by M. Leighton
Even after she’s gone.
I wish not for the first time that someone else were the videographer so we could capture moments such as these. I know there will come a time when these memories will start to fade, when I will forget what it feels like to hold her or what it feels like to look into her warm brown eyes, and the idea is crushing. I don’t want to forget, but I know that as much as I try to commit every tiny detail to memory, they won’t withstand the test of time with much clarity. At least not all of them. It’s just not possible.
But if I had my way, I wouldn’t forget one single second of the time I’ve spent with my wife.
Already I can tell that forgetting will be like losing Lena time and time again. And I have no idea how I’ll bear it. I don’t even know how I’m going to get through it once.
I sweep my hand, resting on Lena’s hip, around to her growing belly, which I cup with my palm.
This is how I’ll get through it, I think.
Her baby.
Our baby.
And that’s all I’ll have left of my Lena.
Sixteen
I Got the Girl
Lena
A legion of butterflies flutters in my stomach when Nate shifts the car into park outside the obstetrician’s office. I take a deep, shaky breath and Nate reaches over to squeeze my hand.
“Try to stay calm. The last thing we need is for your blood pressure to be wacked out when you get up there.”
He grins tolerantly at me.
“I know, but I’m just so excited!”
“I know, baby. I am, too.”
“God, I hope she can tell this time.”
On our previous visits, the doctor hasn’t been able to sex the baby because he or she won’t open its legs in just the right way. As much as I try not to be, I’ve been very disappointed, but evidently that’s doing nothing to hamper my excitement now. I’m allll wound up!
“Maybe that sip of my coffee that I saw you sneak this morning will help.”
I tuck my chin sheepishly. “You saw that?”
“I’ve got eyes everywhere,” he states, going on to mimic the recognizable tune from The Twilight Zone.
“You must because I’m damn sneaky when I wanna be.”
“You only think you’re sneaky,” he teases.
“I can be sneaky when I want to be.”
“Like the time you tried to throw me a surprise party and forgot to tell everyone to park around the block? Or like the time you tried to kidnap me for our anniversary and called my line instead of my boss’s for directions? Or like every single Christmas when I trip you up and get you to tell me what’s under the tree?”
“Okay, fine! Sneaky isn’t my strong suit, but I read on the Internet that a little bit of caffeine can get the baby excited and moving around. And if the baby is excited and moving around, we can see between its legs.”
“I can tell you what the sex is if you really want to know.”
Even though I suspect he’s teasing, I can’t help that my eyes round. “What do you mean? How would you know? Did she see something and tell you? Are you supposed to surprise me?”
“No, I just know what it is.”
I’m more than a little deflated. “And how, pray tell, do you know that, Mr. All-seeing Eye?”
“Good old-fashioned reasoning.”
“You’ve reasoned out what the sex of our baby is?” I’m skeptical at best, but curious enough to play along.
“Yep. It’s a girl.”
Despite the lack of soundness to this entire conversation, my heart swells at the thought of giving Nate a little girl. “And how did you reason out that it’s a girl?”
“Well, if it was a boy, he wouldn’t be able to hide his…appendage. After all, I’m the father and, well, have you seen me naked? I mean, come on! If they’d seen a third arm, they’d have known it was a boy. But they didn’t. Therefore, it’s a girl.”
A bark of laughter bursts from between my lips. “My God! Men and their penises. You’re like a tribe of psychos, released into the wild to go forth and multiply, aren’t you?”
Nate see-saws his head. “Yeah, pretty much. But still, it’s a girl, so you’d better settle on a name.”
“Me?” I question as Nate exits the car. I wait until he opens my door before I continue. “Me? What about you? I’ve given you a thousand choices, and you never like any of them!”
Nate gently takes my hand, placing his other up near my armpit, and he helps me from the car. I’m anemic, they think because of micro bleeds associated with my growing tumor, and it further saps my energy despite the iron supplements I’ve been taking.
“I’m not worried. The perfect name will come to us. We’ve got time.”
I feel Nate’s pause as soon as the words leave his lips and drift through the air. We’ve got time. The one thing we both know that we don’t have is time.
The words and the bleakness of our future settle around us like a cool, damp blanket. Sometimes it’s so heavy, the future, that it makes even something as simple as walking a much more difficult task for me than it should be. But, as always, I put on a smile, aim it at my husband, and trudge on as if nothing is amiss.
I suspect that Nate is never fooled, but we’re both content to pretend, to keep the wolf of depression and harsh reality at bay for a few more hours, days, hopefully weeks.
My enthusiasm returns, somewhat at least, by the time I’m stretched out on the table in the dimly-lit ultrasound room. Whether because of our relationship or because of my extremely high-risk status I don’t know, but Dr. Stephens always performs the ultrasound herself. She always excuses the tech who performs them for everyone else. The special care makes me feel more comfortable, but it also makes me feel more fragile, like everyone around me is holding their breath, waiting for the moment when things will go sideways.
I try to put thoughts like that out of my head, but I can’t stop them from creeping in. And when they do, they do their damage, no matter how quickly I can get them out. They’ve been steadily chipping away at my morale until sometimes I feel like all I do is worry, especially when it’s quiet or I’m alone.
Nate, however…ever perceptive Nate, seems to know that I’m no longer fond of quiet or solitude. He makes a concerted effort to keep me entertained at all times these days, God bless him. Thankfully, he has invested wisely over the years and we’re doing well financially, allowing for Nate to be with me twenty-four seven if need be. I don’t necessarily need help that consistently, but I love having him around. And I think he just wants to be around, too.
This time is all we have left. Every second is precious.
Gratefully, I turn to find him in the dark room, reaching for his hand and entwining my fingers with his. “I love you,” I whisper.
“I love you more,” he answers. His smile is casual, but I can see the underlying tension. Although he never says as much, I think Nate is always concerned on ultrasound days. I suspect he worries that they’ll find some sort of abnormality or not be able to find the heartbeat or something. He would deny that, of course, and he tries to hide it, but I watch him too closely. I’m too attuned to him to miss the slight change that occurs at this point every time we sit in this room, waiting for the doctor.
Today is no exception.
I flinch when the door suddenly swings open and a cheerful Dr. Stephens explodes through it. “Sorry for the delay, folks. Sometimes babies just don’t want to wait to be delivered.”
She is still in her green hospital scrubs rather than her normal dress clothes and long, white lab coat. Her shoulder-length brown hair is up in a ponytail with short tendrils curling damply around her face. She looks a bit…frazzled.
“Had to earn your keep today, eh?” Nate asks congenially.
“And then some! Phew!” she exclaims tiredly. But then she smiles, slaps her palms together, and rubs her hands vigorously. “How about we find out the sex of this baby today?”
I smile. Nate smiles. I squeeze hi
s fingers. He squeezes mine back. I feel the slight tremor in his grip. He watches the screen and refuses to look into my eyes. And so we dance the dance of denial, the delicate ballet of pretense, until I, too, turn to watch the small monitor, waiting to see what our baby carries—or doesn’t carry—between its legs.
As the doctor slides the probe around on my belly, spreading conducive jelly this way and that, she chats nonchalantly, asking me questions about my diet, my energy level, even my urine. Then, after a longish pause, she addresses another issue, one that she knows will be a sore spot for us.
“Have you given any more thought to an amniocentesis?”
My stomach clenches. I thought I’d made myself clear last time. I don’t want to even have this discussion again.
“No. I haven’t changed my mind.”
“Lena, if there’s a genetic abnormality—”
“That won’t change anything,” I interrupt somewhat tersely. “We want this baby. Period. We won’t love it any less if it has some disability.”
“But the test could prepare you for—”
“If there was no risk, I might consider it. Might. But there is a risk to having an amnio, and I already have enough risk stacked against me. I appreciate your concern, but I’m declining the test.”
I know my tone brooks no argument, and the doctor simply nods, unwilling to press me any further.
Good!
“Well, I don’t see any obvious abnormalities, but what I do see is…” The doctor pauses dramatically, running the probe over one spot and pushing up and into my belly. She clicks a button and then rolls a mouse, clicking again. Expertly, she wields the probe and works the computer until she turns to Nate and me, and with a smile announces, “I see no little boy parts. Mr. and Mrs. Grant, I’d like you to meet your daughter.”
She enlarges a photo on the screen that shows our daughter lying in the perfect position for us to see the blank slate between her legs.
I gasp.
“It’s a girl?” I whisper, trying to keep the quaver from my voice.
“It’s a girl,” Dr. Stephens confirms, her eyes crinkling at the corners as her grin widens. “And she’s sucking her thumb.” She minimizes the picture back down to its normal size, and I can clearly see the little arm with its tiny hand tucked up to her mouth.
“Our little girl is sucking her thumb,” I say in awe, turning to glance back at Nate. He’s watching the screen, mouth slightly ajar, eyes shining brightly in the eerie glow of the monitor, and I know he’s moved beyond words. He merely nods. Only after a few more seconds of gazing in wonder at the digital image does Nate finally drag his eyes away and toward my face.
Between us, no words are spoken, but a wealth of sentiment is exchanged as we stare at one another. There have been moments in our life together when everything has changed. We’ve had so many of them in the last six months, it’s hard to say which ones rank highest on the list.
Until today.
Today is something different, something special. And we both know it. This is real. This is happening. After all the trying and waiting and being disappointed, after finding out that I’m going to die and that our time together is drawing to a close, we’re finally going to have a child.
Together.
The perfect mixture of each of us, a piece of both Nate and me that will live on long after we’ve passed. Nothing could be more important than that.
Nothing.
Dr. Stephens says something that neither Nate nor I hear and then gets up to leave. When the door closes and we are alone, Nate leans down and presses his forehead to mine.
“A girl. I prayed for a girl,” he confesses on a shaky breath. “I hope she’s the very picture of her mother.” His voice is thick with barely-contained emotion. “Please God, let her be just like her mother.” He says the last with eyes closed and voice lowered, as if in actual prayer.
My heart lurches behind my ribs. It rips my insides apart to see my husband hurting. Even though he is, without question, deliriously happy about the baby, I know he’s also devastated over the impending loss of his wife.
He’s hurting. Badly. I can feel it.
I find it odd how happiness and agony so often travel in tandem, almost as though the one is made stronger by the other. The greater our happiness over the baby, the greater our agony over being unable to make a life together as a whole, as a family. As one grows, the other grows in direct proportion.
Exponentially.
It will always be this way, I know. For her as long as I live and, for Nate, as long as he does. But I also know there is no light without the darkness, no rainbow without the rain. I know without a doubt that it is the presence of my pain that makes the pleasure of this moment so much more meaningful. In the face of death, life takes on a new level of preciousness. And I have only a short amount of time to appreciate it before mine will be over.
Shortly after Dr. Stephens returns, we are released. I ask Nate to wait for me in the waiting room. All the pressing around Dr. Stephens did to get good pictures of the baby has stimulated my bladder.
It isn’t until I’m in the bathroom, door locked and away from prying eyes, that I give into the urge to cry. Biting down on my lip, I slide down the wall until I’m nearly squatted on the floor. Silently, I weep, knowing the tears will do me no good, but needing to shed them anyway.
When the worst has passed, I get up and splash cold water onto my face. As I pat my skin dry, my hands slow to a stop, hovering in midair out in front of my damp forehead. That’s the very moment that I know. That’s the moment when I know who my daughter will be to me, and to Nate.
I take my phone from my pocket and flick on the video, positioning the screen in front of my face and pressing record.
“I found out who you are today,” I begin, my smile still a bit soggy. “You’re a baby girl. You’re my baby girl. When I saw your tiny body on the sonogram, I felt like my whole world was complete.” I have to turn away from the camera for a moment to collect myself before I finish the short message. “Your daddy and I have talked about names for a while, but now I know why we couldn’t settle on one. We hadn’t met you yet. But now we have, and we know who you are. You’re Grace. My Grace. My precious, precious Grace. And I will love you long after I’m gone. My baby,” I whisper. “My baby Grace.”
When I stop the recording, my sobs begin anew. I fold over at the waist and let them have me. I can’t hold them in anymore than I can hold in the mournful moans that echo through my chest like a coyote’s howl, bouncing off steep canyon walls. I don’t quiet until I hear a soft knock at the door followed by the concerned voice of Dr. Stephens’s nurse.
“Lena, are you okay in there?”
Dragging in deep gulps of air, I compose myself the best I can, straightening my clothes and wiping my palms across my cheeks.
“Yes. I’ll be out in just one minute.”
Stillness greets me from the hall, and I set about putting myself back together before I dart from the bathroom and make my way quickly to the waiting room. I know when I see Nate’s face that I must look a fright. I simply grab his hand and pull him along behind me toward the door.
He says nothing, and neither do I.
He knows.
He knows.
Seventeen
Bad Medicine
Nate
By the middle of March, Lena is twenty three weeks along. I think we’ve both begun to feel secure in her ability to carry the baby to the twenty-eight-week mark, and hopefully beyond. Her labs are holding up and the Chinese medicine man she’s seeing routinely is really helping to keep her ailing body as fit and functional as it can be, all things considered. She’s said more than once that she’s beginning to think that God really is a God of miracles.
Every day, we put forth our best efforts to keep Lena and the baby healthy and to keep up our “Blaze of Glory” mentality. We make videos, separately, together and with Nissa occasionally, and I keep back ups for my back ups. My fear of
losing them is still something that haunts me on a daily basis.
It’s as I watch one of our January videos that I get an idea for something that might make my beautiful wife smile. I’m always on the lookout for things that will make every one of her last days bright and special.
I make a mental list of the things I’ll need and then I text Nissa, enlisting her help. By evening I want to be ready to go on stage.
Gone are the days of being able to put things off. When I have an idea or something I want to do or say, I make a point of getting to them as quickly as possible. The ever-present, always-silent tick, tick, tick of a clock counting down is the rhythm to which I live my life now. Every day is a race against time and I know I have to make each minute mean something.
So after our dinner, a meal full of foods rich in nutrients and elements proven most beneficial to the immune system and liver function, I help my wife to the sofa, cover her legs with a blanket and tell her, “I’ll be right back. I’m going to pick out a movie.”
She smiles, never questioning me when I tell her what I’m doing.
Early on in our relationship, we discovered that we have many things in common, including a love for the same type of music. We grew up to hair bands and Lena still counts Bon Jovi as her all-time favorite group. She knows every song they’ve ever released by heart and she’s always wanted to see them in concert. She had an opportunity when she was in high school, but an odd snow storm made it impossible for her to get there. Since then, we’ve never made catching a show a priority.
I wish we had. I wish I’d made it a priority.
As with so many things, though, we put it off thinking there would be plenty of time for that later.
Later.
Such a common word. So meaningless most of the time.
Only there aren’t going to be too many more laters for us, so I have to “make hay while the sun shines” as my grandmother used to say. That’s why, by seven PM, I’m tugging a wig into place and yanking on leather pants that are guaranteed to chafe my ass.
********
