Waiting 2

I can't believe she told me to go away. She's sitting across the room, closed off with her arms wrapped around her drawn up knees for comfort. Comfort she should be getting from me. Honestly, I don't know what happened. One minute everything was fine and the next she started screaming at me to stop touching her and leave her alone. Then she sat down in the chair next to his bed, an enclosed metal hospital issue crib, complete with hooks at the top to hold IV bags, and stopped talking altogether. She won't even look at me anymore. Two weeks of this and I am so close to being done it's not even funny.

I sneak a look at her. She looks so small sitting over there all by herself. Her big hazel eyes have dark smudges under them and her skin is even paler than usual. Her tawny hair is unwashed, something unheard of before the diagnosis. No make-up, also unheard of before the diagnosis. Her black tee shirt has seen better days and so have her snug blue jeans. She's disappearing in front of me and I don't know how to bring her back. I have to lose them both?

I can deal with Trevor having a brain tumor. They are operating on him now to take it out. There are risks, of course there are, but he will be alive. The doc said he might have permanent brain damage from this, which completely freaked Ash out. She's been around Charlie, but he's pretty high functioning and he doesn't have brain damage, he's got Autism, so it's a little different.

I can't deal with the silence anymore, so I get up out of the too damned small chair and head out to get some coffee for me and hot chocolate for Val. She's not a coffee drinker, but she likes hot chocolate. I take my time, needing to be away from the cloying atmosphere of the fishbowl waiting room. Putting in windows so everyone passing by can watch a family fall apart was an awesome idea. I'll have to write the architect about that one.

I get our drinks and walk back quickly, something tells me I need to hurry. When I get to the door, she is rigid from fighting her fear and pain with her fists pushed into her eyes. Tears leak out almost unnoticed. Shit. I motion for a passing nurse to open the freaking door and spill the drinks, burning my hand as I quickly set them down on the table next to her. I scoop her up into my arms as fast as I can, holding her close to me so she can let go of all of this crap she's been holding onto so tightly for the last two weeks.

"We can do this, babe," I tell her quietly, needing her to believe me. I can't do this without her and as far as I can tell, she can't do it without me either. Not if this is what happens when she is left on her own for less than five minutes.

Her response is to throw her arms around me and sob into my neck, "What if we can't? What if we aren't strong enough?"

I sit down, still holding her in my arms so she is now in my lap, freeing my hands to gently rub her soothingly as I tell her, "You keep forgetting that we are in this together, sweetheart.  You aren't doing this alone."

"You left," she whispers in a sad little girl voice.

"You told me to," I remind her.

"Oh. That was probably a bad idea."

"Ya think?" I raise an eyebrow at her astute observation. Yes, babe, telling your husband to leave you alone while you are freaking out completely and might lose your baby is a bad idea. I don't say it though. It wouldn't do anything but hurt her and she is hurting enough already.

Finally, I hear her soft voice whisper, "I'm sorry. I don't want to do this alone anymore. I'm scared and it hurts. It hurts worse than anything I've ever felt before. I feel like I'm breaking apart from the inside."

"Me too," I sit and hold her, loving the way she feels in my arms, loving the way she makes me feel strong by leaning against me. She's better now. She's dealing with it again instead of hiding from it. I run my fingers through her hair and let it fall, feeling the strands slide across my fingers. I whisper, "I love your hair," thinking of how delicate it feels, like her.

"Thanks for not giving up on me."

"Giving up on you would be giving up on us. We've been through too much for that to happen. Besides, no one else would put up with me," I lift her chin so I can look into her eyes while I try to tease a smile out of her, "I checked."

Her smile and answering words fill me with relief, "You are a dork."

"You love me," I confirm softly, needing her to say the words again. I haven't heard them since this started and I miss them. I miss her.

"I love you," she says tenderly as she leans her head against my shoulder with a soft smile adorning her lips.

The doc comes in quietly, somberly. I take a deep breath, hoping to hold it together, to not fall apart, not now when she has finally let me be strong for her and take care of her.

"I removed the tumor. Now we wait. He'll be in the recovery room in a few minutes and a nurse will take you to see him," she pauses and looks at Ash, "It's not over yet. The likelihood of brain damage is...high. You need to be prepared."

"But he'll live," I say firmly, not allowing for any other outcome. The doc and I already talked about the possibility of brain damage. I'm well aware of the obstacles we may be facing, but we will be facing them as the parents of a child that is alive. That's what is truly important.

"He'll live," she agrees with a slight smile.

As the doc turns to leave, Ash says "Thank you." She is trying not to cry again. The doctor is wiped out, but she took the time to talk to us. I like that about her. She's honest, but kind. She cares about her patients, perhaps too much sometimes, but at least it's real and maybe it gives her a reason to keep doing what she does.

She turns back to look at Ash, "You are welcome. If you have any questions, call me." She runs a hand through her hair, "This one got to me. He's a brave little boy, a fighter."

I smile and say, "He gets that from his mom."

At the same moment, I hear Ash say, "He get's that from his dad."

The doc laughs, both surprised and relieved by our togetherness after two weeks of separation, hurt, and fear. The doc was there when Ash told me to leave. She came out and talked to me, told me everything she told Ash. She also told me that sometimes when people feel like they have too much to deal with, they shut down and push everyone away. It helped some. Still hurt though. When she opens the door to leave us, the room fills with hospital scents that were held at bay for the duration of the surgery. The disinfectant and alcohol odors make me nauseous, but I take a swig of tepid coffee and it gets better. When the nurse arrives, I hold Ash's hand, not willing to let go again. Does she even know what she did to me? How much it hurt?

Walking to the recovery room with her, following the nurse, I hold on to my wife tightly. I can't bear to go through this alone anymore. When we see the tubes coming out of his body, she cries and I cry with her. This wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to stay healthy and whole. I pull her against me, wrapping my arms around her so she can lean on me again, like she used to.

When our emotions subside to a low hum, I sit down and pull her onto my lap again. I need her to let me hold her and take care of her. I look over at Trev. He's so small in the hospital crib. I want to see his smile and hear his laugh, but that might take a very long time. Mostly, I want to see his eyes open and recognize us. I want our family to be whole again. I kiss Ash's head softly.  Does she even know how much I love her? Does she know how hard it was for me to watch her fall apart? She rests her head on my shoulder and lets her body relax into mine. Yeah, she knows.

"I love you," I murmur, "always."