He Loves Me Healthy, He Loves Me Not

by Renee Dyer

  I thought I was doing enough, but the two doctors felt I needed more nutrients added. I couldn’t stomach the prenatal vitamins up to this point. Dr. Bastine was hoping the vomiting would get under control so I could start taking them. After months of no relief, he finally decided to start me on children’s vitamins. Initially, I could only handle one, and only if I took it before going to bed. I did work up to two vitamins after about a month. It wasn’t the ideal answer, but it was better than nothing.

  There were so many days I was glad my office at work was close to the ladies room and no customers could see me run for it. The guys knew what was going on, but they never called me out on it. They all seemed to feel bad for me. Every time I walked out, one was waiting there to walk me back to my desk. It was embarrassing the times I went in to pee. Guess they forgot pregnant ladies need to do that a lot too.

  It’s funny to work with all men when you’re pregnant. I thought they’d be hands off and not want to talk about it at all. That has not been the case. I’ve heard more birth stories than I ever did working with women and the graphic details have almost sent me rushing for the ladies room. I never would have thought men were so fascinated by the concept of birth. But these guys tell great tales and the pride that wafts off them is something to see. Especially George. He and his wife deserve medals. They have three children, two girls and a boy. We all joke that Clarise never had a baby—she had toddlers. Their smallest weighed in at ten pounds, twelve ounces, and their largest was thirteen pounds, three ounces. I didn’t use any pain killers with Brady and thought I was a champion, but Clarise makes what I did look like child’s play. All three of her children came naturally.

  Damn!

  I’ve been home now for three days. I fell at work and landed on my stomach. Cramping started pretty quickly and it scared the shit out of me. I tried making it through the day, but my boss could see how nervous I was. He told me to call my doctor. Dr. Bastine explained there’s a lot of protection for the baby and I shouldn’t get myself worked up. If it would make me feel more comfortable, he could meet me at the hospital because he was on call there. I didn’t want to be that panicky woman, so I said I’d call him if the cramps got worse.

  That night, while I was helping Nick put Brady to bed, I felt a gush between my legs. My cheeks instantly got hot. I thought I pissed myself, but I couldn’t understand why I would. I wasn’t lifting anything. I hadn’t coughed, sneezed, laughed, or anything else that would bring on the pregnancy pee. I quickly kissed Brady and rushed from the room with Nick asking me if everything was okay. I couldn’t answer him.

  In the bathroom, I drop my pants faster than a teenage boy wanting to lose his virginity. Sitting on the toilet, I stare at my underwear in disgust. Nick bursts through the door and I jump, almost falling off the porcelain pisser. “What the fuck, Nick?” I shout, trying to close my legs around the offensive article of clothing. Eww. Wetness sticks to my legs. Wait—oh gross, my pants are wet too. “You don’t just bust in on a lady in the bathroom.”

  I’d say anything to get him out of here.

  “What is that smell?”

  Oh God. I’m mortified. I want to scream, “Piss!” and see how fast he makes a break for it, but I can’t say anything. Damn pregnancy issues.

  “Can you leave now?” I beg.

  “No. Seriously, Bren, what is that smell?”

  “Jesus! I pissed myself. Are you happy now?” I put my face in my hands, waiting for him to burst into laughter, but no sound comes. Peeking through my fingers, I see him staring at me, confusion marring his face. “What? What didn’t you understand?”

  He drops to his knees and begins pulling my pants and underwear off.

  “What are you doing?”

  “It’s not piss, Bren. With your Great Dane sense of smell, how did you not notice?”

  What the hell is he talking about? I watch in horror as he sniffs my clothes, trying not to vomit. Who the hell does something like that?

  “What is this smell, Brenna?”

  The panic in his eyes finally gets me to realize something is wrong. He’s not teasing me. This isn’t a prank where he’s going to smear pee pants in my face. I don’t bring the clothes too close to my nose, but just enough to get a whiff of something sweet. “What the…we need to call the doctor.”

  I spent the night in the hospital—my first time staying since the surgeries. Can you say mindfuck? I fell because I got dizzy. There was nothing for me to hold onto. The doctors may be saying these spells are because I’ve had issues with being sick, but I haven’t vomited in almost a week. At what point do they start to consider that Chiari is affecting my pregnancy?

  It turns out, I had a high leak—a tiny hole, allowing amniotic fluid to trickle out when I move certain ways. Dr. Bastine said it wasn’t necessarily caused by the fall, but that doesn’t make me feel better. He does his doctorly duty and explains there isn’t any good research as to what causes them and many times they reseal on their own. A nurse administers antibiotics and fluids through IV, and monitors the baby through the night. Nick refuses to leave my side. Lucky for us, Janice was able to stay at our house to be with Brady.

  In the morning, I’m released with orders to let Dr. Bastine know if I start leaking again because I could run the risk of infection. Weekly visits don’t normally start until thirty-six weeks and I’m only twenty-six, but Dr. Bastine feels with the issues of my last pregnancy and the high leak, I should start being seen at that frequency. His final instruction is bed rest until my next appointment.

  That’s where I’ve been. Either in my bed or on the couch. Can I tell you how much I hate bed rest? It’s so boring. Only being allowed to get up to go to the bathroom, get a drink, and make myself a small meal, which basically means a sandwich, and then having to lay back down, sucks. I do it because I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure my child is healthy, but I don’t have to like it. I’ve never liked people waiting on me. I hate not being able to get up and play with Brady.

  Four more days. I’m counting down until I see Dr. Bastine. If I have no sign of amniotic fluid leaking when I see him, my restrictions will be lifted. Fingers are crossed.

  I never thought I’d see the day where I couldn’t stand to look at another book, but when you’re pregnant, your hormones out of control, and you can’t get up to take care of yourself, the last thing you want to read is about husbands dying or cheating. I’ll place a call to my mom later. She’ll know something I can read that will get me out of this funk. Until then, I goof off on Facebook.

  I’ve become addicted to it. That doesn’t make Nick happy. He’s not a fan of the site, but it offers me hours of amusement. I’ve been checking out the support groups Dr. Wendell mentioned.

  I’m still not comfortable posting in them. Nick doesn’t understand why, but it’s not easy to explain. No one has ever been cruel. In fact, they’re very welcoming. It’s just…I only have Chiari. So many of them suffer from multiple conditions. I had never heard of Ehler Danos or Tethered Cord until joining these groups. Syringomyelia came up at one of my appointments, but it was ruled out with an MRI. The amount of surgeries some of these people have lived through and how they still suffer makes me hurt for them. I feel blessed and commenting makes me feel like I’m rubbing in the fact that I’m doing better than them. I don’t believe any of them think this way or begrudge me feeling well, it’s my insecurity that keeps me from interacting. I comment when someone posts they are doing well and send well wishes when someone asks for them, but I stay quiet and observe the rest of the time. It may be wrong of me, but I don’t know how to make myself feel like I belong here.

  Many times, groups of them talk about meeting up for coffee, lunches, or dinners. I haven’t seen anyone else post that they’re from New Hampshire, though. So many have formed friendships and bonded over Chiari, but I can’t seem to find that connection, and it makes me feel even more alone in this.

  Nick gets angry at me when I talk about it. I can see his frus
tration when I explain how they’ve suffered. He always comes back at me with, “And you haven’t?” I have suffered. So has he. I don’t mean to take away from what we’ve gone through, but I don’t know how to make him see what their lives are like. This is where Nick is still in need of healing. He won’t go on the groups with me. He can’t talk about my surgeries without breaking down. He doesn’t want to talk about how others are suffering from Chiari or any other conditions relating to it. He just wants me to continue to do well.

  I wish I could heal what has broken in him.

  “Hey, babe. Whatcha doing?” Nick asks, walking out from the dining room. His boss has been great, letting him work from home until I go back to the doctor.

  “Playing on Facebook. How’s work going?”

  “Ahh. Good ‘ole Assbook,” he sighs.

  “Assbook?” I shouldn’t ask, but I love when he gets on a good rant.

  “Yeah, you know, the place where it’s acceptable to hide behind a screen and insult people all day. Have you seen any vaguebookers today?”

  He really has my interest piqued now. “And what exactly are vaguebookers?” I move the laptop away from my face and give him my undivided attention.

  “Come on, Bren. I thought the name would have given them away. The ones who create a post about a specific person, hoping they’ll see it, but don’t put that person’s name, so they can claim deniability when the person calls them out on it.”

  I clap. “Pure genius, Mr. St. James.”

  “I’m not done yet.”

  “No?” Oh boy. I really got him riled up.

  “Oh no. I can’t leave out my favorite—the famebookers.”

  “Okay. I have to hear this one. What the hell is a famebooker?”

  He gets a glint in his eyes, mischief and amusement shining through. “Well, Mrs. St. James, since you asked, famebookers are the people who are convinced they are so important, they post every aspect of their life. I mean, every aspect. Hell, you even know their shit schedule.”

  “I’ll never see Facebook the same. Thanks for educating me on the ways of social media assholery.”

  He takes a bow and exits the room as I roll my eyes. He would love if I never signed in again. I see what he just did there. Funny thing is, I’ll be thinking of his nicknames with every post I read. Son of a bitch.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Nick

  The last thing I expected was a panicked phone call from Brenna today. It’s been a stressful week, but when I left for work this morning, she was comfortably resting on the couch. On Monday, her boss called her into his office and let her know that due to the economy, he had to let her go. His wife was going to be handling the office until things turned around. He felt awful letting her go and told her he would love to have her back if things picked up. Brenna understood and told him to definitely call her if he needed anything.

  She waited until she got home to call me. Her cries made me want to go straight home, but I had a contractor at my desk. I told her not to worry about it and we would figure it out after the baby was born. In my eyes, this was God’s way of saying she should relax. It took a few minutes, but she calmed down. I told her to take a nap and leave Brady at daycare so she could relax and I’d pick him up. No need for him to see her upset. Plus, I could handle giving the two week notice to Sara. Brenna was upset enough.

  She rested a lot the next two days. The dark circles under her eyes were starting to diminish.

  So, yeah—today, I didn’t expect her to call and tell me I needed to leave work to bring her to the hospital.

  “What’s going on, babe?” I try to ignore the contractor I’ve been working with all week. After the call Monday, he probably thinks my wife is a nut case.

  Her voice is shaky and I can tell she’s trying not to cry. “They want you to take me to Maine Med. To be admitted,” she blurts. Her breathing increases and she stops talking. I can picture her trying to calm herself before she says more.

  “Where are you right now?”

  “At the doctor’s office. In a room I’ve never been in before. They have me hooked up to monitors so they can listen to the baby’s heartbeat and make sure I’m not contracting.”

  “Contracting? You’re only twenty-nine weeks.”

  “I know, but I mentioned to Dr. Bastine that I haven’t been feeling him move as much this past week and my stomach feels tight a lot. He had the ultrasound tech squeeze me in. She found that the fluid around the baby is low. Low enough, he feels I need to be to be monitored until he’s born.”

  “Is he okay?” My palms start to sweat and my mind races with all the things I worry can happen to my son. It’s much too early for him to be born.

  “His heartbeat is strong.”

  “He doesn’t feel you need to be sent in an ambulance?”

  “Dr. Bastine asked what I’d be more comfortable with. I really want to be with you. He doesn’t feel like I’m going to go into labor this minute. He’s alright with you bringing me, but he doesn’t want me driving. I’m stuck here until someone picks me up, and he wants me to go straight to the hospital.”

  “Why isn’t he sending you across the street? There’s a hospital right there. Why the hell are we going out of state? Over an hour away?” I don’t mean to shout all these questions at her, but if there may be something wrong with our baby, doesn’t that make the most sense?

  “They don’t have a neonatal unit. Can you come now?” she asks, and the fear in her tone breaks my heart.

  “Yeah, Bren. I’m on my way.”

  I didn’t notice the contractor had walked away. I should feel bad, but I don’t. It makes it easy to go talk to my boss and leave work. On the way to pick up Brenna, I call my parents. My mom is going to get Brady. Her and my dad will make sure Brenna’s car gets back to our house. I call Helen, too. She thanks me for letting her know and tells me to let her daughter know she’ll be at the hospital in a few hours. I knew she’d make the drive. Brenna will be comforted by that.

  After everything we’ve been through with her brain, I didn’t think I would fear anything again with her. I was wrong. I’m way over the speed limit, anxiety causing me to drive through red lights—police be damned. They can chase me to the doctor’s office. I need to hear from Dr. Bastine that my son is alright. He needs to tell me Brenna isn’t in danger. I want to know what caused this to happen.

  After the week of bed rest, she was feeling pretty good. She went back to work. The only issue was she wasn’t sleeping well. But she was eating. She rarely got sick. There were no signs of her leaking. How the hell is the fluid around my son low? Did I miss something? She said he was moving less, but his kicks were still strong. I didn’t think there was any reason to worry. Was I wrong again? Should I have gotten her to the doctor?

  I slam into the parking lot, not caring that I’m parked in the middle of two spots. I don’t bother to lock the car. I sprint into the office. Brittany at the front desk smiles and buzzes me through. She tells me to wait one second while she gets a nurse to bring me to Brenna. How is it possible for one second to feel like a millennium? My eyes bounce between the two hallways, waiting for anyone who can bring me to my wife. Rita, the oldest nurse on staff, and the one I like most, pops around the corner. She gives me her grandmotherly look and it calms me a little.

  “She’s right in here, dear.”

  I was standing outside the door to the room she was in the whole time. I wonder if Brittany knew that. I want to scream through the window and ask her, but I follow Rita into the tiny room. Brenna is sitting in a reclining chair, a pink and a blue strap wrapped around her midsection. Every time I hear our son’s heartbeat, I’m in awe. The thumpity, thumpity, thumpity that reminds me of a horse galloping gets me excited.

  “Hey, pretty mama,” I say.

  She smiles, but I can see the effort she’s making to hold it together. I walk over and sit in the small chair beside her. She reaches her hand out to me and I grab it, placing a kiss on her finger
s.

  “If only they were all like you,” Rita sighs. “I’ll tell Dr. Bastine you’re here.”

  We thank her and she backs out of the room.

  I need the baby to know I’m here for him too, so I reach my other hand out and place it over Brenna’s stomach. I begin to sing Rock-a-Bye Baby. A little jab greets my hand. I’m not sure if it’s a hand or foot, but it makes Brenna giggle. I keep singing and our little one continues to dance. His heartbeat goes up and I think, what a wonderful sound.

  Dr. Bastine knocks before entering. I may not like the position he has to be in with my wife sometimes, but he’s a good doctor. If he feels Mr. Bean needs some looking after then we’ll follow his advice.

  My knee won’t stop bouncing as he explains Brenna will most likely need to stay in the hospital until the baby is born, where they will keep her on fluid IVs to ensure she’s as hydrated as possible. She’s gone pale as a ghost and I know she’s thinking about Brady. She told me she never wanted to be away from him again. I can’t imagine the strain this is causing her. She won’t look at me. Instead, she keeps looking at the screens. It’s like she’s willing them to give better results. Nothing on them is going to stop what’s happening. I wish they could, but they can’t replace the fluid that’s missing.

  “You’re positive she’ll be alright if I drive her to the hospital?” I ask, needing to be sure.