by Kennedy Ryan
On my way out, I stop to kiss Bristol’s cheek.
“You knew about this.” She narrows her eyes, but a smile breaks through. “A co-conspirator.”
“You can punish me later.”
“Oh, I plan to.” She tips up to whisper in my ear, “We can have beached whale sex when everyone leaves.”
“My new favorite position,” I joke. “However I can get it in.”
“Ugh.” She scowls and smiles at the same time. “You’re awful.”
“I’m in love.” I cradle her face in my hands.
“So am I.” She puts her hands over mine, her eyes locking on me. “Thank you for this.”
I nod and bend to kiss her belly, no longer just a bump. Now that we’re at the end, she can’t see her toes anymore. I’m gonna miss this belly, and a sudden pain harpoons me at the thought, nearly taking my breath. Once this belly is gone, so is our little girl.
Over the next hour, I try to lose myself in the soccer match, but I keep finding my ears straining to hear what they’re doing in there. I figure I can ask Jade when she joins me, but she never does, and that’s got me curious. I pad down the hall and surreptitiously poke my head around the corner. Jade’s still there. Matter of fact, she’s adding her words to all the other pen markings covering Bristol’s belly. Right across the middle is scrawled the name we chose for the baby.
Zoe.
It means life. That’s what’s possible: that Zoe’s life and death will save someone else. Bristol laughs and squirms as Jade puts the finishing touches on what looks like a baby panda.
“It tickles!” Bristol screeches, tossing her head back, her dark hair swinging behind her.
She’s so beautiful and so happy. I want to freeze this moment and store it in a time capsule, bury it for safekeeping, for posterity, to show the other children we’ll have a picture of their mother fierce enough to find joy in the most difficult time of her life.
What feels like days later but is only a few hours, the cupcakes are gone, the games are stowed away, the facials are done. These well-meaning women have taken Bristol from me all day, and as much as I love them, I want her back. I want her to myself. There’s a strength we draw from one another that comes in the quiet at the end of the day, holding each other, talking about everything, reassuring each other. It’s not much, but it seems to be the only thing that truly soothes the ache that’s grounded itself immovably in my heart.
I wander into the kitchen, hoping maybe one cupcake survived, only to stop at the door. My mother and Bristol are huddled together against the sink, a tangle of arms and tears and grief and strength. Every primal instinct in my body blares for me to protect the two most important women in my life, to stop whatever is hurting them, but reason filters in and I feel more helpless than I ever have. It’s just life, just death, an inexorable cycle that has shattered my illusion of control, and there is truly nothing I can do to stop the pain.
Bristol glances up from their weepy embrace, a subtle curve tweaking her lips.
“Hey babe.” Her voice, husky and raspy from tears, strangles in her throat. “I was just telling your mom Zoe’s middle name.”
It’s Millicent, Ma’s name. Everyone calls her Mittie, but that’s because Jade couldn’t say Millicent and started calling her Aunt Mittie. It stuck, and we all adopted it, but her given name is Millicent, and like a precious heirloom, we’re passing it on to Zoe.
My mom has talked so much about grandkids in the past, I’m sure these weren’t the circumstances into which she envisioned her first one being born. I insinuate myself into their tight circle, enveloping them both in my arms and trying to give them strength from my depleted reserves.
“I love you,” Ma whispers, pulling back to put her right hand on my cheek and her left on Bristol’s. “Both of you. We’ll get through this. God’ll get us through it. Y’all got my prayers.”
My mama might love her bottle of Ace of Spades and I may have even seen her toke a couple of times growing up when things got hard, but she never misses a Sunday. I know it bothers her that the faith she tried to cultivate for years when I was younger holds no real place in my life anymore.
“Thank you for that. We can use all the prayers we can get,” Bristol replies, shocking the hell out of me. Since when did she care if somebody was praying? I guess tough times can do that to you.
I walk Ma to the door, nodding while she prattles, assuring her that I’ll make sure Bristol gets some rest and promising we’ll eat the food she left in the refrigerator for us.
“Marlon, look at me.” She reaches up to grasp my chin, holding my eyes with an intensity I’ve never seen before. “Bristol is a survivor, we both know that, but she’s not ready for this.”
“She’ll be—”
“Neither are you,” she cuts in, her throat muscles working to hold back tears. “I know you’re trying to brace yourself for it, but I want you to accept that you can’t be prepared for this kind of pain, even when you know it’s coming.”
I stop trying to talk, to defend, to reassure, and instead just absorb her wisdom.
“It’s obvious how much you love your wife and how she adores you, but this will change things.” Ma’s brows gather over troubled eyes. “You don’t come out of this kind of battle without some scars, and as much as it’s gonna hurt you, it’s Bristol who has carried Zoe all this time, felt her move and shared her very body with her. Just remember when the time comes that it’s a little different for her, maybe a little deeper, even closer to the bone. Fathers don’t like to hear that, but listen to your mama, Marlon.”
I don’t trust my voice, but just nod. Mama is the last to leave, and I lean against the cottage door for a minute, letting the sudden silence sink into my overworked senses. I understand what my mom meant about not being ready even when I think I am, but I’m glad I at least have the next month to try.
They say God laughs when we make plans. When I go back to Bristol in the kitchen, I think that must be true. She’s at the sink, right where I left her, eyes wide and red-rimmed, cheeks tear-streaked, hair rioting in thick dark and dappled waves down her back. It’s not how she looks that brings that proverb to mind, it’s what she says on a startled gasp of breath.
“My water broke.”
38
Grip & Bristol
Birth Plan for Zoe Millicent James
Our baby girl has been diagnosed with anencephaly. However imperfect she appears to some, she is ours, and we already love her deeply and will treasure any time we have with her.
Please call her by her name, Zoe. Please ask us how we feel, if she has been active, and other things we’ve experienced that make this pregnancy special. This validates and honors Zoe’s life.
We understand that after the birth, situations may arise that were not anticipated and decisions will need to be made. Please keep us informed so we can participate in the decisions. Please take no intervention without our approval, other than what is outlined below. We trust you will respect our wishes.
In the delivery room, we would like Zoe’s father, Marlon, to be present, and the doctor who will be delivering Zoe. Other family members and visitors will wait in the waiting area.
I, Bristol (mother), would like to give birth vaginally, unless strongly advised for a C-section.
We would like to receive a birth certificate and death certificate for Zoe.
We would like her footprints and handprints.
We do not wish any testing to be done on Zoe.
If our baby’s heart stops prior to delivery, we do want to be informed.
We do not want the birth videotaped, but we want plenty of photos afterward.
Any drugs given to Zoe should be approved by the parents and should be given in doses to provide maximum comfort while allowing her to be alert to meet her family and visitors while she can.
Zoe’s father will cut the umbilical cord.
We would like oral and nasal suctioning for Zoe’s comfort only and no intubation witho
ut our permission.
After Zoe is born, we ask that she be wiped, suctioned (if needed), wrapped in a blanket, and whether alive or stillborn, handed to us.
We would also like to give Zoe her first bath.
Please hand her first to her father Marlon, as we wish to cuddle our baby immediately. We ask that vital signs, weight, medications, and labs be postponed, if possible.
If Zoe has fewer problems than expected, please discuss all possible testing and treatment options with us.
Other than routine post-delivery care, we wish for private time with our baby. We will discuss any exceptions that should be made. We want Zoe to be with us in the room at all times.
Zoe’s grandmother Millicent James will serve as liaison with family and friends, periodically providing updates and managing the flow of people that she escorts into our room, at our request only, and will help us with phone calls.
We have reserved a section of the maternity wing, and only authorized personnel and approved friends and family are allowed access. Under no circumstances should members of the press be allowed access to the area.
Memorial/funeral plans have been made for Zoe at La Casa Memorial Gardens and Funeral Home.
We wish to hold Zoe as she is dying or after she has died. Zoe will be donating her organs for transplant. Based on the circumstances of her birth and death, she may be capable of donating heart valves, corneas (both tissue donation), and possibly kidneys and liver cells. As soon as she passes, Zoe will be taken directly to recovery surgery in preparation for organ donation. A burial garment will be provided.
We would like to keep the following items as keepsakes: lock of hair, ID bracelet, crib card, handprints and footprints (molds if possible), weight card, hat, blanket, clothes, family handprints, and photographs, both color and black and white. We have a memory box to store any items collected.
We do not want an autopsy done.
Thank you for helping us make this bittersweet time as bearable and memorable as possible.
Bristol & Marlon James
39
Grip
“We need to adjust the plan.”
Dr. Wagner’s words are not the ones I wanted to hear. It feels like the plan is already adjusted enough since we’re delivering a month earlier than we’re supposed to.
“She doesn’t want a C-section.” I keep my voice low enough for just the doctor to hear. “You know how important that is to her.”
I hazard a glance to where Bristol rests between contractions. She scraped her hair back from her face, but tendrils have insisted on loosening from the restraint and cling to her face. Her hospital gown is drenched, and her head flops to the side in exhaustion. I’ve lost track of how long she’s been in labor, but apparently, Dr. Wagner thinks it’s been long enough.
“Her labor isn’t progressing.” Dr. Wagner’s eyes soften with compassion, but her jaw sets with resolve. “The baby’s heart rate is dropping. Given that you wanted as easy a passage for Zoe and as much time with her as possible, we need to adjust, and now. I can tell Bristol or—”
“No.” I shake my head decisively. “It needs to be me. I’ll tell her.”
“Good.” She signals to a nurse hovering nearby. “We need to start prepping her for surgery. I’ll give you a minute to explain the situation.”
Dr. Wagner, in a rare lowering of her professional guard, grabs my hand and squeezes.
“You’ve come this far, Grip,” she says, her eyes sympathetic and grave. “You and Bristol set this course that most can’t or don’t follow. It’s time to see it through to the end.”
I rein in fear and frustration and rage and helplessness, trying not to panic while a propeller spins out of control in my chest. I never had a father to teach me what it means to be a man, how to lead a household, support a family, love a wife. Most of what I know about love and about leading, a woman taught me. My mother taught me, and every lesson, every bit of advice, everything she tried to impart to me, I’m grappling for, struggling to remember as I approach the hardest thing I’ve ever done and will probably ever do.
“Bris,” I whisper, brushing the wet strands from her forehead. “Hey babe.”
Her eyes open and roll a little with fatigue and the medication she’s been given for pain before she focuses on my face.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, her voice thinned by the long hours. “The baby—”
“She’s fine. You’re doing great, but we . . .”
I hate to do this knowing how badly Bristol wanted to deliver naturally. It’s one more thing from this experience that won’t be as we wanted it, one more thing I have to take away from her.
“We need to do a C-section, Bris.” I watch her face, and my heart contracts when a solitary tear streaks over her cheekbone.
“No, Grip, I . . .” She swipes at the tear impatiently and compresses her lips. “Why?”
“Your labor isn’t progressing. It’s been too long. We were hoping it would happen quickly, naturally, but if we want Zoe to have the easiest passage, want time with her, we need to do it now.”
“Now?” Her eyes widen and she saws at her lip with her teeth. “I . . . now.”
“Yeah.” I glance over my shoulder as Dr. Wagner and her team enter the room. “They want to start prepping you.”
She grabs my hand, squeezing it hard enough to draw blood.
“Grip, I’m scared.” Tears swim over the terror in her silvery eyes. “I . . . I can’t do this.”
I can count on one hand the number of times Bristol has told me she feared anything. We hadn’t really talked about surgery much because we weren’t planning on it, but I know enough to ease her mind, and anything I don’t know, Dr. Wagner can fill in.
“It’s a simple surgery,” I reassure her. “They’ll just—”
“No, not the surgery.” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I mean . . . what comes after the surgery.”
She looks back at me, fear obscuring the confidence, the fearlessness I’m used to seeing.
“I can’t do this.” Her lips tremble as her nails slice into my skin. “I don’t think I can let her go.”
Fuck.
I don’t think I can do this either, but we have to. The team is hovering, and Dr. Wagner’s urgency is quickly becoming impatience, breathing down the back of my neck.
“Bris, it’s gonna be . . .” The word “okay” congeals in my mouth. Bristol and I don’t lie, not to each other. Our relationship is built on uncomfortable conversations, shitty odds and, in Bristol’s words, love without walls. I’m not erecting walls between us now with anything less than the truth.
“I don’t know if it’s gonna be okay,” I admit quietly.
Her weary eyes spark and latch onto my confession, to my unexpected honesty.
“I’ve never made you promises I can’t keep, Bris, and I’m not gonna start bullshitting you now.”
I gulp back the trepidation that would keep me from saying what has to be said before they make the cut that will bring Zoe to us, for minutes, hours, or days.
“Shit’s about to get real,” I say. “And the only thing I can promise you is that I will love you for the rest of my life, and I truly believe we can survive anything together. Do you believe that?”
I’ll never forget this moment when, through the abject fear and despair and exhaustion saturating her eyes, I glimpse her trust in me. It’s the greatest gift I’ve ever received.
“Yes.” Her voice comes out frail, but that steel that reinforces her character. It’s there. It defies the shit-storm we’re flying into. I like to think it defies it because we are flying into it together. I’m not God—I can’t promise her miracles, and as badly as I wish I could, I can’t save Zoe. When it’s time to let her go, I’ll be as shredded as Bristol. I am her husband, though, and she’s the only woman I’ve ever loved. All I can promise is that through everything, we’ll have each other.
40
Bristol
I wake up disoriented and num
b in some places, vaguely aching in others. My last lucid memory is the concern etching lines into Grip’s face as he promised me everything would be okay.
No, that’s not right.
He didn’t promise everything would be okay during the C-section or afterward. He promised to love me, and I know he still does.
But is everything okay?
“Grip?” Briars clot my throat and make my voice rough.
“Hey.” He comes into view, and my heart pounds at the sight of him and then stops when I see him holding a tiny swaddled bundle. “You’re back.”
I remember now. My mind fights through the haze of drugs and exhaustion. I remember struggling to stay awake. Between the drugs and fatigue, I just needed to hear her cry. There was an incredible pressure below the curtain that blocked the lower half of my body, and then a sharp cry. Then, as if my body had held out as long as it possibly could, as soon as I heard that cry, everything went dark.
“Is she . . .”
Alive? Still here? Did I miss her? Is she already gone?
The questions clamor for first place in my head, muddling my thoughts. Tears aren’t far behind, burning my eyes and making my lips tremor.
“She’s right here.” I can’t figure out if Grip’s eyes are more tender when he looks down at our baby girl or back to me. “You wanna hold her?”
Syllables and sounds jumble in my throat, and something close to a whimper then an uncertain nod is all I can manage.
“Zoe,” Grip says, leaning down to the bed with his little bundle. “Meet your beautiful mama.”
He transfers the sweet weight to my arms, leaving a kiss in my hair, which I’m sure is mangled and matted all over my head, but he doesn’t seem to care. If anything, his lips linger.
The tip of a tiny hat peeks from beneath the striped blanket. I hesitate, knowing when I pull the blanket back, when I see her, there’s no going back. I slowly peel the cover away. My heart was braced for something gruesome. The pictures I found online promised nothing like what I’m holding. Her eyes may bulge a little more than typical, but they’re the same gray that stares back at me each morning in the mirror, and her little mouth, even at this stage, bears the wide fullness and sculpted lines of her father’s. I know what Dr. Wagner told me, what all the research says—that she has no cognitive function. How could she, missing most of her brain? I know any movement is just instinctual twitches, reflexes, not responses to stimuli. Maybe my heart just wants to fool itself into thinking there’s an awareness simmering in her eyes, that somehow she knows I’m her mother. I faced the fires of hell to meet her, to have her, even for just minutes or hours, and Grip and I have risked our hearts to hold her.