The Overdue Life of Amy Byler

by Kelly Harms

  “Ok. Good tip.” He sounds angry, and what right does he have to be angry with me? But of course, I’m angry with him, too, and the nurse, and anyone else unlucky enough to confirm this isn’t some nasty dream.

  “This may be your first real kid crisis, but it’s not mine.”

  “This is more than a kid crisis,” John says. “She’s not fully conscious. There could be swelling or bleeding or brain damage.”

  I look up at the ceiling. Doesn’t he know—you should never say your worst parenting fears aloud? “You been watching reruns of ER? Be cool. Don’t jinx her.”

  “Jinx her? What is wrong with you?” he asks. “This isn’t a T-ball game.”

  “Hush!” I say. The doctor, or at least someone in a long white coat, is coming. She walks in, stands in front of us, and says, “My name is Dr. Boch. Are you the parents of Corinne Byler?”

  John says nothing. I nod, show my wristband, and say, “What do you know?”

  “We’ve had a good look at the CT scan, and unfortunately there is bleeding—a subarachnoid hemorrhage that I believe we can operate on successfully. It would have been posttraumatic—as I understand it, she hit her head while diving yesterday? So she maybe went home feeling ok, got a bad headache—symptomatic of the SAH—went to bed, and then couldn’t wake up? Is that how you heard it too?”

  I nod. That is what her coach told me when I called her back. She sneaked out to goof around with her new friends at the pool. Hit her head and made the others promise not to tell. Went back to her room, her single room, and missed this morning’s early-bird practice . . .

  “So we need to be concerned about stroke, vasospasm, hydrocephalus—”

  “What are you saying?” asks John. And then to me, “Is she speaking English?”

  “Hush,” I say again, louder. “Listen!”

  The doctor slows down. “Mr. Byler, your daughter hit her head, and there was a brain bleed—blood in a layer of the covering of the brain. This happens to a lot, maybe a quarter, of people with a big head injury like Cori’s.”

  “No,” says John. “No.”

  Dr. Boch presses on. “We could see it on a scan we gave her, and we are going to need to operate right away.”

  “Brain surgery?” says John. “Absolutely not. We need a second opinion.”

  The doctor is taken aback. “That’s your right, but I would recommend we proceed quickly. We are very sure of what is going on, and there are some time constraints. First, we needed to make sure to take care of her vital functions, which we have done, and she is stable. Now we need to operate on her head to stop the bleeding.”

  “Is this absolutely necessary?” asks John.

  “Yes,” says the doctor without missing a beat. “It is. Now. This is a complicated surgery, and I have performed it several times. The prognosis is much better than it used to be, but it is not perfect. I have an excellent track record, and I work with one of the best possible teams, and your daughter could not be in better hands. I just need your consent, and then I need to ask you some things about your daughter to prepare.”

  “Go ahead,” I say.

  “No,” says John. “Don’t go ahead. I don’t know what this means.” He is crying, I realize. He has lost his shit. He seems to be shrinking beside me.

  I grab his hand. “Take some deep breaths, John. Sit down. I can take it from here.”

  John looks at me, then at the doctor, then back to me. “You can handle this?” he whispers to me.

  I nod. “Yes, I can, and I will. You just try to relax. Take deep breaths. Do you need to be sick?”

  “No,” whimpers John. But he is holding my hand with a death grip.

  “Ok, then. Hang in there and let me do this. I think we need to work quickly.”

  “Yes, your wife is correct,” says the doctor. “I will answer any questions you have as best I can, but the truth is we cannot delay this surgery.”

  “We don’t have any questions right now,” I lie, because of course all this time my mind is spasming with panic and questions and blinding, incapacitating fear that cannot be allowed to take over. “Tell me what you need to know, and then after that have someone bring me a bunch of pamphlets or whatever. Or send in an intern who can explain it to us slowly? The point is let’s get moving.”

  “Good. Now, does Cori smoke?”

  “No.”

  “Use cocaine, to the best of your knowledge?”

  “No.”

  “Any chance she could be pregnant?”

  “No.”

  “Does she take oral contraceptives?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?” cries John.

  “Ignore him,” I say to the doctor.

  “History of high blood pressure?”

  “Paternal,” I say.

  “Any previous concussion or traumatic brain injury?”

  “No.”

  “That’s fortunate. She must be a strong diver.”

  “Very.”

  “Good. Let’s get her back on that board. Someone will be coming in with paperwork and some long, detailed medical histories for you to fill out. You’ll need to be very, very patient. This procedure takes as long as it takes. But usually at least eight hours. The CNA will provide you some information on family self-care, as well as directions to the cafeteria.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “And the chapel,” she adds, “is on the fifth floor,” and I know from that, more than from any of the medical talk, that things are as serious as I feared.

  “Ok,” I say, nodding my understanding. “You fix her, ok?” I tell her. I hope I sound threatening, not desperate.

  “That’s my job, and I’m very good at it. Your job is to hang in there while I work. Is anyone else coming? Maybe someone to look after your husband?” She tilts her head at him, and for the first time I notice he has let go of my hand and is retching into a wastebasket.

  “He’s not my husband,” I tell her, though I’m not sure why that’s important at the moment. “But I will try to find him a minder.”

  The doctor nods. “Your daughter is in very good hands,” she tells me again, and I think oddly on the fact that among a doctor’s many jobs is the task of getting the family to leave you alone so you can work. I’m glad I’m not her. And yet I wish I could go with her to be with Cori.

  “Can I come?” I ask her.

  “Why don’t you come give her a nice kiss before she goes into the OR,” says Dr. Boch. “Everyone knows the best medicine is a kiss from your mom.”

  I press my lips together tight to keep from crying. I am thinking, Really? Even at fifteen? Even for a TBI? The doctor puts her hand on my back gently and leads me to Cori’s bed.

  “Ok,” says Dr. Boch to the staff when we walk into the room, now crowded with scrubs. “This is Mom; she’s going to hold Cori’s hand and help her get off to sleep. Is anesthesia here?”

  “Present,” says a tall, thin man, and he introduces himself. “I’ll put this mask over Cori’s mouth and nose, and the anesthesia will be delivered continuously using a carefully calibrated machine. She’ll be fully unconscious and comfortable until the surgery is finished,” he tells me.

  “Be careful,” I tell him. “She’s a good one.”

  He nods. “I can tell.” Then, as if he’s in a play, he tells the room we’re ready to move. “Give her a hug and a kiss if you’d like,” he says to me, and I hug her and kiss her, and though her eyes are half-closed, I tell her she looks great and I can’t wait to see her later today, and then I tell her I love her, and then I start telling her all the things I love about her—her strength, her bravery, her spirit—and then the anesthesiologist interrupts me and gently says, “Ok, Mom, time to go,” and Cori is wheeled away.

  And I am grateful, when she is gone, to find her room empty, to watch the doctors and nurses and cast of thousands trail away to the OR. Because though I would rather Cori be anywhere else but in the OR with a neurosurgeon, since that is where she is, at least she
will not be able to see me cry.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Dear Cori,

  You’ve asked me, over the last couple of months, if I could take back Dad. You asked me if I would change on my momspringa and never be the same. You wanted to know what would come after August ended.

  I didn’t know the answer to any of those questions, so I didn’t even try to answer them. Then you sneaked out of the dorms with the cool girls and hit your head on the diving board, and you were too embarrassed to go to the coach, so you just went to bed alone, and now you might never wake up. And I have to tell you, it feels like that is all there is in the whole world, and all your questions, and all the questions in the universe, are easily answerable, except for the only ones that matter right now: What will happen to my beautiful, perfect daughter? Are you going to be ok?

  And I hate this. I hate that now that I know the answers to your questions, there’s no way to tell them to you. Except in my heart. So I’m going to tell them in my heart. And I’m going to pray and pray you hear them, somehow.

  So: Will I take back Dad? Honestly, I don’t think it would make any of us happy. And I won’t do it just to make him stay in your lives. If that’s the only way to get him to stay, none of us really want to be with him, do we? We can do much, much better than that. But if you want me to be with Dad because you believe it’s what this family needs, he and I will try to hear you out, because you are the smartest, bravest, most clear-hearted girl I have ever known. And I will trust you to the end.

  Have I changed on my momspringa? Yes, but not in the way you think. I didn’t revert to my party girl days with Talia. I didn’t ever, not once, regret having you and Joe. I didn’t get sold on the fancy clothes or the high-heeled shoes or even the fashion-closet purses (though I am never going back to ill-fitting bras, and I vow on my mother’s grave to spend whatever it costs to get you good support when or if your breasts ever need it). I liked dressing up from time to time, and I liked having time to myself, and I liked going out on dates. So the change you’ll see when we all get home is that I show you how creating an enjoyable life—not just a vacation but a life—is just another important part of being a mother, like serving vegetables once a week or lecturing your kids about slouching.

  When you get better—and you’re going to get better, baby—you’re going to date a lot, and go to college, and meet someone wonderful, and have a kid, maybe even in that order. And you’re going to remember me and never, ever sell yourself down the river to be some kind of perfect mom. Not for a second. When you feel the urge, you’re going to put on the well-fitting bra I bought you fifteen years earlier and leave your kids in the care of a moderately competent person and go do something that is only for yourself, and if you don’t know what that should be, then you’re going to think about it until you do.

  And your last question: What will come when the summer ends?

  You’ll come home. It’s the only answer in the world that matters.

  You’ll come home, and together, we’ll figure everything else out.

  —

  The first three hours that Cori is in surgery, the time goes very, very quickly. That is because I am crying and looking up medical terms and crying and looking up brain disorders and crying alternately, and this is very time consuming. It is not until almost noon that my phone battery gets low enough and I get dehydrated enough to peek my head out of Cori’s empty hospital room, and when I get to the respite room, I find John asleep, sitting maybe three feet away from a TV blaring cable news directly into his face. I look at his sleeping form. He looks all tuckered out, like a child who played outside from sunup to sundown.

  I know if he is sleeping during our daughter’s brain surgery, he is very tired. The kids, of course, have worn him out. Just like they wore me out before I left. But also, John powers down when he’s overwhelmed. He did it during my first labor and during shake-ups at work and after the third baby was lost. It has always seemed to work for him—he’d come back rejuvenated and ready to move on. But for me it was just one more way I felt lonely.

  I look at his sleeping form and find myself stunned that I ever shed tears over this man. Three years ago, without realizing it, I escaped a life sentence with a partner who literally slept through the hardest moments in our lives, leaving me alone to deal with them. The worst thing that ever happened to me also happened to be the luckiest moment of my life.

  If Cori is ok—please, please, she has to be ok—I will never waste another sad thought on my marriage again. I will celebrate what we had, our wonderful kids, our happier times. I will help John be the best father he can possibly be, wherever he chooses to live. But I will also date, live my life for real this time, and stop pining for something that wasn’t that great in the first place. There’s no Daniel in PA, that’s for sure and certain, but maybe I’ll meet someone pleasant enough. Or maybe I’ll travel to New York every once in a while to see him. Maybe we’ll find some way to keep close . . .

  If Cori lives, I promise to the great beyond, I’ll live too.

  And if she doesn’t . . . well, then whatever I do won’t matter much either way.

  —

  After the first six hours of surgery, I start staring obsessively at the entry to the respite lounge. Every single time I hear steps or see a shadow moving outside the room, I pop up in my chair. After an hour of this I decide to take a walk. It’s going to be another hour or maybe two, and this vigil will only make me crazy.

  I walk out to the nurses’ station to let someone know I’m on the move. But when I say I’m setting off for a walk, the nurse on duty tells me that my sister is on her way in. “Or the patient’s aunt, maybe?” she clarifies when I look confused.

  Lena. Thank god. “Oh, that’s great. I didn’t realize she was coming,” I say and head to the elevators to meet her. The timing is perfect—the doors are just opening, and there is my best friend, and her arms are around me, and at last I don’t feel quite so terribly alone.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask when she’s let me go, hugged me again, and then handed me a half-drunk chocolate milkshake. “Is this for me?”

  “It was supposed to be for you, but I’ve been so worried I might have had a few sips. It was a long drive, you know. I kept it in a cooler for a while, but then it started shouting at me, ‘Let me out; let me out!’”

  In spite of everything inside me, a laugh comes out. “Lena, how did you get here? How did you know we were here?”

  “You don’t know?” she says curiously. “John texted me.”

  I look heavenward. “He did something right,” I say. “See!”

  “Are you talking to God?” she asks.

  “That’s your job,” I tell her. “I’m just doing whatever it takes not to crack up while we wait for the surgery.”

  “How much longer?” she asks.

  “An hour. Two, maybe? It takes forever. Her brain is bleeding.” I start to tear up.

  “Oh, Cori,” says Lena. “How did this happen?”

  I am about to tell her, but the elevator pings again, and the doors open.

  “Talia?” I cry.

  “What is going on? Why are we at the hospital?” she exclaims. She, too, wraps me in an enormous hug. It’s so out of character I start crying again. “Here,” she says and hands me a giant stuffed cheetah.

  “What on earth?” I ask through my tears.

  “Everything else in the hospital gift shop was so awful,” she says. “I figure we can at least skin this and make you a nice coat.”

  “Oh my god, Talia, I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “When a nun calls you swearing like a sailor and telling you to get your ass upstate, you get your ass upstate,” she says.

  “Former nun,” corrects Lena.

  “Did you fly here from Miami?” I ask Talia.

  “No, no, I flew into New York yesterday, planning to surprise you and do a deep Florida detox for the weekend. Look at the sun damage to my hair.” She tilts her h
ead and gestures to her still-perfect natural curls. “But you weren’t there. And your stuff was all in boxes. And I was like, ‘What?’ And then Lena called me, and I was like, ‘Shit.’ And then I borrowed an ex-boyfriend’s car and drove here, and may I remind you that I do not have a valid driver’s license? So I have had a very harrowing day.”

  I am shaking my head and crying. “Me too,” I tell her.

  “So I’ve heard. What happened?”

  And before I can even answer her, the elevator doors ping again, and this time all three of us face the doors expectantly. A hapless and confused orderly gets off the elevator while we stare. When she’s out of the lobby, I say, “Cori hit her head on the diving board at camp. She didn’t tell the coach because she wasn’t supposed to be in the pool, I guess. She went to sleep, and then she didn’t wake up when they knocked for practice, and she’d given her cell to Joe. The counselor let herself in and found her in there and called 911. The coach called me and told me to come here.”

  “This is awful,” Talia says.

  “Cori is so tough,” says Lena. “You haven’t seen her in ages, Talia, but she’s like a cross between a bulldog and the Highlander. She is going to get through this.”

  “Please be right,” I beg her. “She’s so . . . I can’t . . .”

  Lena and Talia hug me together. One of them shushes me. The other says, “You won’t have to.”

  The elevator doors ping again. This time I just keep crying, holding on to my friends for dear life. The doors open.

  Daniel walks out.

  “What?” I say.

  Talia and Lena break away from me. “Is that . . . ?”

  “Daniel?” I say.

  “Is it ok that I’m here?” he asks.

  By way of answer, I run to him. “My daughter is hurt,” I say. I want him to know exactly what I know. I want to shove it into his brain. “She has bleeding on her brain. She is in surgery. Her dad is asleep.”

  “Oh, Amy,” he says. He holds me for a moment, then pulls back and looks into my eyes. “Are you doing ok?” he asks me.