Page 31 of Broken Dream
Dr. Morgan stays quiet for a moment. Then, “I understand that talking isn’t easy for either of you. And Jason, it’s okay to feel like this isn’t helping. It’s okay to have doubts. But sometimes being here is just about holding space for each other’s pain.”
I scoff, unable to stop myself. “Holding space,” I mutter under my breath.
Sounds like another therapy buzzword. Doesn’t mean anything to me. But then I see the way Lindsay’s hand trembles slightly in her lap, her eyes brimming with that familiar hurt, and something shifts. Maybe… Maybe it means something to her.
“Lindsay,” Dr. Morgan says, “can you tell Jason one thing he could do that would make you feel supported, even if it’s just a small thing?”
Lindsay hesitates and then glances at me for the first time since we walked into this room. “Just… I just need you to listen sometimes, Jason. To sit with me, even if we’re not talking. Just so I don’t feel alone with it all.”
Her voice is so quiet, I almost don’t hear her. But those words hit me like a punch to the gut. I’m her husband. All I do is sit with her. God knows I can’t work, and she hasn’t been back to work either.
I nod slowly, swallowing the anger, the frustration, the helplessness I feel about this whole damned process.
I’m with her all the time, but still she feels alone.
I don’t know what else to do.
I try to live with the guilt. I almost feel like it would be easier if Lindsay would blame me.
I want to yell at her, tell her to snap out of this and put the blame where it lies. On my shoulders.
But when I yell, all she does is cry.
When I’m nice, all she does is cry.
When I do nothing, all she does is cry.
None of this is helping Lindsay. We come here day after day, and she’s not getting any better.
She lost her baby.
But so did I.
And I lost something else.
The ability to do what I love.
The ability to perform surgery.
The nerves in my hand aren’t healing, and I’ll most likely never cut again.
Every passing day feels like a blur, my heart heavy with grief. Each morning when I open my eyes, there’s that moment, just a fraction of a second, when I forget. When everything seems normal. Julia’s asleep in her bedroom, and I have back-to-back surgeries scheduled.
But then it crashes into me like a wave, all at once.
I force myself out of bed, into my clothes. The mirror reflects a person I barely recognize—pale, hollow-eyed, with lines on my forehead I don’t remember having before.
Lindsay is usually already up when I come down for breakfast. At least she gets out of bed. She doesn’t eat much these days. Her coffee turns from hot to chilled as she stares blankly out the window.
We used to share this ritual every morning—sipping our coffee and discussing our plans for the day, joking and laughing. Now our exchanges are limited to hushed good mornings. A heavy silence looms between us, more deafening than any words.
“Did you sleep?” she asks every morning, her voice barely above a whisper.
I shrug. “A little.”
That’s what I always say, but it’s a lie. Sleep has been elusive. I’ve been haunted by nightmares and memories that twist like knives in my gut.
She nods and turns her attention back to the window.
