Page 91 of We Were Something
It all kind of clicked for me, which is why I’ve tried so hard not to be angry in the wake of her infidelity. Why I was so gracious about putting up a united front to our friends. The reason behind our amicable, simple, fast-paced divorce.
She wanted a child, and I said no. She begged and pleaded, and I said no.
She knew I didn’t want kids before we got married. It’s not my fault she changed her mind.
But it wasn’t her fault either.
So when I wouldn’t give her the one thing she’d determined was the key to her happiness, she went out and found someone whowouldgive her what she wanted.
It just so happened that the result would also mean the end of our decade-and-a-half-long marriage.
A part of me was sad. Truly, deeply sad to see it end.
To know there would be no more memories created in the house we shared.
But it was also a revelation to me. A revelation that our marriage was not the place of refuge I’d once thought it was. Instead, it was the place I sought refugefrom. I went to work to hide from the constant anger and frustration. I went out on my boat to get away from the environment that made me feel like I was being a bad husband by not giving my wife what she wanted. When I was busy hiding from her, she was figuring out how to get what she wanted.
And she did.
She figured out a way to have exactly what she wanted.
Then, because of one poorly timed turn and a truck driver who didn’t get enough sleep, part of what she wanted was lost.
“I don’t know how I’m going to do this without him,” she whispers, and I glance over to find her cheeks awash with new tears. “How will I do this alone?”
Before I can say anything in response—about how my mom was a single mother and did just fine, about the many resources there are for single moms these days, about the friends she has who will be wonderful supports for her in the coming weeks and months—a sudden alarm goes off in my mom’s room, one that means her vitals are plunging.
I stand quickly and watch as a handful of nurses and doctors flock to her, tugging the monitor off to the side and dropping the bed so she’s flat, all of them chattering to each other about the steps they’re going to take to keep her alive.
Jen slips into the space next to me at the window and tucks her arm into the crook of mine, crying in soft sobs as she watches them work. As they use the defibrillator to shock her once, then twice before they get her heartbeat back.
I can see the wave of tension leave the room as they bring my mother back from the brink of death, all of them shuffling around to put her back in the position she was in when they arrived.
I want to shove them all aside. Barrel my way in and smack them out of the way. Tell them they’re all idiots and have no idea what they’re doing. But I don’t.
I might be a doctor, but I can’t fix whatever is wrong with my mom. Instead, I have to put my trust in the minds and hands of the people who work here. I have to believe they’re doing everything they can.
And as they file out of the room and leave my mother in there, still hooked up to the machines, still not waking up, still recovering from extensive injuries, I wonder how much longer ‘everything they can’ will be enough.
“Your mother had a stroke,” Dr. Ramos tells me as I stand at the foot of her bed, Jen at my side. “Her CT was clean when she first came in, but we want to do an MRI to see if there’s something it missed. That will also help us see if the stroke caused any damage to the brain that we need to account for.”
“Oh mygod,” Jen whispers, putting her face in her hands and letting out a quiet sob.
“We’re going to take her up for the MRI now. I’ll assess the imaging then consult with you before making a plan of action.”
I can tell he’s using certain language because I’m a fellow surgeon. The idea that he’d consult me before deciding on how to approach a brain bleed and steps to manage a stroke is kind, but unrealistic.
“I appreciate it,” I tell him. “But I’m no brain surgeon.”
“Still, I want to make sure you’re on board before any decisions are made,” he says, patting me on the shoulder and giving me the smile I’ve given to patients’ family members many times. “We should be done with the MRI in about an hour. I’ll come find you then.”
I nod, stepping out of the way as two transporters begin adjusting the wires and machines so they can move her bed out of her ICU room and over to their diagnostics lab.
We watch as they wheel her down the hall, Jen tucking herself into my side and resting her head on my shoulder.
“She’s going to be okay, right?” she asks me. “Please tell me she’s going to be okay.”
“I don’t know, Jen. We just have to wait and see.”
