Page 39 of Breathe Again

No guarantee that he would have reached for me, but it would have been better for me if he had. Making love took the edge off my panic, sliced slivers off my angst. His touch, a refuge from the fears that plagued me. The more he was inside me, the deeper I could breathe.

I was not breathing easy now.

I flipped through my journal again. The doctor’s observations were starting to ring true and only served to confirm what I already knew: I was trouble. Too needy, too demanding, too emotional, and I knew that Zale knew it too. But was I too much? Was I worth the trouble I brought him?

Uncertainty and doubt burrowed under my skin, skin that was thinner than usual since hearing the awful diagnosis.

I wanted to ask him. I desperately needed his reassurance, that for him I was not too much. This was a question I asked often, phrasedin different ways. Do you still love me? Do you like me? Am I funny? Are we friends? Do you want me still? His answer would appease me for the moment, but the relief never lasted. It offered a momentary respite that often sparked an internal audit of all my experiences with him, looking at evidence of past words and past rejections, that I believed refuted the truth of his words.

Even so, I felt compelled to ask. I sent my question in a text because I could not wait for him to come home, because I could not bear to see impatience on his face, because I was fearful of the time in the future, a future that may become all too present with my news, when his answer would not offer me respite.

‘Am I too much?’

Three little dots bounced in the text line as I awaited his response.

‘You are perfect (most of the time) … the end.’

A tiny thrill, a candlewick’s worth of warmth in my belly, a flicker of hope, I turn his text message over in my head, wondering if it could possibly be true, and I’ve almost decided that it couldn’t be, when a whisper of a question breathes life-giving hope into my heart, when has he ever lied to you?

He has never lied to me.

Never.

Feeling lighter and much happier, I began the process of extracting Olivia from her bed hoping the planned visit to see my mom would be a good incentive.

It was not.

In fact, Olivia was ‘having a day.’ Having a day meant she was bent on taking uncooperative to the next level, maybe even Olympic level. Could be because she didn’t get enough sleep, could be she was worrying about something and couldn’t find the words to express herself, could be she had a headache or a bellyache and couldn’t pinpoint the location of her pain.

“Little bird, are you having a difficult time today?”

“Yes.” She gave me the death glare. I’d have to tread lightly with my next questions. Too many and she’d shut down.

“I can see that,” I murmured. “I wonder if there’s something I can do for you.”

She appeared to be open to suggestions.

“Do you have pain in your head or in your belly, maybe?”

“My head.”

“Can you point to where the pain is?”

She indicated the top and her temples. “How’s your vision?”

“I can see in the middle.”

Ah, yes. I cracked the case. Olivia suffered from migraines; this was the beginning of one of those. There was a lot of detective work involved in parenting. There was also a lot of nursing. It was paramount to get some painkiller into her and get her to relax.

“Let’s make a nest on the couch for you and Sirius. Mommy will give you something for the pain, and in a few minutes we’ll put Harry Potter on for you.”

I could almost recite The Prisoner of Azkaban by memory, but sacrifices had to be made.

“Okay.” Her brow smoothed somewhat with the new plan.

I gave her medicine, then made her and Sirius a blanket nest on the couch. She climbed in and fell back to sleep within minutes. Hopefully, with extra sleep, quiet, and, fingers-crossed, if I got the meds into her fast enough, we’d skip the vomiting phase. I put a wastebasket lined with plastic bags on the floor beside her just in case.

I’d give her an hour before I canceled our visit. Sometimes she bounced back quickly and wanted to resume with plans for the day.

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