by Renee Dyer
“Yes,” he says, smiling. “Anytime we’re dealing with brain surgery, there is shifting afterwards. The brain is a bit finicky. I call it the push back effect. We go in and do what’s necessary, and the brain gives a little push-back. It shifts and contracts. It may feel a little weird for weeks, maybe even months, but that’s part of the healing. You’ll be just fine. You look great.”
“Always with the flattery, Doc.”
Nick laughs, his gaze finding mine. I silently apologize for my earlier outburst and we share a quick moment of happiness.
“Don’t forget, I leave for vacation the day after tomorrow. I’ll be back on March eighth. If you need anything while I’m gone, the other two doctors here can help you. Though, I’m sure you’ll be more than okay till your six week check-up.”
I had forgotten about his vacation. We spoke about it before surgery. A knot twists in my gut thinking about him being gone. I try to remind myself I just got a clean bill of health…well, as good as I can get under the circumstances. I tell Dr. Wendell to enjoy his time at his cabin with his family and allow Nick to usher me out the door. The feeling in my stomach worsens. I pray it’s indigestion.
Chapter Eight
Nick
Day Three - Dr. Wendell’s vacation
Dr. Wendell left for vacation and our lives have gone to shit. Brenna started vomiting, and her waves are more painful than disorienting. I brought Brady to my mom because Brenna is struggling to lift her head from the couch. Our son has spent more time with his grandparents the last couple weeks than with us, and it’s making me feel like a terrible dad.
The call to the doctor’s office was strange. Dr. Castion asked what kind of stuff Brenna has been doing around the house. Seriously? With the little patience I had left, I told him she’s been keeping our couch company.
Damn it, I miss sleeping next to my wife.
That fucker chuckled at me. Too bad I wasn’t trying to be funny. He asked if she started doing chores before the pain kicked in. She had done a couple dishes here and there, but that was it. He made it sound like she had cleaned our house from top to bottom, telling me she over did it, and this is a flare up. He said it’s a simple fix. She needs to increase her pain meds and she’ll feel better in a day or two. It’s all about getting ahead of the pain. His quick assurance makes me wonder whether he’s right or full of shit.
He doesn’t see the way she’s huddled in a ball, how she shivers, or the ways she keeps her chin tipped toward her chest. Why the hell is he not asking me to bring her in for an appointment?
As calmly as possible, I place the phone in the cradle, grab water and pain killers, and walk into the living room. Brenna’s eyes are closed and she’s curled in a ball under the oversized baby afghan she made. I smile whenever I see it. She started making it when she was pregnant with Brady. I loved the feel and warmth of the yarn so she grabbed all the colors she had and extended the length, surprising me with it as a gift. It’s one of the goofiest looking blankets I’ve ever seen, but it’s so damn warm. And it’s all Brenna.
Sitting near her waist, I rub her back and watch her start to stir. She’s been in and out of sleep, similar to when she first came out of surgery. “Come on, Bren. I need you to take these.” I lift her into my lap, cringing when she cries out in pain, hands flying to her head. With shaking fingers, she grabs the glass, and takes the pills. I help her lay back down and stay with her until she again falls asleep.
Running my fingers along her forehead, I sigh. Images of a happier time bombard me. Brenna jumping into my arms, catching me unaware; her lack of fear that I’d drop her always astounded me. That complete trust she had in me. How beautiful she looked while I held her, back arched, arms thrown wide, her dirty blonde hair flowing behind her in a stream toward the floor, and her smile…it captured my soul every time.
“I love you, Bren. I need you to get better now, okay?” I whisper, before starting the walk to the dining room. Every time, the walk gets harder to make. I’m only a room away, but twenty feet feels like a thousand when she needs me.
Nick
Day Eight - Dr. Wendell’s vacation
I pull the shade down in the living room to give me privacy. The bath is already drawn, but I don’t want to leave the water too long. Trying to keep as much blanket over her as I can and not jostle her head, I start to remove her clothes.
“No. Cold,” she whines.
“Sorry, Bren, but it’s time to give you a bath. My mom is meeting your mom here, remember? Your mom is going to take Brady with her for the week.”
Mentioning our son’s name causes an ache so deep, I feel like I’m going to crack in half. He hasn’t been home since Brenna took a turn for the worse. Her inability to lift her head for more than a few minutes leaves her unable to watch him in any way. My job is letting me work from home, but my mind is only half functioning—maybe not even that much.
I’ve been calling the doctors every day and they insist what she’s dealing with is normal. That she had a setback and has to get back to where she was. Dr. Wendell’s two partners insist the pain killers will start to make her feel better, but I want to know how that will happen when she keeps vomiting. I’ve asked if I should bring her to the hospital, but they say there’s no reason to. They believe she just has a low tolerance for pain. I continue to give her Pedialyte popsicles to keep her hydrated since they said that could be contributing to everything as well.
Wrapping her in my arms, I notice how much lighter she feels already. “Shit, Bren,” I whisper. “You’re scaring me.” A small moan falls from her lips and she lays slack in my arms as I carry her to the bathroom. Carefully, I lower her into the tub, my heart seizing when she whimpers at the contact. The water against my arm is hot, but she acts as if she’s freezing. I quickly start washing her with one hand, her body propped against my other arm, telling her she’ll get better soon. It’s become our daily routine—a routine I fucking dread.
Seven minutes. That’s how long it takes me to wash her. I’ve gotten it down from twelve. I can’t stand to see her suffer, and the cold air and being upright is pure torture for her. I don’t know what the hell is happening to my wife, but watching it guts me. These painkillers need to kick the fuck in.
I let her lay down with the towel wrapped around her head for a few minutes, knowing she needs a break. Her eyes instantly close, her chin tilted down. I don’t think she’s lifted her face in four days now. She smiles and cracks a joke here and there to try to make me feel better, sometimes she even gets these bursts, I call them. She walks into the dining room where I’m working, but she’s so unsteady on her feet, I end up helping her back to the couch. I’m not sure how she even makes it in there.
A knock at the door pulls me from watching her. I turn to see Helen smiling through the kitchen door. She walks in at my nod and heads right for me, arms opening for a hug. “How’s our girl today?” I cringe knowing I have no good news.
“She isn’t any better. I gave her a bath, but she was in so much pain I let her lay down before drying her hair. Now, she’s sleeping again. I know I can’t leave her with wet hair, but look at her.” I motion toward her, my tone pleading. I want Helen to tell me I’m not an asshole for waking her up again.
“Oh, you sweet man. It’s February. We definitely can’t leave her with wet hair. How about I wake her this time and dry her hair for you?”
“Thank you,” I say, trying to cover up how much relief I feel and the tears I’m forcing back.
She places her hand on my shoulder, and squeezes. “We all want her better, Nick. This isn’t our girl. Brenna is full of lif…light…fuck, she’s full of spunk. This right here is bullshit. Don’t ever hesitate to ask me to be your rock. I was always hers.”
I can only nod, not trusting my emotions.
Together, we get Brenna back to the bathroom and Helen dries her hair. Brenna is happy to see her mom and jokes that she has her own personal beauty consultant. Helen laughs with her and tells her sh
e has the prettiest client. It almost feels normal.
We help her back to the couch, and she tries to push us off, arguing that she’s a big girl and can walk on her own, but when she tries, her legs turn to jelly. Luckily we’re right there and grab her arms. She refuses to acknowledge her weakness, but Helen and I give each other a worried glance. There’s no hesitation when we reach the couch. She lies right down, but this time, she doesn’t close her eyes, surprising me. She starts to chat with her mom, giving me a chance to sneak into the kitchen to grab her some food.
“Your food, milady,” I tease as I walk back in.
“I’m not hungry,” she says, a disgusted look thrown my way.
“Babe, please. You have to try to eat. It’s just toast and some applesauce.”
“Brenna, please eat,” Helen coaxes. “I think you’ll feel better with some food in your stomach.”
Brenna stares at her mom for a minute while I stand holding the food. Neither of them says a word, their eyes glued to each other, a silent battle of wills going on. I’ve seen this with them before and I’d like to say I know who will win, but they can both be so stubborn. Helen juts her chin forward a fraction, her eyes squint a smidge more, and I see Brenna’s open wider. I don’t understand the message that passed between them, but something happened.
“Fine, I’ll try. Happy?” Brenna says, sounding like a petulant child.
“Very,” Helen replies, a smug smile crossing her face.
I slowly walk across the room, afraid if I seem too anxious to give her the food, she may throw it at me. She’s still struggling to sit up as I get to her. I grab the tray against the wall, place it in front of her, and put her meal on it. “What would you like to drink?”
“Whatever you’re going to make me.”
“Brenna Marie,” Helen lashes out, “I don’t care how badly you feel, you will apologize to Nick this instant. That man has been taking care of you, working from home, and figuring out where your son will stay for the last few weeks. And on top of all his worrying, he’s exhausted. I did not raise you to treat someone you dislike this way, I’ll be damned if you’ll treat your husband like this.”
“It’s alright, Helen,” I start, knowing Brenna doesn’t mean any of this. She’s never treated me this way before.
“It sure as hell is not alright, Nick.”
“I’m sorry, Nick. My mom is right. Could I have some water please?”
Her cheeks are pink, embarrassment shining through. “Sure.”
My mom picks a great time to show up with Brady. I think he’s just what Brenna needs. That little guy can put a smile on anyone’s face. He runs through the door, yelling, “Where’s Mommy?” I walk in with him and lift him onto the couch next to her, reminding him he can’t climb on her and that she can’t pick him up. He instantly starts asking her when her boo-boos will be gone and I see her eyes fill with tears. I hate this. Hate that he can’t come home and that Brenna is still not well. She handles it like a champ, telling him she’s resting because she misses him so much and jokes that he’s growing into a giant while he’s not with her. He jumps off the couch and stands tall, showing her what a big boy he is.
The best part of his visit is watching him feed Brenna her toast. When he got here, she pushed her food away. She must have thought we’d forget she needed to eat, but he saw her full plate, picked up the toast, and fed her. He’s the one person she wouldn’t fight.
Brenna
I try to be nice, but it hurts. In my head. In my stomach. My back. All over. I’m tired of having food pushed at me when I know it isn’t going to stay down. It’s why the visit was cut short. I just wanted to visit with Brady, but it scared him when I got sick. He thought he made me sick. I tried to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but he’s too little to understand. Now, he’s gone and my head is rolling again. I close my eyes, trying to forget for a while.
Nick
Day Eleven – Dr. Wendell’s vacation
“What the fuck is wrong with my wife?” I scream through the phone.
“Calm down, Mr. St. James,” Dr. Castion says.
“I don’t want to calm down. I want to know what is wrong with my wife. She hasn’t stopped vomiting. She can’t walk on her own. And now she isn’t making sense. I ask her questions and she answers something totally different. What is happening to her?” I’m frantic, but I don’t fucking care.
“I’ve told you what’s happening. You need to get more fluids into your wife and we need to get her pain under control. How about I get her on a new pain killer? Can you come meet me and I’ll give you a prescription to fill tonight?”
“You want me to leave her? Did you not hear how bad she’s doing?”
“Mr. St. James, we need to get her pain under control. Is there someone who can sit with her until you get back?”
Stunned by the direction of the call, it takes me a few minutes to think of our neighbor, but I finally tell him yes. Ten minutes later, I’m out the door, driving thirty minutes away to pick up a prescription for a new pain killer. My mind races the entire drive, worry over leaving Brenna, anger that this doctor keeps refusing to make an appointment to see her, and a little hope that maybe this painkiller will finally help her start feeling better.
When I meet up with Dr. Castion, he hands me a script for Oxycontin and I verify that Brenna should remain on the other meds as well. She’s already on some heavy duty stuff. He says absolutely and reassures some patients just can’t handle pain again. I don’t know why he thinks my wife is such a wimp, but every time he says it, I want to kick his ass. Brenna is one of the toughest people I know.
I don’t bother thanking him. I can’t bring myself to do it. His arrogant attitude and dismissal of anything being wrong with Brenna rubs me the wrong way. I want to get away from him, so I half listen to his crap about pain and walk to my car, not caring if he thinks I’m an ungrateful dick. Brenna needs me, and I need to make sure she’s doing okay.
I drive a lot faster than I should along the curvy back roads to our house, but the drive to the doctor, the forty-five minutes at the pharmacy, and the drive home has had me gone almost two hours. A lot can happen in that time. I know Paula would have called, but I can’t stop worrying. Slamming the car into park, I run toward the house before I hear the car door close. I crash through the door, only slightly feeling bad at the commotion I’m causing.
“Hey,” Paula says, popping around the opening from the living room.
“How is she?” I wait for the answer to the question that has haunted me since I left, my heart pounding.
“Sleeping. Has been the whole time.”
I let out the breath I had been holding and thank our friend for being here. A few words and hugs later, I’m left with the woman I love. But is she still the woman I love? I don’t know what’s going on in there, or who’s in there, and it scares the shit out of me.
Nick
Day Fourteen
Brenna has been withering away in front of me and I’m helpless to stop it. She has small moments of lucidity. I live for those moments where I sit and have real conversations with her. I tell her what’s happening to her, what the doctors are saying, and ask her opinion. She tells me to trust them. “They’re brain doctors, Nick. They should know what’s happening.” That was the last piece of advice she gave me two days ago. It made me feel better, like I’m not a total fuck up for listening to them.
That was until last night when I had a dispute with my mom and Helen, the concern they felt clear on their faces. One of them would be hard to argue with, but I had to manage both, and I had to do it in front of Brady. Swapping him back and forth is getting old. I understand Brenna has lost weight and looks lifeless. It must have been hell for them to hear her respond to questions they didn’t ask. Her hands kept grasping into her hair while she whimpered and tears slipped through her closed eyes. It was the first time they truly saw what I’ve been living with.
“Why the hell is my daughter not in a hospital,
Nick?”
“She doesn’t want to be,” I fire back at the accusation that I’m not doing everything I can for my wife.
“Doesn’t want to be? She’s out of her damn mind. She’s not capable of making that decision.”
“I have to agree with Helen on this, Nick. Look at her,” my mom pipes in, cuddling Brady to her chest.
Pacing like a caged animal, I glare back and forth between two women I respect, who, at the moment, are pushing a raw nerve. I try to calm myself, think of my next words carefully because I don’t want to fight in front of my son. I don’t want to fight at all.
“If either of you think I want to see my wife like that,” I sweep my arm toward the couch, “you are sorely mistaken. I have called the doctors every day, sometimes multiple times. When Brenna is lucid, I talk to her about what’s going on, and she told me to trust them. She says they are brain doctors and they know what they’re doing. I’m going off her wishes and the expertise of two different neurosurgeons.”
“Nick, I don’t think the doctors are right,” my mom says, her voice shaking with emotion. “Is there anyone else you can talk to there? Can they reach Dr. Wendell?”
“I don’t know, Mom. I can call and ask.” I don’t know why I never thought to ask that before. When he said his partners would take care of us, I assumed they would. But here I stand, under scrutiny for not taking care of Brenna, and feeling like complete shit.
“Please call. My daughter needs help. I can’t watch her like this anymore.”
Helen’s irritation with me is still evident when she kisses Brady and leaves the house. It’s the first time she leaves without hugging me, making me question every decision I’ve made over the last couple weeks. Have I let Brenna down?
I talked to my mom a few more minutes while spending time with Brady. It was then I remembered a woman who interrupted one of Brenna’s appointments with Dr. Wendell. He introduced her as his nurse. I couldn’t remember her name, but I knew who I was calling.
