Andy Dufresne in Shawshank Redemption, ever so gradually chiseling away at the concrete wall in his cell, only there was no freedom at the end of this tunnel. There was unimaginable pain, agonizing suffering, a deep dark abyss of sadness that very well could break me.

  Every morning for most of the first two trimesters, for the briefest moment, I forgot. I would feel my body waking up and before opening my eyes, just for those two seconds, I wouldn’t feel the weight of what was going on in my life. The day was a blank slate and I, in my groggy half-asleep state, was okay, renewed by rest and ready to take on a new day.

  Until it hit me. My plight, heavy and burdensome, would hit me like a ton of bricks.

  I felt like I had been buried and was forced to dig myself out from under the rubble to emerge from bed each morning.

  This is what depression must be like.

  In the beginning, I was determined, full of fight, and committed. I knew there was e
nough in me to see things through, to carry my baby all the way. I felt positive and confident about my decision and optimistic about helping so many others. But, as each day ticked by, my resolve got weaker and weaker. The comments and questions got more difficult to receive and answer.

  Then, there was the numb phase where I meandered around, functional but in a daze. I woke up, did my job, ran through the motions, but I was callous, anesthetized into a state of detached indifference, in a stupor until I could go home and release the anguish.

  In my more delicate moments, when the vulnerability and sadness got the best of me, part of me wished for it to all be over. It made me feel like the most horrible person alive, but it was real. I wished that the decision would be taken away from me, wished her heart would one day stop beating and I would no longer have to endure this. I would be able to have peace knowing I’d done all I could and it just wasn’t meant to be for my baby to help other children through organ donation, but then it would have all been for nothing. The past thirty-five weeks of discomfort would have been for no reason, just another one of life’s inconveniences. I couldn’t let my mind go there. I had to find the strength to power through the endless doubt and discouragement.

  It didn’t help that my job was one of the most physically demanding and mentally taxing careers out there. Emotionally exhausted was an understatement. The twelve-hour shifts were a huge help, but at the end of them, I could barely feel my toes. My ankles were swollen, my feet throbbing. My lower back ached and my vagina felt like a bowling ball was sitting on it, ready to burst through at any moment. Working a normal twenty-four-hour shift was unimaginable to me. What was most embarrassing of all was how much I cried. You’d think it would be the fact that I piddled urine onto the pad I inserted into my underwear every morning like an incontinent ninety-year-old woman or perhaps the uncontrollable belching at any moment, but no—the tears were the worst. They would hit me at the most inappropriate and inopportune times. One day, I had a patient open on the table, having his broken pelvis reset by orthopedics while still under anesthesia from the procedure I had just completed, and I started bawling out of nowhere.

  “Will he ever walk again?” I sobbed, sniffling heavily under my surgical mask. “Will he have a limp for the rest of his life?”

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine with physical therapy,” the ortho said reassuringly, dismissing my emotional outburst.

  “But what if he isn’t?” I whined. “What if he has a janky leg forever? He’s so young.”

  “A janky leg?”

  “Yes!” I barked, ripping my gloves off into the biohazard bin. “He’ll probably never be the same. He’ll rehab it and try his best but he’ll always, for the rest of his life, have one leg that just isn’t quite right—a janky leg.” I couldn’t hold it back, now full-on crying.

  “Dr. Fine, are you okay?” the circulating nurse asked in concern.

  I aggressively wiped away the tears streaming down both sides of my face like a leaky faucet, ashamed and confused at myself.

  “I’m fine. Good grief, everyone. I’m just pregnant!” I bellowed as I stormed out of the room. Just before crossing through the doorway, I turned back to see everyone staring at me with shock and awe. “Is the count…was the final count correct?”

  Hope, the short and soft-spoken circulating nurse, answered me with pity in her voice. “Yes. You’re good to go.”

  It was then, at the scrub sink just outside my OR, that I felt my first real contraction.

  Chapter 56

  Andie

  “Hello?”

  “Kiko, it’s Andie—err, Dr. Fine, whatever. Listen, I need to come up for a sono.” I was talking a mile a minute.

  “Andie, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m contracting, or I think I am, anyway. I want to make sure she’s okay.”

  “Take a deep breath for me, Andie. How many weeks are you now?”

  “I am breathing,” I shot back, aggravated that she was patronizing me. “I’m thirty-five and five and I’ve felt contractions every ten minutes since I got out of my case an hour ago.”

  “Okay. Come on upstairs. I’ll scan you if you insist, although I think you’re probably just a little dehy—”

  I pressed the red button to end the call before she was even done talking and trekked toward the elevator. The frantic racing of my heart was unmistakable. She may have been right about the dehydration; I hadn’t had enough water to drink that day—but I never did. Who can actually walk around with a jug full of water just sipping it all day long like it’s their job? I have a job—a real one. I can’t be sipping and peeing all day, every day.

  Oh my God, please be okay, I mentally pleaded, instinctively resting my right hand on my protruding belly.

  I should call Vaughn.

  No. Get a grip. You don’t even know what’s happening yet.

  I was totally being one of ‘those’ people, and I hated those people. With the ding of the elevator, I rushed inside and pounded on the button to take me to the fifth floor. The contractions seemed to be getting closer together, but I wondered if it was all in my head because I was nervous. I had felt contractions here and there for weeks now, but they weren’t uncomfortable, just normal Braxton Hicks tightening I had heard and read about. Those were merely your uterus practicing for the big show, but these were different. They were tighter, harder, wrapping around from my back to the front like a wave, and very uncomfortable.

  Entering the office waiting room, the receptionist nodded her head to the right, signaling for me to go straight back without signing in. In that moment, I was thankful for the perks of being a physician.

  Theresa, the sweet nurse who had been Kiko’s assistant forever, greeted me in the hallway and escorted me straight to the back exam room. Right away, she grabbed the external monitors to apply to my belly and began searching for the heartbeat.

  A few seconds went by.

  Grumbled sounds were emitted through the scratchy speakers, sounds that were not the rhythmic beating of an alive baby. I tried to remain calm. Sometimes it took some time because of all the extra fluid I had surrounding the baby—a normal issue with anencephalic babies.

  A few more seconds passed, Theresa moving the round monitor head to different areas of my abdomen all the while.

  The tears started rolling and I choked back a sob.

  Please, no. Please be alive.

  “Sometimes it takes a minute,” she calmly said with her soothing voice that was doing nothing to soothe me. Seconds seemed like minutes, the longest of my life, and the dread that overcame me was almost unbearable.

  Buh-bum buh-bum buh-bum buh-bum.

  “There she is, way down here,” she said as she secured the device to me with elastic straps. “You feeling pressure, Mama? She’s really low in your pelvis.”

  The urge to make sure transcended and I reached down to take my own pulse on the side of my wrist, confirming that the sound I was hearing through the monitor was in fact the baby’s heartbeat. It didn’t match my pulse. Although my heart rate was fast because I was in freak-out mode, hers was faster.

  “Yeah.” It was all I said as I tried to compose myself. I couldn’t talk or think. I just wanted to listen to her beating, thumping heart blasting through the room. She’s okay…for now.

  Dr. Francisco walked in a few seconds later and smiled a toothless professional grin at me.

  “Andie.” She sighed. “Relax.”

  “I CAN’T RELAX! Is this normal? This can’t be normal.”

  “One thing at a time, okay?” She gestured over to Theresa for a sterile glove. “We’re picking up some contractions so I’m going to check your cervix.”

  “Okay, yes. Go ahead.”

  I relaxed my legs apart and reclined my head back for her to examine me. The intrusion was awkward and slightly uncomfortable, but I knew it would only be temporary.

  “You’re one centimeter—”

  “WHAT?” I gasped, lifting my head to look down at he
r. “One centimeter? I should be closed. What’s happening? Am I in labor?”

  “Now, hold on,” she requested, her fingers still invading me. “Your cervix is only about fifty percent thinned out and still pretty posterior.” I definitely felt that as she dug way back to find the opening. “But the baby’s head is extremely low. That’s probably the reason for you beginning to dilate a little.”

  “What do I do?” I asked in desperation. “I’m not ready. She’s not ready yet. She needs to be bigger.” The crying began again. I had no control.

  “Well, yes, we’d like to get you a little further along, sure.” She covered my lower half with the top sheet.

  “Kiko, you don’t understand—we HAVE to get me further or this will all have been for nothing.”

  “Andie, if I’ve learned anything in all my years as an obstetrician, it’s that no matter how much you try to control this situation, it is all out of our control.”

  “Oh, bullshit,” I blurted out, catching myself at the end. I brought my hand up to my mouth, shocked by my own brashness. “Sorry.”

  She just smiled, obviously immune to the crazy things that come out of pregnant people’s mouths.

  “Can you give me terbutaline or mag? Something to stop the labor?”

  “Slow down, Andie. It’s too early for any of that. Let me do my job.” The soft hand she rested on my forearm did nothing to reassure me.

  She reached over to type something into the sonogram machine and I tried to steady my breaths.

  The cold goop came next and the abdominal wand pressed into my belly, producing the telltale fuzzy images of my baby inside. She was moving her arms.

  “Are you measuring her?”

  “Yes,” she affirmed as she clicked and beeped.

  She measured her head, her femur length, even my amniotic fluid level.

  “Is she good?”

  “All is good. Your fluid level is still high but at an expected level. She’s moving around, and even practicing breathing a little here and there—all reassuring signs that she’s still okay in there.”