*
*
Our fingers untangle and I watch his lanky form being ushered down the long white-tiled corridor. I restrain the tears that burn the back of my eyes and only let them escape and freely tumble down my cheeks when Jim rounds the corner and exits through a set of double doors. There’s a sense of relief that he’s finally doing the biopsy, along with worry about the outcome.
I’m past thinking how this whole situation is unfair. I'm past trying to bargain alternative endings with God. Being pregnant has been a real lesson in taking every day as it comes. I don’t know what’s coming next. I have no control over it, and I’m just sort of flowing right now.
That being said, I’m unpleasantly tired and the little one in me is insistent in stretching its tiny limbs under my ribs. I debate on whether to linger in the waiting room or go for a walk. I opt for the latter; the former—white walls, nurses, fluorescent lights—will drive my hormonal state into insanity.
I venture outside and it’s a chilly, bright morning. The cool breeze toys with my hair as I stroll along the sidewalk. I stare into the empty space around me and stillness lies over everything. I walk past a tall glass window and my reflection shows me all bleak and puffy—no pregnancy glow visible. Have I lost it?
I find a desolate bench on the outskirts of the hospital’s courtyard and park myself there. I close my eyes, shiver and pull my coat closer—the world slows down.
I think back to a particular night months ago when morning sickness was a faithful companion and nothing I ate agreed with the little bean taking root in me. I remember lying in bed, queasy and unsettled, when I heard Jim singing. I couldn’t quiet decipher what he crooned until he poked his head inside the bedroom door with a platter in hand.
“And you can tell everybody this is your song…”
I groaned inwardly and buried my face further into the pillow. Jim’s a lot of things—sweet, kind, funny—but not a good Elton John impersonator.
He placed the platter on the nightstand and settled against me—his tall frame engulfing me completely. I turned, opened one eye and gazed up at him. He offered an easy, apologetic grin and whispered, “It may be quite simple but now that it's done...”
That earned him a smile.
“Baby’s being difficult, huh?” He said and heaved a heavy, phony sigh. “Already taking after his mother,” he added as an afterthought. With the little strength I still had in me I socked him on the stomach. He couldn’t deny he deserved that one.
“Owwww…” He said, nursing his abdomen as he reached for the platter. “I brought saltines and ginger ale, Rocky.”
“Thanks. Ginger ale. Not really up for chewing right now,” I said.
He helped me sit up against the headboard and handed me a cup. I rewarded him with an appreciative smile and he settled next to me. “Are you sure you don’t want saltines?”
“Ehhh…..No, maybe later,” I said, taking another sip.
He smiled up at me and splayed his hand on my belly, his fingertips rubbing slightly against the fabric of my shirt as he resumed singing in his sweetest and most tender voice, “I hope you don't mind. I hope you don't mind that I put down in words. How wonderful life is while you're in the world.”
I remember leaning my head back, smiling at the first glimpse of Jim as a dad—so warm, so present. I need him to be okay. I can’t do this alone. I’ve been optimistic and confident about the outcome of today, but what if I’ve been disillusioned? I feel my throat tighten as I watch a young boy reach for his father’s hand as they stroll down the sidewalk. Maybe our little one will only know stories like this about his or her dad.
The sky clouds over and a cold breeze whips around me. I’m wearing a rather heavy coat, and though I imagined it would be thick enough to keep the chill at bay, I notice my hands tremble as I bury them in my pockets. Reluctant, I return inside.
I resign myself to the waiting room—the sparseness of it makes this whole thing depressing. I study the posters on the wall, the outdated magazines strewn about, anything but thinking about what could happen. It’s been almost two hours. A nurse should come out any minute now and say Jim is fine.
After twenty long minutes, a nurse finally comes out, calls, “Mrs. Halpert,” and does just that. She doesn’t look at me as she speaks. There’s no emotion or tinge of interest in her voice. I nod and ask if I could see him, she nods in return and I follow her in silence.
When I finally reach Jim’s recovery ICU room, I gasp when I see him. He looks like a young boy. He’s lost a lot weight and is all arms and legs. I hadn’t realized the toll this tumor was taking on him. It’s hard to see him so weak, so breakable. It’s still a waiting game, though, the doctor warns me. Until Jim wakes up, we can’t really know if anything unexpected happened.
I pull a chair closer and take a seat by the bed. I grip his hand, carefully, feeling how warm and dry it is, how his pulse beats in the wrist, how tangible Jim’s hand is in my hand. The baby flutters and I realize a little piece of him is inside me.
I wait for longer than I can remember and eventually end up dozing off. When I stir up again I feel rested and it takes a few seconds to find myself as I float on the surface of waking. I look around and Jim’s still motionless and asleep. A blond nurse enters the small room, takes his temperature and pulse. Jim’s eyes flicker open. He registers me and tries to say something, sounds like my name. Expectantly, I look at the nurse.
“He seems to be slowly regaining conscious,” she pipes up. I can’t say anything. Thank you, God, is all I think. “His temperature is a little high,” she adds. “It’s not uncommon.”
I stand up, running my hand over Jim’s. His eyes close. The nurse smiles and gives Jim an injection. The drug courses his veins and his body slowly unwinds. I push the hair from his forehead and kiss him there. He’s warm and sweat beads above his upper lip.
“We’re here, Babe.”
Thirteen hours later, Jim finally regains full consciousness. I almost leap out of my chair when he stirs and simply says, “Water.” The IV machine beeps and the baby, sensing my excitement, flutters impatiently as I breathe a sigh of relief. We’re okay, we’re okay.
Two days later we receive the results of the biopsy. Tumor: benign, grade two, but may continue to grow to some extent. The doctor tells us that the tumor may invade surrounding normal tissue, and can recur as a grade three or higher. Therefore, before a complete surgical extraction, he advises Jim to go through rounds of radiation therapy to shrink the size and ease the accessibility to the tumor.
A week later the radiation nightmare started.
We’d read the various educational leaflets and in theory we understood what was coming, but the reality of it took us by surprise. The constant nausea and exhaustion, vomiting and burning sensations, the sporadic, but severe headaches—it all hit us like an eighteen wheeler. Jim couldn’t eat, walk, sleep—he wasn’t himself.
I held on, urging him on. And there were days when it seemed easier to just throw in the towel. But the baby would kick and nudge and we would be reminded that all this were tiny matters compared to what was before us. This baby became our sole reason for living. This thought made me wonder if this baby was happenstance after all.
But three torturous weeks later, the first round of radiation treatments finally came to an end. I said a silent prayer as Jim slowly regained himself back. I saw an improvement in his overall mood almost immediately. Aaaand because life never fails to happen, I went into labor the following week.
After nineteen long hours our little miss sunshine came into the world all pink and perfect. Cecelia Marie Halpert is this small little thing, with tiny ears, a pouty mouth, two big eyes, and a bit of hair. She’s just so delicate and we just want to hold her and shelter her from this world. She’s this glimpse of hope we’ve been holding on too for the last eight weeks.
Jim’s in another world—he’s in love all over again. We brought her home today, it’s rainy and he just cradles her, watching the rain rap against the living room window. I'm sure he's counting and re-counting all her tiny fingers and toes, or just watching her sleep.
The following day I get up from a well-deserved nap and carefully walk down the stairs and through the hall, slowly. My breasts hurt. My you-know-what hurts. Everything hurts. Jim is on the couch with Cecelia. After staring at the two of them for a moment, I take a seat next to him and he puts his arm around me.
He kisses the top of my head and says, “Did you have a good nap?”
“Yeah,” I say, leaning my head on his shoulders. I run my finger over my babe’s little tummy and she shifts lazily in his arms. “What have you two been up too?”
He smiles and fixes his baseball cap. “You know… We’ve had a couples massage, a tanning session... We were planning on getting matching tattoos…”
I smile.
“…And later I was thinking of bringing back my famous grill cheese sandwich.”
“Really?” He hasn’t made them in so long, and I don’t know how he does it but… It’s pretty amazing.
He nods and says, “Really.”
I haven’t felt quite this peaceful in a long time. Before Cecelia’s arrival it was like our lives were temporarily off track, but now it seems that it will soon right itself again, so for now there’s no reason to get too worked up about anything. Carpe Diem, right?
We don’t move for the next hour or so, watching the sunlight slowly inch away and the living room becomes washed with the orange tint from the streetlights outside. Cece eventually wakes up and Jim hands her to me. I unbutton my shirt and she is now quick to latch on. My nipples also hurt.
Jim gets up and in a minute I can hear and smell him making grill cheese sandwiches. The aroma fills the room and it’s so comforting to finally get a whiff of the tomato soup boiling. If our little one grows up and all she thinks we eat is grilled cheese sandwiches, that’s okay. There are worse things right?
Jim comes back with a tray with two grilled sandwiches, two bowls of soup and two cups of milk. He does this whole French waiter routine thing where he lowers the tray and pulls the napkins he so tactfully folded over his arms, and places on my lap. He then spins on his heels and pulls Cece’s burp cloth from somewhere behind him and drapes it over my shoulder.
I miss this, I miss us…. This is the best he’s been—we’ve been, since the biopsy. He’s been able to keep his food down and has been sleeping more, even with Cece’s arrival. I’m dreading the thought of him resuming the radiation therapy in a couple of weeks.
After the little show, Jim stops and says, “And for the finish…” as he reaches for something in his back pocket, I think? He pulls out the grated cheese and sprinkles on the soup. Perfect!
I clap and he takes a bow. “This looks really good, Babe.”
“Why, thank you,” he says and takes a seat next to me.
Cecelia finishes nursing and I burp her before satisfying my own appetite. Jim takes her while I dig into the sandwich like I haven’t eaten in days. I also watch him and he eats slowly, but eats nonetheless. He’s more interested in watching Cece blow milk bubbles as she slips into slumber—can’t blame him.
“She’s so great, ya know?” He tells me never averting his gaze from our little one.
“Yeah, we did good Halpert,” I say with my mouth full.
“I think she’ll look like you.”
“Yeah?”
He ponders for a bit and says, “You know, the curly hair, the nose…”
Two can play at this game. “Except she’ll have your hair (Cross my fingers) and your eyes…”
“She’s going to be great,” he muses.
“Yeah….”
I finish eating and settle against Jim. He’s so warm. He has one arm holding Cecelia and another snaked around my shoulders.
“Are you going to be able to handle her in two weeks?” He asks. His voice more somber.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll start radiation again. You should ask your mom to stay over for a little while, or even Penny.”
I can see he’s thought about this. “Maybe, but I think we’ll be okay,” I offer. I don’t really want anyone intruding our little bubble.
“Yeah, maybe,” he sighs and pulls me a little closer. His fingers trace lines up and down my arms. “I just want to make sure you won’t be too overwhelmed.”
He’s determined about this. “Okay, if I am, I’ll call my mom, deal?” I just want to diverge our conversation elsewhere. I'm afraid as to where it may lead.
“Deal.” He retracts his arm from around my shoulders and stands up. He shifts Cecelia so she’s this little ball nestled under his chin and extends an arm to me. “Bedtime,” he says.
“Bedtime,” I repeat.
We ascend to our bedroom and he lays Cece in the basinet adjacent to our bed. We both ease ourselves under the covers and snuggle for warmth. This feels good—our little family, dad, mom, and baby. If only it could remain like that.
Author's Chapter Notes:
This was a bit harder to write. I hope you guys are still with me.
EmilyHalpert-You=awesomepie!
I own nothing.
Chapter End Notes:
Feedback is always good! C'mon, let it rip!
