It Had To Be You

  On the morning of February 9, Mama and I met with Marcella at the flower shop. She seemed a little out of sorts this morning, but who could blame her? Now a full eight months pregnant, she was carrying around a tummy for the record books. She’d also put on a few extra pounds in some strange places. Her ankles, for instance. I’d never seen ankles like that before. And her face looked puffy. I hadn’t noticed the phenomenon with her other two pregnancies, but I didn’t want to mention it in case she hadn’t noticed.

  We met at 10:00 in the morning to talk through the bouquets she would be making for my wedding. The roses had been ordered weeks ago, but I had special plans for how they would be pieced together. As we met in her back office, I noticed a strange look cross her face.

  “What is it, Marcella?” I asked, worry setting in.

  “Oh, nothing, I—”

  I looked over, stunned, as she doubled over in pain. “Oh no!” I rushed her way, trying to offer assistance. She held up her hand, likely trying to allay my fears.

  “It’s okay, Bella,” she said, making a curious panting noise. “Don’t worry. I’ve been down this road before. These are just Braxton Hicks contractions. Nothing—” Her face tightened for a moment, then relaxed. “Nothing to worry about.”

  “O-okay.” I nodded, unsure of what to do next. Sure enough, she straightened her posture a minute or so later and smiled broadly. “There. That wasn’t so bad.”

  “Don’t you think you should go to the hospital or something?” I asked. “Just to be safe?”

  “No, I’m sure I’ll be fine. Besides, I’ve got work to do. Can’t stop just yet.” She offered a reassuring smile. “Nothing is going to stop me.”

  “Mm-hmm.” I led her over to a seat, and she eased herself down into it. “You sound just like me.”

  “Oh, I’ll be fine. No worries.” With a wave of her hand, she dismissed any concerns.

  Half an hour later, however, things were not fine. Oh, sure, we had a plan for the bouquets and boutonnieres, but I could tell from the look on Marcella’s face that she was still struggling.

  “I’d feel better if you called your doctor,” Mama said at last. “He will know best what to do.”

  “Might not hurt.” Marcella rose and reached for the phone. Minutes later—under doctor’s orders—we drove her to the hospital. Just a precautionary thing, of course.

  How would we know the next two hours would be spent in all-out chaos mode? That the doctor would admit her, no questions asked?

  Turned out Marcella’s blood pressure was elevated. Extremely elevated. And blood work revealed protein in her urine—never a good thing, as the nurse explained. When the doctor arrived at last, we received an official diagnosis.

  “Preeclampsia,” he said. “You’ve got to be on complete bed rest until this baby comes.”

  “Oh, no, no,” she argued. “You don’t understand. This baby isn’t due for another month, and I’ve got work to do. I can’t possibly stay in bed that long.” She swung her legs over the edge of the hospital bed and reached for her purse.

  “Marcella.” Mama gave her a stern look. “You are going to do what the doctor says.”

  “But it’s so silly.” She shook her head. “I worked up till the minute both of the boys were born.”

  “You didn’t have preeclampsia with those two,” the doctor reminded her. “And not only that, these contractions are concerning me. I want to check you to make sure you’re not dilated.”

  Mama and I scooted out of the room, praying all the way. A few minutes later we were ushered back in. I could tell from the look on Marcella’s face that the news wasn’t good.

  “I’m dilated three centimeters.” Her words were followed by a groan. “It’s true. I have to be on complete bed rest. Can’t even get up to go to the bathroom. How humiliating is that?” She pointed to the bedpan and grimaced.

  My mind reeled at this news. “So you’re staying here? At the hospital?” Somehow I’d envisioned her lounging around her own house in her pajamas, not strapped to a bunch of machines with a bedpan tucked underneath her.

  “Yes, it’s the safest thing for Marcella and the baby,” the doctor said. “Preeclampsia can be very dangerous. We take it seriously.”

  I chided myself at once for being so selfish. Of course Marcella would stay. She would do whatever it took to ensure a healthy delivery—which was weeks from now.

  I pulled in a few deep, cleansing breaths, trying to put this in perspective. Marcella needed us right now, and we would be here for her. No questions asked.

  Surely a few days in bed would do her good. Besides, arranging flowers was easy-breezy work. Maybe she could put them together here in the hospital. Might give her something to do to pass the time. We weren’t talking hard labor here. Hard labor. Funny.

  The doctor scribbled some things on Marcella’s chart, then turned to face her. “I’m going to start you on magnesium sulfate. Sometimes it can give moms-to-be flulike symptoms, but we find it does a great job of slowing down contractions.”

  “Lovely.” Marcella did not look pleased.

  “And we’ll monitor these contractions around the clock,” the doctor continued. “You’ll be in good hands if this baby decides to come early. And just in case, we’re going to give you an injection of steroids to beef up the baby’s lungs.”

  For whatever reason, his words reminded me of Twila, Bonnie Sue, and Jolene and their Where’s the Beef? T-shirts. Thinking about them reminded me to call Bonnie Sue and ask her to pray. Surely the prayers of the righteous would avail much, as Jolene always said. Yes, we would pray our way through this. God would bring everything into alignment in his time and his way.

  I rubbed my brow, feeling a headache coming on, and my stomach felt a little funny. Glancing at the clock on the wall, I realized I hadn’t eaten.

  Standing at the end of Marcella’s bed, I did my best to listen as the doctor went on and on about his plan to keep her quiet and still over the next few weeks until the baby arrived. I heard the words, sure, but they didn’t register. No, I was too distracted by the strange fluttering sensation in my chest. And the weird whooshing sound in my ears. Why did the doctor’s voice sound so loud? Was he amplified? And why was he speaking in slow motion?

  Suddenly I was overly aware of the smells in the room. The alcohol swabs the nurse had used. The disinfectant. And the noise! The ticking of the clock nearly drove me mad, as did the booming words coming from the doctor.

  My queasiness increased, and I wondered if I might throw up. Beads of sweat popped out on my upper lip, and I gripped the railing on the end of the bed, feeling a little wobbly. Lord, what is going on here?

  The doctor droned on—something about the risks associated with early delivery. How Marcella needed to follow his orders to a T. How her sole job from this day forth was to rest.

  I reasoned this out in my mind. The wedding could move forward without a florist. Sure it could. Norah was pretty good with flowers, right? And Rosa. We could still manage, even without Marcella in the picture.

  As the doctor continued to talk, my sister-in-law cast a terrified glance my way. “Bella?”

  “Y-yeah?” I held the railing of the bed even tighter, the room now spinning out of control and the crazy cacophony of sounds pitting themselves against each other.

  “Bella, are you okay? You look as white as a ghost.”

  I shook my head in slow motion—my only option, since it suddenly felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. A fog wrapped me in its embrace, a strange, gray fog. Terrifying but inviting. It beckoned, and I gave myself over to it.

  Very strange. I seemed to be falling asleep standing up. Don’t go down, Bella. Don’t go down.

  Funny how I couldn’t seem to convince my legs to cooperate. Gravity caught up with me, and as the room spun out of control, I found myself dropping down, down, down … to the cold, hard floor.

  26

  Begin the Beguine

  There’s something about waking up in a
hospital bed with hysterical family members gathered around that makes a girl wonder what she ever did to deserve such attention.

  Apparently I had been out long enough for Mama to call the rest of the family. When I came to—a slow and weighty process—all of the Rossi women were clustered around me, wrapping me in a cocoonlike embrace of love and attention.

  I tried to bring their faces into focus but could not. One blurred into the next. And that crazy whooshing sound in my ears continued, as did the sensation in my chest.

  “W-what … happened?” I finally managed, trying to sit up in the bed. The last thing I remembered was standing at the foot of Marcella’s bed. Now I was in a strange, unrecognizable room with the scent of hospital disinfectant overwhelming my senses.

  Mama began to cry, a slow, pitiful cry. “Oh, my Bella. You scared us to death!”

  Good grief. Couldn’t a girl even faint without getting in trouble? “I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t plan for it in advance.”

  The pounding in my head continued, and I felt nauseated.

  Marcella’s doctor gave me a brusque nod. “It’s not unusual for people to faint in hospitals. We see it all the time.”

  “Ah. See there?” I looked at Mama and shrugged. “It happens all the time.”

  The doctor drew near. “How have you been feeling? Before this fainting spell, I mean.”

  “Pretty overwhelmed,” I admitted. “And I’ve been having some strange, well, chest pains.”

  “Chest pains?” He gave me a pensive look. So did my mother, who let out another cry.

  “You’ve been in pain and didn’t tell me?”

  “Who had time?”

  “Tell me about these pains,” the doctor prompted. “When did they start? How long do they last?”

  I tried to explain—though my words didn’t make sense, even to my own ears—that it wasn’t really pain I was feeling, but more of a gripping sensation. That my heart flip-flopped. Regularly. It drove me nuts.

  The doctor reached for the blood pressure cuff and wrapped it around my arm as I continued to explain. “What else?” he asked.

  “Sometimes I get a little short of breath. And queasy.”

  He continued to take my blood pressure, his eyes widening as the numbers came up on the screen: 152/102.

  The doctor gave me a thoughtful look. “When a person faints, it’s usually because their blood pressure or blood sugar is low. You’ve got the opposite problem, at least with your blood pressure. It’s much higher than it should be, and I plan to take that very seriously. We’re going to draw some blood. Run a few tests. I think it would be wise to keep you for a couple of days to see if we can figure out what’s going on.”

  “A couple of days? But … I’m getting married on Saturday.”

  “You’ll be out in plenty of time for that,” he said, waving his hand. “I’m going to check your blood sugar and your thyroid levels. How has your diet been these past few weeks?”

  “Diet?” I shook my head. Who had time to eat? I was a busy woman, after all. Eating would come after the wedding, not before.

  “Mm-hmm.” He wrote something on my chart. “I suspected as much. “And I assume you haven’t been sleeping, since you’ve got a wedding coming up.”

  “She keeps me up all night,” Sophia said, crossing her arms at her chest and locking me with her gaze. “I never get any rest.”

  “W-what?” The other way around was more like it. Still, I didn’t argue. What good would it do at this point?

  “Well, as I said, I will give you a few days for some R & R, and I’ll run tests while you’re resting.” The doctor stopped writing in my file long enough to offer a weak smile, his first attempt at being personable.

  “Impossible.” I shook my head. “You don’t understand. I’m a wedding planner. It’s what I do. Half the battle—half the joy—is in the planning, not just the actual day. And the week before the big day is when everything gets done. Surely you can see that.” I repeated myself, just in case he hadn’t fully understood. “I’m. Getting. Married. On. Saturday.”

  He shook his head. “I’m assuming you want to live to see your first anniversary, right?”

  “Well, of course.” I leaned back against the pillow, finding little or no strength to argue anymore.

  “Then let me run the tests. I can’t have a patient complaining of chest pains and then do nothing about it. We’ll do a full workup on your heart—EKG, echocardiogram, nuclear stress test …”

  On and on he went, describing the various tests he would perform over the next few days. I heard him, of course. Saw his lips moving. Tried to make sense of the words. But I could not. Had the man not heard me say I was getting married on Saturday?

  When he finished, Mama looked my way and clucked her tongue. “You don’t take care of yourself, Bella. This isn’t good.”

  “I’ve just been so overwhelmed with work. I … I’ve tried to do too much.”

  “I know, but we’d like to keep you around awhile.” Her expression softened. “And not so you can work, baby. You are my girl. I need you to be healthy and strong.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked away.

  Rosa took a more practical stance. “You haven’t eaten a decent meal in weeks. It’s affecting your blood sugar. I’m going home to make some real food. Some pasta and gravy will be just the ticket. And protein. You need protein. I’m making salmon.”

  “Rosa, that’s a wonderful idea,” Mama said, clasping her hands together. “A good meal will work wonders. So will a good night’s sleep. I’m convinced that Bella needs rest.” She looked at me with tenderness in her eyes. “We’re going to leave you alone for a few hours, and I hope you’ll sleep. Don’t think about anything. Don’t plan anything. Just rest. Promise?”

  A sigh escaped. “I’ll try. I don’t know if that’s possible, though. I really need to be printing the programs for the ceremony today. And my dress! I’m supposed to pick it up from the alterations lady. I still owe her a hundred and fifty dollars. If I don’t take care of that today, she’s going to hold my dress hostage!”

  “Bella, you’re not making sense,” Sophia said, patting my arm in a mother-hen sort of way. “Don’t worry about the dress. I’ll swing by and pick it up.”

  “You just rest easy, Bella,” Mama said as she headed for the door with Rosa on her heels.

  “Oh, wait!” I called out. “I forgot something.”

  “What’s that?” Mama asked, turning back to face me.

  “How is Marcella? In all of the craziness, I forgot to ask.” “She’s resting. Doctor’s orders.” Mama gave me a pensive look. “So, it looks like you’re both in the same boat.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Don’t worry, Mama,” Sophia called out. “I’ll stay here with her and make sure she rests.”

  Sure you will.

  I leaned my head against the pillow and closed my eyes, but my thoughts tumbled madly through my head. If Sophia was staying here, I needed to call the alterations lady to check on my dress. Maybe Norah could swing by and pick it up later. Oh, and D.J.! How could I have forgotten to call him? He needed to know I was in the hospital.

  Turned out my family had already taken care of that little detail. By the time I reached D.J. on his cell, he was already in the hospital parking lot. He arrived in my room a few minutes later, and I could read the worry in his eyes.

  “I’m fine,” I assured him. “Nothing to worry about. The wedding will go on, I promise.”

  “Bella, the wedding isn’t what matters to me.” His eyes filled with tears, and he took a seat on the edge of my bed. “You’re all that matters. Getting you well. Making sure you’re okay.” He got choked up, and I had trouble making out his next words. “I-I don’t know w-what I’d d-do if a-anything ever h-happened to you!”

  Then the tears flowed freely from both of us. I’d never seen D.J. so worked up before. Unfortunately, the automatic blood pressure machine kicked in, puffing up around my upper arm and eventually reg
istering 155/104. Seconds later a nurse appeared with an IV in her hand. “We’ve got to get you hooked up, sweetie. Need to get that blood pressure down ASAP.”

  The insertion of the IV was enough to send Sophia running from the room with the comment that she needed to spend some time with Marcella. D.J. offered to stay, of course.

  The next few minutes were a blur of activity. Whatever they gave me for my blood pressure made me groggy. I found myself dozing off. Several times I awoke, finding D.J. in the chair next to my bed. Each time, he offered a reassuring smile and squeezed my hand. A couple of times, I even heard him praying, asking the Lord to bring healing and peace to my body. I felt so safe with D.J. nearby. Safe enough to drift back off to sleep once again.

  Evening shadows were just falling when I heard a noise at the door. Looking up, I saw Rosa with her arms full. I could smell the garlic across the room. “Bella Bambina, wake up,” she said. “I’ve come bringing medicine from the Old Country.” A smile lit her face, and I sat up.

  “What did you bring?”

  “Garlic twists, of course. They’re just what the doctor ordered. And fettuccini Alfredo. I know it’s your favorite. And salmon, just like I promised. Grilled just the way you like it. Well, minus the salt. The doctor said you need to be on a salt-free diet for a while.” She put the food down on the table and began to open the Tupperware containers. The smell danced across the room, bringing hope.

  Within minutes, the room was full of people once again. Mama. Pop. Sophia. Tony. Joey. Norah. Phoebe. They fed me, coddled me, prayed over me, and made me promise I would take care of myself. In short, they promised to love me back to health. All the while, I kept a watchful eye on D.J., who hovered over me like a mama hen, making sure I had the space I needed. God bless that cowboy of mine. He’d boot-scooted his way into my life, changing everything.

  “More garlic twists, Bella?” Rosa called out, interrupting my thoughts.