32. Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Two
Meg
“ N ow they have me on five blood pressure medications. Five! And that’s it, there aren’t any more,” I shouted into the phone, frustrated and going crazy from being stuck in the hospital for the past two weeks.
“I know that seems like a lot,” Mom replied. I could tell she was trying to keep her voice calm and it wasn’t working. “But you’re doing great. You knew you might end up in the hospital for your last trimester.” Maya was barking in the background on the other end of the line. My mother was taking care of the dog because Mike was spending every free moment at the hospital in Rochester.
“So, you’ll be twenty-seven weeks tomorrow—when is the doctor planning the cesarean?” Mom asked because the date seemed to change every other day.
“Dr. Sandy is now saying I’m definitely having a preemie. She’s hoping I make it to thirty-two weeks. But I don’t think I can take four more weeks of bed rest.”
“You can and you will,” Mom said in her executive voice.
I rolled my eyes at Mike who was sitting in the visitor’s chair. “What if I have pre-eclampsia?”
“Then you’ll have to deal with that as it comes. I’m sure your worrying doesn’t help your blood pressure. Do you want me to bring you some books? Maybe an adult coloring book?”
“Please.” The nurse came in. “I’ve got to go. Call you later.”
The nurse held up a syringe. “Time for your insulin injection.”
Wonderful. I not only was on the verge of being pre-eclamptic, I’d developed gestational diabetes. And it drove me insane to have Mom tell me that worrying wasn’t helping my blood pressure. Didn’t she think I knew that? How the hell was I supposed to not worry when so much was at stake?
Mike smoothed his hand over my hair as the nurse jabbed me. “You’re amazing.”
Though it was nice to hear, I certainly didn’t feel amazing. I better resembled a blimpy ball of lard who hadn’t been for a walk in two weeks. Mike was the amazing one. He’d been sleeping in my room, getting up, going to work, stopping by his house for a shower, then driving to Rochester to do it all again.
“Know what I got?” he asked.
I squeezed his hand. “A miracle?”
“Well, you and Zachary are the miracles, but I did get a subscription to Peacock so we can binge watch all the Harry Potter movies.”
“Aww, you did?” I tugged him down and kissed his lips. “You are the nicest, most thoughtful man on the planet.”
“Thank you.”
Mike had left for work when a nurse came in and sat in the chair beside me. She had notecards and envelopes in her hand and looked at me with a serene, yet serious expression. “I understand you are aware that we ask all patients undergoing surgery to fill out their advance directives.”
“Yes,” I said, though my heart squeezed. It hadn’t been easy to check the box beside the words I do not want to be kept on life support .
“And you are aware that your situation is high-risk?”
Tears welled in my eyes and I brushed them away. “I know. I chose to keep the baby months ago, and I stand by my decision to live with the consequences.” Or die for that matter, but there was no way I’d ever say that out loud.
“You are remarkably brave.” She sighed, placing a hand on my arm. “One thing we recommend for our high-risk patients is for them to write letters to their loved ones. I can’t stress enough that we will do everything possible to get you and your baby through your delivery. And we’re not expecting the worst to happen, but if it does, you will have had the opportunity to…”
“Say goodbye?” I asked, suddenly ice cold and straining to breathe.
Oh, God.
“Yes.” She opened her hand, the notecards were lovely with watercolors of wildflowers. “Of course, it is entirely up to you, but if you’d like to write a few cards, I thought you might like these, especially since you’ll be on bed rest for the duration of your pregnancy.”
“Thank you.” I slid the notes from her fingers, my hand shaking. “But I don’t want to give them to anybody until I have to.”
“What we recommend is for you to give them to your nurse, or someone you trust before you go in for your cesarean.”
“Okay.” My every breath stuttered as I looked at the pretty design. Would I ever see a field of wildflowers again? Dr. Sandy had already told me my C-section would be done under a general anesthetic because they had deemed it too dangerous to give me a spinal tap. But God save me, if I did have to die, I wanted to hold my son in my arms. Just once, please?
“Did I give you enough cards?” asked the nurse.
Not trusting myself to speak, I nodded. I’d have to write to Mike and tell him what a great dad he was going to be, and that I will need him to take care of our baby because I won’t be around to help—to breast feed—to rock Zachary to sleep. I’d write to Mom and to my dad…and Elaine. She has always been such a great friend.
Tears spilled from my eyes as the baby moved. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to give him kisses. I wanted to be his mom and watch him grow up.
The nurse gently smoothed a hand over my hair. “Please know this is only a precaution to give you peace of mind. I fully expect you to come through surgery and see a beautiful boy swaddled and warm.”
I clutched my arms across my belly. “I need to wake up. I have to!”
“We’re going to do everything in our power to see to it you do. And know what?”
Tears blurred my vision as I shook my head.
“Ever since you came into my ward, I’ve been impressed at your strength. You are not a woman who’s going to let anything stand in the way of what you want.”
An ugly sob ripped from my throat. I wasn’t strong. Not when my body was falling apart. “Really?”
“Absolutely. And in my experience, the key to overcoming any adversity lies in your heart and in your soul.”
Was she right? I never considered myself tough in the face of adversity akin to my mother, but maybe I was. Perhaps becoming a mother awakened my inner strength, my need for survival .
“Write the letters. Tell everyone how much you love them, then after you wake up, maybe you and Mike can toss them into the fireplace and celebrate your little man.”
Before my fiancé came for the evening, I put on my brave girl panties and started writing.
I told my mom there was a reason for her to leave the corporate world because I knew my son was going to survive and he needed his grandmother to love and care for him. I told her how much I loved her, how much I appreciated her, and emphasized what a great mother she had been to me.
Mike’s letter was completely different. I hadn’t known him a whole year yet, but I was absolutely positive that he was my soulmate. In our short time together, I’d learned what it really meant to love a man. As I wrote, I prayed that he wouldn’t ever read this, but if he did, he needed to know that I put one hundred percent of my trust in him. I knew he’d be not just a good father to Zachary, but a world-class dad. I asked him to lean on my mother and always include her in our son’s life.
Droplets of tears peppered the cards, but they were real. They were the evidence that I had written them from my heart. I prayed my words would be treasured forever. Writing these letters completely drained me, wrung me out like a dishrag. Yet for some reason, putting my emotions into words gave me a sense of inner peace.
The final letter I wrote was to Zachary for him to read once he reached the age of twelve. I told him about my dreams of him becoming a man and how much I dearly wanted to be a part of his life, but that my body wasn’t strong enough. I told him I’d always be watching from heaven. I described the overpowering love that filled my heart whenever he moved within me. I treasured every kick, my growing belly, every ultrasound where I could see his strong heart beating. I wanted him to know how deeply I loved him even before he took his first breath and I prayed that my letter would one day give him a sense of connection with me.
This evening the door to my hospital room opened, bringing with it warmth as soothing as sunshine. Mike greeted me with the most amazing smile—white teeth contrasted with is dark, neatly cropped beard, and his eyes gleamed as if he personally held the key to happiness .
He held up a vase filled with red roses. He’d brought me flowers every day, but this was the first time he’d given me red roses—the flower of romantic love. Maybe because the man was incredibly romantic. “Do you know what today is?” he asked.
“Twenty-eight weeks gestation?”
He put the flowers on my table and kissed me. “No. It’s ten months since the first day I set eyes on you and fell deeply and irrevocably in love.”
He always made me giggle when he told me about his insta-crush, especially since I tried so hard not to notice him at first. “Of course, it then took you three months to work up the nerve to even come inside the library again.”
“Yeah, well, some things can’t be rushed.” He took a rosebud by the stem and brushed my cheek with the petals. “There are ten of these—one for every month.”
I stilled his hand and kissed it. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
“Shall I put them in the window with the others?”
“Please. The hospital table is so small, they’re likely to fall and that lovely vase will end up shattered.” I scooted over and patted the bed beside me. “Want to cuddle?”
He winked. “Why do you think I’ve brought all these flowers?”
“I would have given you cuddling privileges regardless.”
Mike slid onto the bed, his nearness warm and soothing and I wanted him to stay there forever. “Um…remember when we were looking at pictures of baby rooms online and you fell in love with the image featuring the world map?”
“Oh, that was so perfect. And it had hot air balloons we could place wherever we wanted—like one in Sydney, Australia where I was born and Yelarben in Queensland where my dad has his horse ranch.”
Mike pressed his forehead against my temple. “That makes Madison where I grew up look pretty dull.”
“No, I love Madison. And we both went to school there. We should add our parents. Maybe our whole family tree. Where were your parents born?”
“Well, my mother was born in Maine. But Dad?” Mike threw back his head and laughed. “Madison.”
“I love it. Zachary will love it, too, because he’ll be able to visit Madison all the time. Trips down under are expensive and take forever. ”
“Oh…but I didn’t finish…” Mike pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Since you’re stuck in the hospital for the duration, I hired your mom and Bob to decorate the nursery—even though they refused to accept payment.”
My breath hitched. I so wanted to be the one to decorate Zachary’s room, but we didn’t even have time to buy furniture. And here I was stuck in the hospital, terrified that I’d never even see the nursery, let alone my son’s face.
Mike showed me a picture that looked exactly like the world map I’d chosen, complete with hot air balloons, and early twentieth century airplanes. “So, they’ve been working like fiends.”
I took the phone and paged through the pictures—aside from the wall with the map, the room had been painted a very light shade of blue. It was furnished with a white antique tallboy and a cozy rocking chair I’d added to the gift registry. There was a rocking bassinet and a white crib that matched the tallboy. I touched the screen. If only I could be there to make sure everything was perfect.
“Look.” Mike swiped to the next picture. “The crib is full of stuffed animals and—”
“Books!” Tears stung my eyes, but I’d been doing too much crying lately. I grabbed a tissue and wiped them .
“If you don’t like it, we can totally start over. I just wanted Zach’s room to be one less thing for you to worry about.”
“It’s perfect.” I didn’t want it to be. I wanted to scream and shout—to complain about how stifling it was to be stuck in a hospital room while everybody else got to do happy things like decorating my son’s nursery. Blast the damned tears, they spilled down my face regardless. “Thank you.”
“Thanks to your mom and Bob. They’re incredibly fast and efficient.”
I tried to laugh. “It sounds like my mother may have met her match.”
“They’re a good team.”
There were so many things I wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t form. Mike knew the risks. He’d gone with me to most of my appointments. And he was so darned happy about this baby, I didn’t want to keep bringing him down because I was worried.
In his way, Mike eased my anxiety and made me almost believe that everything was going to be okay. God, I loved him—loved the way he could take any bad situation and find the good in it.
We sat and cuddled on my cramped hospital bed and talked about our dreams for Zachary. Well past the dinner hour, we found The Lost City on the hospital’s movie list.
As we laughed at Channing Tatum wearing a long blonde wig, trying to portray a male model for a romance novel cover, the back of my head started pounding. Just like the braking incident with Elaine, the sensation of a spike jamming into my brain made me curl forward and gasp.
“Meg! What’s wrong?” Mike asked as the blood pressure cuff on my arm began to inflate in tandem with my ankles which were blowing up before my eyes.
“I can’t breathe. Everything is blurry!”
He punched the call button and flew off the bed. “Nurse! Nurse! We need help in here!”
“Call my mom,” I gasped, doubled over and freaking out at the ridiculously high blood pressure reading.
The nurse came in, took one look at my stats, and sounded the alarm.
“I’m going to have another dissection!” I cried, pressing against the back of my neck, trying to stop the screaming pain.
“Not on my watch.” She injected something into my IV while an entire team filled my room. “Notify surgery to prepare for an emergency C-section.”