by Renee Dyer
And I did call her. First thing this morning. Her name is Kristin. She took the time to listen to everything that’s been going on with Brenna. I could tell she was taking notes and comparing them to the notes from my calls in. She looked through the schedule and let me know both Dr. Castion and Dr. Litnen were booked into the next week, but Dr. Wendell is due back on Friday. She explained he isn’t taking appointments on Friday, but she thinks he’ll want to see Brenna and also want a CT scan done. I hung up with the assurance she’d be calling me later today with appointment times. Friday still seems far away, but maybe we’ll finally get answers.
I start to dial Helen’s number when a loud thump sounds out from the other room. The phone falls from my hand, clattering at my feet, as I run for Brenna. She’s sprawled out on the floor, her hands pressing against the hardwood. I can see she’s trying to get up, but she has no strength. I rush, dropping to my knees before I’m even all the way to her.
“Bren, I’m here. Stop before you hurt yourself.”
“I’m gonna throw…”
She doesn’t finish her sentence before the heaving starts, the small amount I was able to get her to eat coming up mixed with bile. Her cries of pain tear me apart. There’s nothing I can do except hold her up so she isn’t laying in her own vomit. I whisper soothing words to her, pull her hair back from her face, and pray this spell will pass quickly. Dry heaves take over, wracking her body in lurching coughs. Whimpers fall between every gag, her body shaking uncontrollably. I hold onto her, begging God to make this stop.
After I get her cleaned up, she tries to take a little Jell-O, but after a few bites her stomach revolts and I have to grab the bucket next to her. I don’t know how much more of this her body can take.
“Lay down, babe. Close your eyes and rest. You can have a couple Pedialyte pops when you wake up and we’ll try some more food then, okay?”
The relief in her tired eyes slays me. Rubbing her back, I stay by her side, waiting for her breathing to even out. “Feel better, Bren. I miss you.”
Brenna
Crashing.
The waves are crashing against my skull. Swishing, swirling, taking me under. I try to break the surface. Find the light. But again and again, I’m dragged back into the darkness.
Nick
Day Seventeen – Dr. Wendell Returns
Hydrocephalus. Ventricles flooded. Surgery. The words bounce around my skull, I can’t process them. This can’t be right. An infection, needing antibiotics—I could handle that. But, another surgery? No, Brenna’s been through enough. Damn it! He needs to send her for another scan.
“Another scan won’t change what’s happening to Brenna,” Dr. Wendell says, his calm voice pulling me from my tormented thoughts, making me realize I spoke out loud.
“There has to be something else. Look at her. She’s…she’s suffered enough.” My voice cracks and I hate the weakness I’ve shown.
“I’m afraid surgery is the only answer. She won’t get better without it. I’m sorry.”
His apology pisses me off. He should have been here, not off on vacation right after her surgery. What kind of doctor schedules his patient for surgery knowing he’s going away? He said his partners would take care of her. They didn’t. They left her to fucking rot. And now…now…they have to cut back into her goddamn head. I want to kill those sons of bitches.
“You said they would take care of her.” There’s a veiled threat sneaking through my clenched teeth. “You told her she was doing great. The waves were normal. She believed you. She was sick before you left and you let her believe she was fine. Why didn’t you listen to her? Why didn’t they listen to me? Look at my fucking wife!”
“Nick, stop,” Helen begs from across the room where she sits with Brenna’s head in her lap. Tears slip down her cheeks. “Yelling at him won’t make Brenna better. Trust me, I want someone to answer for this, but right now, we need to get our girl healthy.”
I deflate. The pin hit its mark and all the airs seeps out of me. I simply have nothing left. In numb silence, I listen as Dr. Wendell tells us surgery will be first thing Monday morning. I can’t even respond when Helen says, “Monday? That’s three more days. Her brain is being compressed. Stupid motherfuckers.” I’m glad someone else feels the way I do and is fighting for Brenna.
He never loses his calm façade and it starts to grate on me. When he says he can’t do surgery today because she’s already eaten, I want to destroy his office. She hasn’t kept anything down. Christ, he knows she threw up all over the walkway before coming in. I can’t comprehend the hold up. Maybe he’s too tired from vacation. If that’s the answer, I’d rather he say that than this bullshit excuse. But then he throws in, “If anything gets worse over the weekend, call and we’ll get her right in.” What the fuck? If he can’t operate on her now, how is tomorrow going to be any different?
Hospital policy.
That’s what he tells me. Weekends are different from Monday through Friday. What is this…the fucking bank? We’re playing with my wife’s life here and because she ate barely enough to feed a newborn and couldn’t even keep that down— sorry, we can’t help you. Go home, we’ll see you Monday. Why not put her in the hospital? Get her on IVs to hydrate her? I’m so confused and distraught and everything I think, and say, seems to be wrong.
Helen and I take Brenna home, listening to her cry over every bump in the road. Damn frost heaves. I try to avoid them, but the roads are junk in the winter. I keep apologizing, but I’m not sure she can comprehend what is said to her anymore. Helen says nothing. The look on her face is a combination of sadness, confusion, and downright, “I’m going to rip someone’s balls off.” I’m praying I’m not the one she’s feeling that way toward. She twists the handle to her purse so tightly, I’m surprised she doesn’t burn her fingers.
“What did you think of that appointment?” I ask hesitantly.
Her head slowly swivels to me and I keep my eyes firmly on the road, petrified of what I’ll see in hers. “I’m still processing, but the one thing I keep thinking is, why is she in this car? I mean, look at her, Nick.” I peek back at her in the mirror, head lolled, eyes closed, face scrunched in pain. “We can’t help her. She needs medical help. Why would he send her home with us?”
“I don’t know, Helen.” I wish I did. Her voice is haunted, and I’d give anything to take that away.
Brenna
Bumpity, bump, bump…bumpity, bump, bump…ouch, how my head hurts. Bumpity, bump, bump…bumpity, bump, bump…I feel worse than dirt. I giggle in my head, lost in a never ending cycle of bad freestyling I’ve been making up to deal with the pain. This time to the tune of Frosty the Snowman, the constant jarring in the car is my inspiration. I heard Nick tell Dr. Wendell I’m confused, that I answer in riddles, but I understood everything today. I have to have another surgery. I don’t want them to cut back into my head. I’m scared. It isn’t supposed to be this way. I can hear how sad my mom is, how tired Nick is.
If only they could get in my head. They would know I’m fighting to come back. I don’t want to be like this.
Nick
Day Eighteen – The Admittance
Before a person dies, they often have a good day—a day where they are lucid, and feel great. It’s like God gives them his grace to celebrate their life one more time before they pass into the next world. Today felt like that. Our sister-in-law Wendy came for a visit. Brenna sat up, laughing with her for over an hour. She ate lunch, a real one, and drank a full glass of juice. I had to leave the room, I was so emotional. In truth, I thought my wife was going to die. I thought, this was that moment—God was giving her her last great day and now I’m going to lose her. I went to compose myself and then I rejoined them, so I could enjoy seeing her smiling. I was determined to spend every minute in her radiance.
Wendy was sure not to stay too long, knowing Brenna hadn’t had this good a visit in weeks. After her visit, Brenna lay down and fell asleep. I washed the lunch dishes and was
turning on the Xbox when the, “Oh no!” sounded out. She stood from the couch and crumbled. I couldn’t get to her. A small, “Help,” fell from her lips before she got sick. Helplessness in her eyes, trembling in her body, soaked in her own vomit, all goodness from the day was washed away.
“It’s okay, Bren. I’ve got you.” Scooping her into my arms, not caring for a second the mess she was covered in, I carried her to the bathroom. She tried fighting me, sobs racing through her, indecipherable words falling from her lips. I quickly started the water and got her undressed. Her embarrassment was evident, the tears a constant flow. “Please don’t cry, babe. We’re going to get you better soon.”
Like that, she checked out. The zombie Brenna was back. If I hadn’t been used to holding her up, she would have gone head first into the tub. Son of a bitch. I smelled like puke, too, and needed to clean us both up. How did my life become such a clusterfuck? Propping her against the back of the tub, I quickly undress and climb in the water with her. I turn on the shower and unplug the drain, figuring this is the quickest way to wash us both up. I sit in the bottom of the tub with her and get to work. This is the first time I’m naked with my wife in almost two months and she has no idea what’s happening. Not good for a man’s ego.
Wrapped in a towel, I carry her back to the couch, cursing when I see the shade up. I’m not sure if our neighbors can actually see in our windows, but this isn’t how I would want them to see Brenna. It’s not about them seeing her body. It’s seeing her sick. She would hate having people see her this way. She doesn’t like to show weakness and I know how much she’s going to hate that she’s had to be taken care of. If it weren’t for these circumstances, I would have enjoyed it. I never get to see her vulnerable. Just thinking it makes me tuck the blanket around her a little tighter before I run to grab us clothes and cleaner for the floor.
I would like to say the rest of the day was uneventful. It should have been, but she went downhill after getting sick. Her words started slurring, her pain skyrocketed, and the vomiting wouldn’t stop. I placed a call to Dr. Wendell’s emergency service and the decision was made to admit her. I was hoping Dr. Wendell would be meeting us, but he wasn’t the doctor on call, so I was going to finally meet one of the fuckwads who had ignored us for weeks. All I knew was the man had better watch what he said or Brenna wouldn’t be the only one admitted today.
At the hospital, watching him inspect Brenna, all the interest he suddenly has in her makes me angrier than if he’d said something stupid. Where was he the last few weeks when she was spiraling out of control? Why care about her staring at the floor and not being able to look up? Why does it matter how long she’s been stuck in that position? I want to scream at this asshat. He’s responsible for her lack of response, yet he goes on and on about her inability to walk on her own or lift her arms. If he makes one more comment about her obvious discomfort, there will be no holding back my foot going straight up his ass. If there is a God in Heaven…
“Dr. Litnen.” My thoughts are interrupted by the nurse who admitted us into the emergency room. “They have a room for Mrs. St. James now.”
I watch as they talk for a few minutes. He tells her he wants an IV started before she gets moved and a list of medications gets exchanged. She looks at him like he’s a God, and all I can think is this should have been done a long time ago. A tornado of anger swirls inside me and I’m hoping I can keep it contained. This prick acting like he’s cared all along is stoking the storm, and I’m afraid I’m going to destroy everything in my path.
“It will be about a half hour before they move your wife to ICU. I want an IV and medicines started before she heads up. Harley will be back in a few minutes to get that all set. She’ll have paperwork for you and I’ll check in on Brenna when she’s settled upstairs. With a fake smile, he leaves the room, my scowl chasing his every step.
I wanted to kiss Harley for whatever she put in the IV. I didn’t even mind the extra face time I had to have with Dr. Dickface in the new room. Brenna came out of the fog for a little while and I got my great moment with her before the exhaustion took her back under.
Brenna
“What the hell are you singing about?” Nick asks me.
“Rhinestone Cowboy.”
“You really are out of it, babe.”
“It’s a song, Nick. Did you see his boots? And that God awful belt? All he needed was the hat. Never seen a doctor dress like that.”
“Only you.”
“What?”
“Really, babe?”
“What?” I repeat with a smile.
“Who our age even knows that song?”
“Apparently you,” I tease.
“Touché. I love you, crazy woman. After tomorrow, you better be going back to normal.”
“I will. Promise.”
“You forgot to say you love me, too.”
“I love you, Nick. Always. Tell the doctors to get it right this time.”
It was a good talk, but now I’m tired. The drugs they gave me are kicking in and my eyes are heavy. Rhinestones and horses flash behind my eyelids, making me want to laugh. It’s a good time to go to sleep.
Nick
Day Nineteen – Surgery
For such a logical guy, when it comes to Brenna, I’m a fucking idiot. I can write code all day for work, but ask me to make a medical decision for her, and my brain turns to mush. I know I shouldn’t make brain references, but it’s the first thing that came to mind. It’s the only thing on my mind, and still, I have no idea what’s right for my wife. Twenty minutes ago, she was wheeled in for her second surgery in five weeks and I’m sitting here, still trying to figure out how this happened. I remember watching her get sick, the downfall, ripping my damn hair out in worry. I remember every brutal second, but none of it makes any fucking sense. Why would God do this to her?
I keep asking myself what she could have possibly done to deserve such torture, and…nothing. It’s like there are a million computer screens waiting for me to fill them with code and all I can do is stare at the cursor, hoping I’ll find the inspiration to start. There has to be an answer somewhere, but all the screens stay blank. I wish I could fill them with a cure for what ails her.
“Mr. St. James.”
My eyes fly to the other side of the room where Dr. Wendell is walking toward me. He looks different. There’s no smile, and I don’t see his usual calm.
“No.” It’s all I can say while I stay rooted to my seat.
“Brenna’s alright. She’s in recovery and will be moved to ICU soon.”
“She’s a-alive?” I ask, not sure I believe what I’m saying. I don’t know why I thought I had lost her, but the feeling of loss was so overwhelming, my heart stopped beating for a few seconds. Without her, it can’t function.
“Yes. I wanted to talk to you. Give you a heads up before you see her.”
“Heads up?”
“Yes. It may be upsetting to see her at first. She has a tube coming out of the top of her head and it will remain there until we get the fluid drained enough for the ventricles to close. I didn’t want you to walk in there without knowing what you were walking into.” All I can do is nod. “A nurse will be out to get you soon.” He goes over some more details, but all I can think is she’s alive and she’s come back to me.
Brenna’s going to come home.
Chapter Nine
Brenna – Awakening
Walking, walking on the rocks. Water’s rolling onto shore. Waves come crashing into me. Try’n to take me out to sea.
Frothy white caps slam off the rocks. Water laps the sand, in and out, washing the shore. Swirling around, rising higher, drawing me in, and dipping me down. Lost to the motion. Roll in. Crash off. Spin away. The dance begins again as the waves build to a crescendo. Twirling…twirling…twirling—gone. The sirens call to me.
“Brenna? Brenna, can you hear me?”
There’s a voice in the mist, trying to pull me through the fog. Light filters throu
gh the gray, but a weight presses against my eyelids. I’m so tired. It must be a dream.
“I know you want to sleep, but I need to check your vitals. Can you open your eyes for me, Brenna?”
Why won’t she leave me alone? My head hurts. “G-g-g-o-o a-w-a-y-y.”
“Sorry, doctor’s orders. Have to check your vitals. Come on, Brenna. It’s Jamie. Show me you’re doing okay.”
Winds whip, seagulls squawk, waves wash in. Salty air permeates my senses, forcing me to lick my lips. How I love the ocean. I want to stay here, basking in the sunshine. There’s no pain. No nausea. Just the water rolling over my toes, welcoming peace.
“Brenna!”
Clawing through the murky depths, I slit one eye. Bursts of white shine through. Too much. Clamping tight, I lay still for a few seconds before trying again. Just a slight lift of one lid, I peek into the brightness. Adjusting to the light, I try the other eye. A blurry form wavers before me.
“Hey there, nice to see you waking up. How you feeling?”
Words bounce from side to side, smacking around my skull. My ears hear them. I know them. They’re in my vocabulary, but I’m not sure how to answer. Fish lips. Open…close…open…close, gasping for air I can’t breathe in fast enough. How do I feel? Spinning, twirling, crashing. Oh God, I’m going to be sick.
“Right here, Brenna. Here’s the bucket.”
An arm comes around my back, directing me to where she wants me. Spine stiffening, stomach contracting, pressure takes over. Heat spreads everywhere. And then, it hits. Sounds I don’t recognize pass through my already sore throat, the acid coming up causing me to wince.
