*
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For some moments in life there are no words.
I sleep all day, occasionally hearing everyday noises flit around the house—Pam walking up and down the stairs, garbage truck backing in the alley, rain rapping against the bedroom window. I try to force my eyes to remain open, but it’s like a million razor-sharp insects are gnawing at my brain. It’s unbearable. I breathe slowly and deeply, stilling my eyes under my eyelids, and will myself to remain under the medication surge.
In less than two weeks, my life has been reduced to this bed, this endless drug-laced slumber that fuses mornings, afternoons, and nights into one. Pam will often crawl into bed, wrapping herself around me as best as she can, but I'm too comatose to fully register her presence. I miss her, and I know she missed me too.
Things haven’t been the same since I returned from the hospital. Pam and I don’t talk much, and when we do talk, we argue. The doctor wants to do a biopsy of the tumor, but I just can’t right now…. Our baby is due in just six weeks and the risks of the procedure outweigh the goods. Pam doesn’t understand that and we have long, pointless discussions that usually go nowhere. I have to keep reminding myself that she’s not angry with me, just scared.
I’m alert enough right now that I hear the front door open and close. I also hear Pam’s footsteps climbing up the stairs towards our bedroom. Subsequently, the bedroom door slowly creaks open and I see her poke her head inside.
“Hey,” I say hoarsely.
“Hi,” she says and a smile breaks across her face. Though it quickly fades, it does me a world of good. I extend an arm to her and she shuffles towards me, kicks off her shoes, and climbs into bed. I catch the unmistakable whiff of her body spray—Bath and Body Work’s Moonlight Path.
“How are you feeling today?” She asks, easing herself next to me.
“Tired,” I say exhaling. I pull her as close as I can and plant a sloppy kiss on her forehead. I just want for a second to pretend that everything is okay, and that this is all a dream and her need to be walking on eggshells around me is just a figment of my imagination. “What time is it?”
“A little past five.”
With one eye open, I gaze down at her. She looks tired—crushed even, and a bit fidgety, tracing lines up and down my chest, just touching me, like she wants to make sure I'm here.
“How was the doctor’s appointment? Baby good?” I slowly catch one of her restless hands in mine and hold it over her belly. My head hurts. I try to ignore it.
“Yup, everything’s good.”
I sigh and let my body slouch over hers. I can feel the strain of her muscles under the tips of my fingers. I hate that she’s feeling this way. I hate even more that I’m the cause of it.
“You didn’t cave in and asked if it’s a boy or girl, right?” I say, trying to keep our conversation light. She’s dying to know, but I want to wait.
“No,” she chuckles. “Not yet.”
“Good,” I say. Maybe I should let her have this one little thing that she can look forward too.
Pam snuggles her head further under my chin and after a stretch of uninterrupted silence, she says in her smallest voice, “I talked to Dr. Arsmani today….”
She lets the sentence linger and I inquire, “About what?”
She’s silent—immobile. I shift so I can see her whole face and her expression is both, scared and pleadingly—it overwhelms me with worry. “Pam?” I say. “What did you talk to him about?” I know Pam and I hope to God that she’s not about to tell me what I think she is. “Pam?”
“I asked to be induced.”
I involuntarily jerk up and somehow land on my two feet. My ears buzz and I feel like I’m about to lose my balance. She can’t…. No… she’s not…. “No,” I say shaking my head.
“Jim…” She moves to the edge of the bed and reaches for me, to comfort me, to comfort herself, but I can’t. I grudgingly inch away.
“Jim, please… Listen—” She insists.
“No, Pam.… Don’t,” I say as she tries to grab a hold of my arm again.
“Jim—” Her face churns with something I’ve yet to see—resentment? Disappointment? Anger? She remains perched on the side of the bed, blinks a few times, and says through clenched teeth, “In three weeks.”
I gasp. “How can you?” I’m frightened of where this might end. “You’re choosing to put our child at risk over something so stupid.”
Tears roll down her eyes. “You give me no option,” she blurts out.
“And you think choosing to put our baby at risk is an option?” I try to keep the anger out of my voice. The pain continues to circulate inside my head.
“He said at 37 weeks the baby is safe,” she counters and continues to sit there—her pain and desolation so rawly palpable on her face that I’m sudden struck with silence.
I dig my finger to the back of my neck and begin to pace around the room. From my periphery I can see her hands carefully slipping down to cradle her belly—the baby is agitated and kicking. I look into her hollow, glazed eyes and my heart breaks. I become dizzy and utterly weak, as if my spine went limp and nerveless. I lose all sense of balance and slide down to the floor. I pull my knees to my chest, lower my head, and sob.
I hear Pam carefully shuffling and lowering herself next to me. She leans her head against my arm and we both cry, both at a loss. I love her and I love this baby so much and the thought of something happening to either of them pains me—literally.
“Don’t do it,” I whisper.
She heaves a sigh, shaking her head. “I don’t know what else to do, Jim.” She grabs hold of my hand. “I’m not losing you.”
“You won’t,” I reassure her.
She looks at me, biting her bottom lip in a futile attempt to keep her tears at bay. “I know you want to w-wait, but it m-might be too late.”
“Pam,” I begin, trying to keep myself together. “I want to see our baby’s little face. I want to hold and feel it in my arms.” I haven’t told her this before and reality hits me as the words tumble from my mouth. “I-I want to be there, there. I can’t even think about not seeing that little round face with your nose, or mouth, or your eyes….” Pam’s eyes are glassy and she’s clearly as broken as I am. I have to look away. “I can’t leave now. I need to do this,” I plea.
“Jim…” Pam says in a tear soaked voice. She cups my chin and pulls my face towards hers. I start to weep and I can’t stop. My heart breaks at the thought of not being here for my family. Her face also crumbles and her lip quivers as she says, “Y-you will. You’re not g-g-going anywhere.”
I feel like throwing up, but I don’t. I lean into her hand, feeling my head pounding and my eyelids going heavy. I’m tired—tired of crying, tired of watching Pam cry. Pam and the baby are more important than any of my selfish needs. If I have to choose between putting myself at risk or my child….
“Okay.” …I’ll put myself at risk. “I’ll do it. But promise me you won’t be induced.”
“I won’t.”
She props herself on her knees, wiping back tears, and puts her hands around my neck and sobs. She then cups my face and kisses me like we haven’t in a long time. I feel resolve coursing through her.
“I love you, you know that…” she says.
I nod. “I love you too.”
“…We’re gonna make it through this—together.”
I nod again. She pulls my hand to her belly and immediately the baby kicks, as if sensing my presence.
She sits back down with her back to the wall and I lay my head on her lap—her belly’s looming over my face, taunt and hot. She runs her fingers through my hair and after a beat she says, “We need names.”
We schedule to see the doctor a few days later. He is both surprised and happy to know that I decided to finally do the biopsy. He plants one hand on the table, like a captain at the helm of a ship about to address the crew, and assures me it’s for the best.
We sign consent papers and at one point I ask Pam if she can go get me some water. She nods and when she steps out I ask the doctor to go over the procedure, which I know he must. I just don’t Pam to hear it—she doesn’t need the added stress of knowing they will be drilling a hole through my skull and inserting a needle in my head. I know she knows, but hearing it, like I’m right now, makes it that more real.
Pam comes back minutes later, a little winded, with a water bottle in hand. “Sorry I took long. There isn’t a single vending machine on this floor.”
I knew that.
“It’s okay, babe.” I take the bottle and sip it. I’m not really thirst, though my throat feels like I just swallowed a bag of cotton balls.
The doctor gives me a list of ‘what to do’ before the procedure tomorrow and with a thankful nod we leave.
When we return home, things follow their usual routine—Pam cooks dinner, I pretend to eat (I can’t keep much down), we sit in front of the TV, I pretend to watch. I try to keep awake and be there, present, but it’s a lost battle. I surrender and doze off on her shoulder. At night we hold each other a bit tighter than we normally would.
I wake with Pam hovering over me, slowly pulling me away from the depths of my sleep. By the look of her face I can tell she hasn’t slept at all. Her eyes are hollow with a tinge of red, but she smiles and says, “Time to wake up, Babe.”
I groan inwardly.
She helps me get up and shower and I see she packed a duffle bag for me. It’s next to the go-bag for when the baby comes.
“You feeling okay?” She asks as I stumble around the bedroom, looking for my baseball cap. “Need something?”
“Can’t find my hat.”
“It’s downstairs,” she says and takes my hand. “C’mon, we can’t be late.”
Just like that she drags me down and out to the car. She drives and I absently gaze out the window—the engine noise, the repetition of stop signs and streetlights makes me calm, anesthetize me, and after a while a kind of forget why we’re driving.
When we arrive at the hospital, I begin to crumble by the seam. It’s an icy, gray day. The trees in front of the hospital have lost their foliage, and the dead leaves rustle across the lawn. I’m a bit scared of the outcome. I try to deflect the plaguing thoughts, but I can’t. Pam doesn’t seem worried, just hopeful. As if hope alone would make this all right.
We go right past the reception area and to the surgical wing. The corridors seem empty, save the occasional nurses walking about. We meet the doctor in his blank office, for what I think is a last minute pep talk. He ends with an unbefitting enthusiastic smile and says, “Alright, Let’s get you prepped.”
I get up and start to walk out, but Pam immediately reaches for my hand. She eyes me and I can see her enthusiasm visibly draining out through her keds—worry just setting in. I love her more than anything in this world and her strength is what’s carrying me right now. She can’t fall apart…
“I’ll see you soon,” I reassure her. I have to be strong for her right now. She’s gotten me here; I need to get us through this now. “It will only take a couple of hours.”
She nods, biting her quivering bottom lip. I pull her for a long lingering kiss. I don’t care who’s watching. I hug her tight, just holding, holding, holding, refusing to let go. I lower my lips down to her round belly and kiss there too. We reluctantly part; our fingers slowly detangle as I follow the nurses waiting for me.
I change into the hospital gown and they partially shave a section of my head. They poke me with IV’s and needles and stick pads on my chest and head. They walk me to this really cold room and they have me sit on the funky looking chair with a metal head support.
The doctor walks in moments later all dressed, masked, and with his hands clad with latex gloves. I see other nurses and doctors enter the room and suddenly I feel claustrophobic. Walls of blue-clothed people close in around me and I think that this is it.
The anesthesiologist introduces himself and tells me to count down from 10.
“Ten…nine…”
My vision gets blurry and I can no longer feel the constant pounding headache.
“Eight……..seven…”
My attention is wandering and I see my mom, tending the garden by the big oak tree in our backyard. She wearing that big sun hat we tease her about.
.
“S-six….fiv—”
I see Pam and I at home, watching television—nothing unusual, just us, being us. She has her bare feet propped on the coffee table and I have my head on her lap, her belly clad against my cheek—my favorite place to be.
“F-fouh,….”
I see more of Pam and then black, “Thr…”
Void—then nothing.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Jim's POV
EmilyHalpert was the Beta-extraordinaire.
I still own nothing.
EmilyHalpert was the Beta-extraordinaire.
I still own nothing.
Chapter End Notes:
Thanks for reading? Should I still continue?
