Dr. Deller says, “Hello? Come in. Yes, Dr. Hildebrandt. How, may I help you?”
“Hi, Mrs. Ryan. Doctor, I’m sorry to intrude, I just wanted to let you know Henry and I will be leaving in a few minutes. Donna just left, and she asked me to let you know.”
“No problem, thanks. We were just finishing up. Mrs. Ryan will be leaving shortly, but I’ll be here a bit longer. Thank you.”
My instinct shoots pains in my belly. Not labor pains, but nervous stomach pains, like seagulls are swooping in circles inside me. I need get out of here. I can’t breathe.
“Ooh!” I whimper in fear.
Dr. Deller turns to me. “Betsy, are you okay? Is it the baby?”
“No, ah… I’m fine,” I lie. “I have to go.” I struggle to get my pants back on and quickly run out. Henry and Dr. Hildebrandt are nowhere to be seen.
For the millionth time this week, I run and try to catch my breath as I propel the palm of my hand onto the elevator button. I need to get the heck out of this building. I could take the freight elevator just through the hallway door, but this route is faster. I push the little black button a second and third time. Finally, the doors open to an empty elevator. I enter after furtively looking down the hall to make sure I wasn’t followed. The blood surging through my veins feels like I’m running a marathon. That would be quite a sight. Here I am running across the finish line, fighting off bad guys and holding my bouncing stomach.
The incredible urge to get out of that office has me baffled. I don’t understand why I’m getting these feelings. Maybe I was picking up on something in the doctor’s office and my body was warning me about it? Maybe a comment Dr. Deller said, or Dr. Hildebrandt’s entrance, or the janitor walking by? Or perhaps I’m just losing my mind and having a nervous breakdown. Either way, I need to get out of here.
While waddle-jogging to my car, I scan the parking lot, left then right. Still no one is following me. The parking lot is nearly empty this time of day aside from a few scattered cars.
I start the ignition and grip the steering wheel as a scream surges from my lungs. No one can hear me, but the baby squirms. Her feet tuck as if she were a gymnast doing a trick.
“Whoa. Okay, baby. Breathe,” I say. “Emmy Grace. That’s your name, you know.” Talking to her in a calm way eases both our nerves. “Yep, Mommy knows you’re a girl now, so I’m going to call you by your name.” Another scan of the parking lot shows I’m still alone. There’s no one in sight.
The sound of my voice seems to send a relaxed energy to my belly, and my little girl settles down. It settles me, too. I imagine her breathing, gurgling, maybe even blowing bubbles from inside. I’m sure she can feel the pounding blood through my veins starting to slow down—but her sense of tranquility brings me back to center. She’s not going anywhere; she wants to meet her brothers, Morgan and Kyle, on her birthday.
There’s very little movement in the parking area as I make the short drive out of the lot and turn onto the street. While sitting at a traffic light, I suddenly remember that I need to bring cupcakes to Morgan’s class party tomorrow. Today just keeps getting better and better. Why do I always sign up for these things and then forget? I never used to forget things at work. Still, I welcome the distraction from the stressful event at the doctor’s office and turn the car in the direction of the closest grocery store. I know I don’t have time to bake today. Some chef I am.
Jockeying for a parking spot near the grocery store can be tricky in this little suburb near Northwestern University, Steven’s alma mater. It’s almost like parking in downtown Chicago, but with less traffic and cheaper parking meters. The streets are lined with traditional university buildings denoted by white wooden signs in black or purple script, an overflowing coffee shop with a green awning covering a few metal coffee tables outside the door, and a large smattering of students and bikes. This is life in this suburban gem. We are so lucky to live here.
Baby and I enter the gourmet grocery store and instantly take in the array of eye candy, aka, Food Paradise. Each square inch of this store screams wholesome, delicious, and beautiful organic food. Chefs like me appreciate the high quality and are willing to pay the extra cost for our families. The entry displays contain flawless apples and pears lined up in perfect rows, facing us, best sides up. Walking between the aisles makes me feel like I’m an imaginary character in a video game with her princess daughter in tow as she glides through the mountains of brilliant colorful candies and treats; but in this case, it’s vivid produce—known as treats to some.
Moving past the highlands with its rainbow of food, we are then transported into the lowlands of bakery town. I think back to the days after graduation from culinary school when I wanted to work here. I later changed my mind because I didn’t “want to work where I like to play.” Crazy as it sounds, I still relish coming to this supermarket as often as possible, if just to get a midday retreat from reality. I don’t want to spoil my secret escape just down the road. So here we stand, waiting to be taste-infused amongst the freshly baked breads, gigantic muffins, expertly decorated cakes, and piles of cookies.
Okay, Emmy Grace, which cupcakes look the best to you? I ask the question, but don’t really expect an answer.
I scan the elaborate, multi-level displays of carbs for the winning container of childhood satisfaction. Like speed-reading, I grab one box after another, discovering what ingredients are in each. Even though we’re at a gourmet shop, it’s always best to check the labels, a habit I’ve been training my own kids to do ever since they were toddlers. We would make a game of it and now we use the Nutrition Detectives program of label reading and ingredients list evaluation. Primary school-aged children really dig that kind of interactive stuff; plus, it gives us a reason to “play store” with all the empty boxes, cans, and bottles.
Kick-Roll-Shove.
“Whoa, Emmy! What’s the dealio?” I ask quietly as she does the wave inside my gut.
I like to have these imaginary conversations with my pregnant bellies. I ask questions, and if they don’t kick, shove, or roll, I fill in the blanks for them. I believe it’s the beginning stages of getting to know their personalities. Each of my successful pregnancies has followed this ritual. I like to call it “private Mommy time.”
“Oh, so you like these pretty pink frosted cupcakes, do you? I see the frosting is colored with beet juice and sweetened with Stevia. Perfect choice, my little princess helper.” I talk to my baby in a singsong style, like I did with Kyle and Morgan, hoping she understands me. I have the feeling, after a day like today, she probably does. “Good choice in cupcakes, lovey. Now let’s go grab some premade food from the deli counter for dinner and then it’ll be off to see Daddy.”
Conveniently, the store is down the road from the hospital, so the drive doesn’t take long. I’m hoping to get there before the end of visiting hours.
Ordinarily I love driving down this stretch of road along the lake. I can take in the rousing whitecaps of the waves hitting the beach and the clear blue skies that meet the horizon at the lake’s edge. In the fall, the tree-lined streets are splashed with vibrant orange, red, and yellow leaves, and come springtime, the daffodils and tulips really light up the melting snow with pink and purple highlights. The homes along the route come in all shapes and sizes, with manicured lawns and quaint, little rock gardens—altogether showcasing the perfect place to raise a family.
But today I’m focused on Steven’s health.
As I pull up to the curve where the streetlight meets the corner and the hospital sits, my stomach starts to knot and develop a dull ache. Baby is a little jumpy, too, as we proceed through the light just around the corner and into the visitor parking lot. This time of day, close to dinnertime, it’s easy to find a place to park at the hospital. Lucky for us, it’s also close to the entry door. As I put the car in park, my phone pings, indicating a voicemail message. As I listen to Dr. Abbott’s message, he says that Steven is still unconscious, but he seems to be in stable c
ondition. At least there’s no more bad news, right now.
As I begin to place my phone back in my purse, it rings. I check the caller ID; it’s Dad. “Hey, I’m glad you called. Boy, do I have an update for you,” I say.
“I’m all ears,” he says.
“I just left the grocery store, but while I was inside, Doctor Abbott must’ve called me because I just picked up his voicemail. He said Steven is still unconscious, but he seems to be in stable condition.” I hear Dad let out a big sigh of relief. “Thanks for coming over to relieve Misty of her babysitting duties. How are the boys? I’m sure they’re starting to wonder if something’s up—or if they still have a mom.”
“Well, they know you’re still their mom, and no, they don’t think anything is up, at least from what I can tell,” he says. “We’ve been distracting them with lots of things since we got here, including some new pranks with Morgan. Don’t worry, though, Barney isn’t involved this time. We weren’t sure if you’d have any time to think about dinner, so your mother and I took them to that new healthy hamburger place in the mall. Is that okay?”
It was more than okay. I appreciate that they serve hormone-free meat and source their vegetables locally, but mostly, I love that my parents get the whole organic thing—and the fact that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I can still share the meal I picked up at the store with Misty and her daughters, anyway. “Oh, sure, that’s great. Thanks!”
“How about you give me the Reader’s Digest version on the rest of your latest update, because I’m about to get my butt whipped in Monopoly Jr. over here.”
“Not much else to tell, except that Dr. Deller was able to communicate with his wife before she died and my baby girl is now communicating with me through cupcakes. By the way, would you mind calling Misty to tell her I won’t be home with food for another hour or so? If she wants to eat without me, tell her it’s okay.”
There’s silence on the other end of line. “Whoa, lots to take in there, kiddo,” Dad finally says. “We’ll have to talk when you get home. Just don’t let this craziness get to you. You’re an Anderson at heart, and we come from strong stock. I’ll fill your mother in… she just told me to say hello to you, too. Be careful.”
“I’ll be careful. Tell Mom hi. I’ll see you guys soon. Kiss the boys for me.” My chest muscles release some of the tension after talking to Dad.
This hospital is always so busy. I often wonder if our country is getting sicker or perhaps the medical care system is more improved and therefore more people are getting things fixed.
Watching the doctors and nurses scurry about from room to room and in and out of the elevator reminds me of Dr. McDreamy from one of my favorite TV shows, Grey’s Anatomy. The character, Derek Shepherd, can play my doctor anytime. The actor, Patrick Dempsey, is just so incredibly surgeon-esque. Just thinking about those dreamy eyes brings a smile to my face. I can honestly say that if Dr. McD asked me out on a date, I would say yes. That’s not to say I’d kiss him or anything, but oh, to be close to that lush head of dark, tousled hair, accented with just a touch of gray, and that slight indication of a beard. Mmm-hmm!
“Excuse me, ma’am. May I help you?” I turn to see a young, blonde nurse in baby-blue scrubs—the same color as her eyes. She’s all of twenty-five years old, fresh-faced and eager.
“I’m here to check in on… visit with… see… Steven Ryan. I was here earlier today. I’m his wife.”
“Certainly, follow me. You know visiting hours are until 8:30 p.m., and only two visitors are allowed in his room at a time.”
“I understand. Why? Has he had any other visitors?”
“Oh yes, his brother came in a little while ago. In fact, you just missed him.”
I feel the baby kick as my lungs begin to ache. “He doesn’t have a brother,” I say, suddenly terrified. “He doesn’t have a brother. Do you understand?” I’ve gone from relaxed breathing to hyperventilation in a matter of seconds.
“Take a deep breath, Mrs. Ryan,” the nurse calmly says, clearly not understanding the implication. “Let me get my supervisor.”
As soon as she walks away, I start to walk over to his room, but a security guard stops me in my tracks. I try to explain who I am, but he’s not hearing it. Temporarily agreeing, I plop in a cold metal chair, searching for answers as I watch her run over to the nurse’s station. There’s a slight commotion as another woman runs to get one more person, maybe a lead doctor or something. I take a deep gasp of air to send oxygen down to Emmy Grace while I tap into her loving energy to calm myself. I’m sure this is some mistake. That’s nonsense. He doesn’t have a brother. I bob my head from left to right, trying to get a glimpse of the hospital room they won’t let me enter—Steven’s room.
A woman hurries over to me. Her nametag says, Shirley Bowen, Head Nurse, ICU. “Mrs. Ryan. I understand you’re concerned about the person who came to visit your husband this afternoon?”
My cheeks are beet red. I don’t even need a mirror to tell me all the heat has rushed to my face. Why aren’t they getting it? “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Don’t you ask for ID or something before you let them into this place? Does anyone have a description of him?”
“Ordinarily, they check your identification at the front desk on the main level like you did this morning,” she says, “but that doesn’t mean people can’t lie about their relationship to the patient. If it were a hospital employee, we wouldn’t check that, either. They have ID badges and come and go throughout the hospital based on the type of badge they have. We can ask the check-in desk if they have a description of him, but ordinarily that’s not something we’d do. However, we will check into this right away.”
“Okay, good, because the last time I checked, my mother-in-law didn’t have any other sons before she and my father-in-law passed away a few years ago. Steven’s only sibling, Sarah, is in San Francisco,” I say. “I’m really concerned about this. Would it be possible for your staff to allow only a specific list of visitors to his room?” I’m not about to get into my stalker situation with this woman. Everyone’s a suspect, and I don’t know whom to trust.
“Absolutely. You can get me that list when it’s convenient. Now, feel free to go see your husband. I’ll let the security guard know you’re on the approved list of visitors.”
Sitting in silence next to my still husband gives me time to collect my thoughts. I try to breathe slow, calming breaths and prepare for all that could occur, everything—health, death, and taxes. I never thought I’d have to think about what my life would be like without my husband, but in times like these, that cold, stark reality hits home. Let’s hope he gets through this quickly.
He is wearing a pale blue hospital gown that partially covers the complicated twist of tubes and wires connected to the deluge of machines around his bed. It’s more than I can comprehend at this moment. The beeping, buzzing, and humming make the space between us even colder and more impersonal.
“Oh, honey, I wish things were different. I wish you weren’t in that bed, unconscious. The boys miss you, and I miss you. You’ve been out of town so much lately that we’ve been moving on with life, each day… Oh, did I tell you that Morgan fractured his arm? He’s fine. Don’t worry.” Shaking my head and grimacing, I whisper, “Also, do you have a brother that I don’t know about?” Levity is all I’ve got right now.
I wait, motionless, but all I hear is white noise. The absence of his response is rather eerie, making the stillness more evident. Nothing can prepare you for an event like this; it’s almost surreal.
Trying to get comfortable for any length of time in a hospital room chair is like trying to take a quality nap on an airplane. It’s simply not possible. Anyone who says they can is lying or just overly tired. You can kid yourself into thinking that you’re getting good sleep, but I’ve learned that sleeping in a chair, much like trying to sleep on a red-eye flight from San Francisco to Chicago, is simply inhumane.
This has always been one of my many
disagreements with Steven. I want to take a nice mid-morning flight, which includes lunch, beverage service, a movie, and a light pre-landing snack, and then head home, shower, and relax from our trip. He, on the other hand, wants to leave at night, sleep on the plane, and then arrive in the morning to hit the ground running. He’s not taking into consideration the fact that even if you could sleep for those four-and-a-half hours of flying time, that’s nowhere near enough to function when you land; instead, you end up exhausted, smelly, and cranky. Your breath will taste like old socks and your once-pleated trousers will be a wrinkled mess. Too often we try to kid ourselves into thinking that we can powder our noses in the bathroom prior to landing and make ourselves look presentable. Not! I don’t see how Steven can make that trek several times a month. To each his own.
I find a somewhat reasonable position in the boxy chair to get quiet and clear my mind so that I can try to check in with Steven. I need to continue our conversation and find out more details about his condition. I wish the medical staff had shared more information about his accident. I know they are focusing on his recovery, not the “hows” and “whys,” but I need answers.
Thirty-minutes pass without any semblance of communication from my husband. Aside from Emmy’s wiggles, it’s quiet on the hospital front.
Whispering, I say, “Come on, Steven. Where are you? I need you right now. We need you right now. Please tell me something.”
Silence.
“How did you get into the car accident?”
No response.
I think of the day I met my husband. For years, I longed to find the perfect guy—going to bars, parties, on blind dates... no one ever really “rang my bell,” or if they did, they broke my bell. Then one day I ran into the library to do some cooking research. As usual I picked out my favorite, The Flavor Bible, a cookbook on seasonings—one way too expensive to buy. While I was sitting at one of the ornate oak tables, thumbing through the pages, a handsome guy came over and sat down beside me with a pile of books. I couldn’t help but notice his gorgeous head of blond hair and tan, muscular arms. His purple-and-white Northwestern sweatshirt rounded out his all-American collegiate look.