“Deep breaths,” he murmurs. I’m not sure if he’s reminding me or himself. “No moving until the ambulance gets here,” he says, dialing 911 with one hand. Holding the phone between his shoulder and chin, he starts walking to the other room. I hear him talk to the dispatcher, stating the problem and our address. He comes back in holding the duffel bag we planned to pack for the hospital. It’s not ready yet. We’re supposed to have another month.
“It’s going to be okay,” he says. As he starts the rummage through some drawers, throwing in T-shirts and underwear and a pair of pants I’m certain I haven’t fit into for months, I study my hands. They’re the only thing I can get my eyes to focus on. My wedding band is invisible in the folds of my bloated fingers. I have bear paws; my knuckles are nonexistent. The pressure in my head is also getting worse. Each beat of my racing heart sounds loudly in my ears. Thump-thump-thump-thump. My hands seem to pulsate along with it.
Jimmy crouches next to the bed and holds my hand again. “It’s going to be okay,” he repeats. I nod, but it’s hard to move my head. My mouth twitches, but no sound comes out. I’m swollen shut. “Don’t talk,” he whispers. “The ambulance will be here soon.” He says this with assurance, and I hope he’s right. My hand twitches, then my mouth again. Jimmy holds on tight, trying to steady me. Thump-twitch-thump-twitch-thump.
***
When I open my eyes, I see I’m attached to an IV line and there are tubes and electrodes attaching me to an array of beeping monitors. Blinking, I try to remember how I got here but draw a blank. My last memory is lying in bed and waiting for the ambulance. I don’t recall the drive to the hospital or being stuck with needles upon arrival. When I lick my lips, the bitter copper taste of blood fills my mouth. Suddenly I remember biting my tongue. After that, everything went black.
“She’s showing signs of eclamptic seizures,” the doctor tells Jimmy. Two nurses circle around them, moving back and forth from the screens and monitors hooked up on either side of me. Jimmy’s face is blurry. “Has she been taking the magnesium and blood thinner?”
Jimmy nods. “Yes. She hasn’t been feeling well the last few days. Headaches and some stomach pain,” he adds. I never told him I was sick, but he notices everything. The doctor adjusts a pair of dark-rimmed glasses and writes something in my chart. I feel myself slipping from consciousness again, unable to focus on their conversation.
Behind my eyes, the darkness is replaced by the fluttery drift of snowflakes. Voices dance in the background, those of doctors and nurses speaking to each other using terms I only vaguely recognize and mostly don’t understand.
Baby is bradycardic. There are signs of placental separation . . .
Emergency cesarean . . .
Mother’s severely hypertensive and rising . . .
The flurries turn to a blizzard, and the blackness is replaced by a stark white light. With all my strength I try to open my eyes to see Jimmy, but they’re sealed shut. The dog starts whining again, so loud I can’t hear the nurses or the doctors, so I have no idea what’s happening. All I want is Jimmy. Jimmy. Jimmy. I try calling his name, but it’s lost in the wind. All around me is white and cold, and then suddenly I’m not fighting it anymore. Suddenly I’m in a deep sleep.
52
Jimmy
Age 37
February 2008
Wren’s appendix burst when she was a junior in high school. She had a meet that weekend and had been practicing her routine for months. The competition was a qualifier for the New England Gymnastics Championship, and she was set to qualify in both the floor and the vault. After baseball practice each day, I’d accompany her to the gym, and from the bleachers I’d watch her drill flips and twirls while I did my homework.
It was a Friday night, and she was set to leave for the competition first thing Saturday morning. But she couldn’t even do a cartwheel on the mat. Out on the floor, she was willing her body to twist and contort, and it was begging her to stop. For a few days she’d complained about lower back pain, but nothing serious. Three minutes into her floor routine, she was doubled over on the mat, tears streaming down her face. Before I could think twice, I was running out to help her, ignoring the coach’s demand that I take off my shoes or else get off the floor.
Holding her in my arms, I ran to the front desk and insisted the receptionist call an ambulance, even though her coach kept maintaining it was only a strained muscle. The paramedics arrived shortly after, declared it a burst appendix, and rushed Wren to the hospital. They were amazed at her stoicism in the face of all that pain. I still remember the way her coach shrugged as if we were all being dramatic. Had we left it up to him, he would’ve handed her three Advil and told her to toughen up. The entire ride to the hospital she complained about missing the competition and begged to have the surgery delayed until after.
But that’s Wren for you. When she wants something bad enough, she thinks she’s indestructible.
***
“Are you sure you want to stay in the room?” the nurse asks. I swallow the lump in the back of my throat and hope my face isn’t as green as I imagine. Blood and needles make me squeamish. Even though I’ve spent a fair amount of time in the hospital for Wren’s chemo treatments, I’m still not good with the gross.
“Yes, I want to stay,” I say. I pull the mask up over my face, and it blocks the sharp smell of disinfectant in the air. Why does something so clean smell so sick?
“Just be prepared for some blood. A normal cesarean is pretty straightforward, but because of her placental separation, there might be significant blood loss.” I nod once and let her get back to business. Beneath the mask, I grimace.
Wren lies immovable on the bed. Monitors are hooked up to both her and the baby. She’s hypertensive, but the seizures have stopped. Seizures. Apparently the baby is in distress and this is the cause of the state of emergency we find ourselves in now. The baby needs to come out. Now.
Unsure what to do besides wait, I fold my hands together and close my eyes. I’m not a man of great faith, but I will take whatever help I can get.
Unable to find the words for a prayer, I envision our life like a flipbook and hope my memories are stronger than the fear.
The first time she looked at me.
Walking down the stairs in her prom dress.
Tossing her cap in the air.
When she said I do.
Her face when she told me we were pregnant.
Holding our baby for the first time.
Our baby crying for the first time is the sweetest song I’ve ever heard. That cry means life. It means things are okay. We finally have everything we’ve ever wanted. If only our miracle hadn’t come at such a cost. Wren is only now regaining consciousness. The sound of our baby girl awakening some primal part of her, forcing her awake to bear witness to our miracle.
“She’s beautiful,” I say, cradling her head. Wren is desperate to hold her, but her arms are strapped out to either side of her and she needs to stay still until the doctor has stitched her back up again. I hold our daughter out so her cheek lays flush against my wife’s. A tear slides down Wren’s face and is caught in the fine blonde hairs on our baby’s head. Together they breathe in and out, our little girl silent and studying her mom and me as she takes in her new world. I wish I could stay like this forever, but the nurse nods her head, hurrying me along. They need to get back to work on Wren.
“She’s perfect,” I whisper. “Everything we’ve ever dreamed.” I kiss Wren’s forehead and stand, cupping our baby to my shoulder. The nurse has swaddled her in a pink-and-blue receiving blanket, but she’s still a tiny little bundle. Her fingers are perfectly formed, and she has a full head of hair. I imagine it’ll be curly like mine and the same honey blonde as Wren’s.
The machines attached to Wren start to chirp. The chirping quickly becomes angry bleeping. Nurses rush in through the double glass doors, the already crowded room suddenly claustrophobic. The head scrub nurse gives me a pointed look and holds out
her hands to take the baby from me, but I clutch her to my chest tighter.
“I love you,” Wren murmurs. Her eyes are glassy, but no tears fall and her skin is white and clammy. “I’m so sorry, Jimmy.”
“Oh, baby, I love you too. Don’t be sorry; you gave me this beautiful baby. Everything is going to be okay. We’re going to be just fine,” I say. I hate lying to her, but in this case I simply don’t know the truth. I don’t know if she’ll be okay, but I do know we will be fine.
“June,” she sighs, her voice barely audible over the beeps of the machines. I hold our baby down to her face once more, and she kisses the little head, the little fingers. “June Robin.” My heart is heavy in my chest and my emotions are stuck in my throat; I fear I might choke on them all. This moment should be a happy beginning, but something about her voice sounds final.
“June Robin,” I repeat, and smile through my tears. I lean down and kiss Wren on the lips. They’re cold and dry, not her lips at all. Around her, nurses talk about blood loss and shock. Their concerned voices swell to a drone in the background. “I love you. I’ll see you when you get out.”
“Good-bye, Jimmy,” she says, her eyes already starting to close.
“Good-bye for now,” I correct her, unwilling to believe this could be the end. “For now.” I nod at the scrub nurse and she takes June from my grasp, and I follow her out of the room toward recovery. Behind me the machines are silenced, and the quiet of the surgical suite scares me more than anything else.
As the door closes behind me, I hear myself sob. I don’t recognize my voice but know the sound is coming from inside me. My knees give out and I fall to the floor.
***
The waiting is torture. The nurse showed me how to change a diaper and reswaddle June. Now I lie in the hospital bed meant for Wren and wait with our daughter, who sucks greedily at a bottle instead of her mother’s breast. A nurse comes in to update me. She says the blood loss was extensive. They managed to close the incision and were hopeful the bleeding had been stopped, but then my wife coded. My beautiful, strong Wren slipped from this world for a moment.
They were able to revive her, only to find that because of her previous oophorectomy, the uterine wall had been compromised and concealed the problem. The doctors are currently attempting to repair her uterus but are afraid the damage to her liver is too extensive. One by one her organs are starting to fail, and her heart is already weakened. With a somber face and steady voice, the nurse tells me they aren’t sure how much more trauma she can sustain. The nurse warns me she isn’t sure Wren will wake up long enough to see June, but I know better. She’d never leave without saying good-bye.
Things don’t look good, but I’ve never been quick to give up hope. Miracles do happen. I hold June Robin closer to my heart and brush my lips against her head. I hope this family has one more stored away today.
53
Wren
Age 36
February 2008
The dog (wolf?) sits patiently on its haunches. It’s waiting for me. It’s still snowing, almost a blizzard now. The dog/wolf blends into the snow, and I can barely make it out amid the swirling flakes.
No more barking. No more whining. It only sits.
Waiting. Patiently waiting.
Just a little longer.
“I love you.” Jimmy’s voice echoes in my ear a moment before his face comes into blurry focus. He holds our baby against my breast. I should be holding her, feeding her, but I’m too weak. I can barely lift my hand to caress her cheek.
She looks like Jimmy. And like me. A perfect combination of our best parts.
“June.” Speaking is hard, like I’m talking around a mouthful of sand. The exertion it takes to utter the one word is excruciating, but I try again. “June Robin.”
Jimmy nods and smiles at me. He says it will all be okay, that this is only good-bye for now. I’m struck by a sense of déjà vu and realize it’s because he’s said this to me before, not that long ago. But it isn’t true anymore. I’m not going to make it. My body is fading, my strength slipping. The dog waits to take me away.
How do I say good-bye to Jimmy? I’ve never been apart from him. In over twenty-two years, we’ve only ever spent a few days away from each other. He’s the half to my whole. Yang to my yin. My best friend. The father of my child. My everything. If there was ever an argument for soul mates, we are it. Good-bye can’t be real; good-bye isn’t meant for us. I may leave him, but I’ll never be truly gone. I’ll always be there with him, each time he looks into the face of our beautiful baby girl. Our miracle.
My eyes close again. I think I said the word—good-bye. But Jimmy and I have never needed many words, so I know if I didn’t say it, it’s all okay.
When I open my eyes, I’m alone. The nurse has taken them from the room. A doctor and team hover around my midsection, ready for one last attempt to save me. I wish they’d stop and bring my Jimmy and June back, but I suppose one of us has to leave first.
Everything slips away. The blizzard whirls. The world turns white.
Before I leave, he’s back. He couldn’t let me go alone. Through the haze of tears, he looks different. Older. He grips my hand in his and kisses my palm so softly I barely feel it before the storm whips me away.
54
Karen
After
February 2008
When did it all go to shit?
So consumed with my own so-called life, I stopped paying attention to Jimmy and Wren. Maybe if I watched—properly haunted—I could have prevented this. Maybe it’s all my fault.
James insists we aren’t to blame, but he can’t be sure. Seems like only yesterday we were certain our love was changing them, helping them. Each kiss and every touch translated to an influx of happiness in their world. After the miscarriage, I know we made a difference. I believe this with all my heart. Maybe our love could have healed her. I’ll never forgive myself if we fail to help them now. Grasping James’s hand now, I hope every ounce of love oozes into the universe.
“She’s going to be okay, right?” I ask James. My ability to hope for the best is being tested. Too afraid to enter the operating room myself, I hope Wren looks better than when she got picked up in the ambulance. They strapped her to the gurney seizing and pale, hardly recognizable. Jimmy didn’t look much better.
“She has to be,” he says. We stare at the doors to the operating room, waiting for Jimmy to come out. Two other fathers have soared from their rooms, announcing to the waiting room in general that they’re dads. It’s Jimmy’s turn now.
“The baby will be okay,” James murmurs, as if saying it out loud might make it true. “She’s far enough along; the baby will be okay.” He says this again, and I can appreciate the comfort it brings, but what about Wren? After all the time I spent hating her, I want her to live. Now that I’m finally getting my happily-ever-after, I want it for her too.
I rest my head against his shoulder and lean closer to him, desperate to feel every part of him. If I could absorb him into myself, I would. I close my eyes and pray for the doors to open. For Jimmy to stride out and pump his fist into the air and cry happy tears, declare he’s a father.
My wish is granted. The doors swoosh open and a nurse holding a swaddled baby comes out first, Jimmy close on her heels. He looks like a man lost, not a man thrilled to be a father. As the doors click shut behind him, he falls to his knees as if something has pulled a rug from beneath his feet.
The other people in the waiting room look away, but James and I can’t stop staring. Jimmy’s pain is blinding. I wish I could look down at a magazine and ignore it like the man sitting in the corner. I wish I could be thankful it wasn’t me like the lady rummaging in her purse for a stick of gum, blatantly looking anywhere but at the man crying in the hallway. But I feel his pain as if it were my own. His sobs rack his whole body; his tears litter the floor. James looks at me and nods. He knows me so well by now. In an instant we disappear into the utility closet at the end
of the ward.
“She’s not going to make it,” I whisper.
“Don’t say that,” James scolds. He draws me in and holds me tight to his chest, his lips brushing my forehead.
“Jimmy wouldn’t be that upset if she were okay. He looks like he wants to die,” I groan. Clinging to James, I try to get the sound of Jimmy sobbing out of my head, but it echoes and gets louder. “This isn’t fair. They were so close.” I begin to sob in earnest onto his shoulder. I cry for Jimmy and Wren. I cry for the baby who won’t have a mommy. I cry for it all.
James shushes me, his mouth against my hair. “It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs, the same words Jimmy whispered to Wren, over and over.
I cry into James’s shirt. My tears are real and hot and wet. Alive. “I love you,” I say.
One second I’m in the closet with James.
The next—
55
James
After
February 2008
She’s gone. Disappeared. One second she’s saying she loves me and the next I’m alone, holding on to nothing, not even air. It’s been a long time since she’s run away. The stress has finally broken her.
I call down the halls, but she doesn’t answer. She’s not in the waiting room. So far she hasn’t ventured near Wren, but I wonder if she was drawn to her by the invisible force of fate. Lately we’ve discussed whether we truly had control over where we went in this world. Karen and Wren are irrevocably linked. I go there.
Karen isn’t there. All around Wren the doctors and nurses rush to change a fate already written. Wren’s eyes are closed, her lashes brushing her cheeks. She’s so still I can barely tell if she is breathing. Kneeling beside her bed I take her cool hand in my own and am unsurprised by the weight of it in my hand. I brush my lips gently against her palm and an electric current runs through me, seizing my heart. For a split second her eyes flutter open and a spark of recognition flickers before they slide shut forever. I lay my head against her chest and listen for a heartbeat I know isn’t there. This Wren or my Karen—no version could ever be so still. More hummingbird than wren, she was always moving.
Sometime, Somewhere Page 24
