Beauty From Love (19 page)

The shock sets in and Laurelyn begins to cry. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know anything was wrong. I felt completely normal.”

This isn’t her fault. It’s mine. I’m the one ramming my dick into her when I should’ve been keeping it to myself. “I think I did this—last night. I was too rough with you.” I knew I’d end up hurting her and the baby.

Dr. Sommersby ends her call. “I’m admitting you to labor and delivery and your orders will be there when you arrive. The nurses are going to be doing a lot of things to you at once but most importantly, you’re on strict bed rest in Trendelenburg position. That means the head of your bed will be in the lowest position and the foot will be elevated so you’ll almost be standing on your head. It’s going to be an uncomfortable position but if we’re lucky, the membranes will go back up into the cervix. If that happens, it’s possible I can take you to surgery and place a cerclage where I’d weave a suture through the cervix and then pull it closed and tie it shut.”

“How long does the cerclage stay in?”

“I’d clip it around thirty-six weeks.”

“So there’s a chance I could still carry the baby to full term?”

“We have a shot if I’m able to get the cerclage in, but it’s tricky because there’s risks associated with placing it. The needle I’d use to place the suture can rupture the bag of waters. That’s why I want you lying with your head down—so it can go back inside the cervix—or I won’t even make an attempt.”

This is scary as hell. I don’t recall ever feeling this kind of terror.

“Could I have caused this during sex?” The guilt I feel is killing me and if I did this, I should know I’m the cause.

“No. With incompetent cervix, there’s nothing you can do to prevent it. And there’s no way of knowing you have it until there’s a problem. But the good news is that we know Laurelyn’s cervix is weak, so I’d bring her in with her next pregnancy, somewhere around fourteen weeks, and place a cerclage before this happens again.”

I hadn’t even considered future pregnancies. I’ve barely had time to wrap my head around this one. “So it’s possible for her to become pregnant again and carry the baby to term?”

“As long as the suture is placed in time, she shouldn’t have any complications.” That’s such a relief to hear.

The ambulance service arrives and I can only stand back and watch as they move her over onto the stretcher. “Are you her husband?”

“I am.”

“We can’t let you ride with her but you can follow us in your vehicle.”

I want to argue, tell them they’re nuts if they think they’re separating me from my wife, but that’ll cause an unnecessary delay. “Okay.” I kiss her forehead. “I’ll be right behind you.”

I’m following the ambulance and the harsh reality of our situation hits me—Laurelyn and I could lose our baby. Suddenly, all the problems we encountered along the way to this place seem so insignificant. “Oh God, please take care of Laurelyn and our baby. I beg you to not take our little one before it’s had a chance to live.”

L is already admitted to her room in labor and delivery by the time I park and find her. Just as Dr. Sommersby promised, she’s already been positioned in a bed with the head down and her feet up. Gravity. It’s what we used to get her pregnant and now it looks like we’re going to use it to keep her that way.

Several nurses are doing different things to L at the same time—one starting an IV, another getting vital signs and placing a monitor on her stomach, a third asking a long list of questions about her medical history. It’s a lot to take in at once seeing so many things done to your wife simultaneously. And I have no control over any of it. All I can do is sit back and hope these people know what they’re doing.

An hour later, the whirlwind of getting L admitted and the nurses completing the doctor’s initial orders is over. She’s settled in—best she can be while almost turned upside down—and we’re left alone for the first time since this nightmare began. I scoot my chair to the head of her bed so she can see me and I take her hand. I lean over and kiss it. “Can I do anything for you?”

“Wake me up and tell me it’s all a bad dream.”

“Everything is going to be okay. Our baby has a fighter’s heart. She’s part of you so she doesn’t have a choice.”

“You said she. You’re so convinced this baby is a girl.”

I am. “You’re so convinced she’s a boy.”

“Why a girl? I thought every man wanted a son.”

Too much emphasis is placed on men wanting sons. “When I lost you, I had a lot of time on my hands. I spent most of it thinking about what my future would look like if I got you back. You holding a little girl with long brown curls and your same caramel-colored eyes … that’s what I always saw and I guess her image stuck with me, but I’d be thrilled with any child you give me.”

Tears fill her eyes but they run toward her hairline instead of down her cheeks. I reach over and wipe them away. “I should call my parents to let them know what’s happening. I’m sure my mum will be in the car immediately.”

“Tell her she doesn’t have to come. There’s nothing she can do but look at me … like this.”

“As if that’s going to happen.” Margaret McLachlan will be here in less than four hours. I predict it and pity any who gets in her way.

This is going to be miserable for L. Only an hour in and she’s already slid toward the headboard so far that her head is pressed against it. “Want me to pull you down in the bed?” Or up? I don’t know which you’d call it.

“Yeah, but don’t tug on that.” She points to a plastic tube hanging on the bed.

“What is it?”

She wrinkles her nose. “A catheter.”

Oh God. “Inside you?”

“Yeah. That’s generally where they go.”

I didn’t see them put that in her. “Why?”

“I can’t get up to the bathroom and I think you can imagine why a bedpan isn’t going to work.”

“Oh, L. I’m so sorry you’re the one going through all of this.” I would do it for her in a second.

“I can do anything I need to for our baby. I’ll forget all about this little bit of discomfort when they place him in my arms.”

I lean down to kiss her forehead. “Her.”

I help L with repositioning before going out into the hallway to phone my parents. I’m not sure I’ve ever dreaded a call so much in my life. Mum is going to be devastated.

We do our normal greeting but then the part comes where I have to tell her why I’m calling. I start at the beginning, careful to not leave out any details, and I can hear her crying before I even get to the part about the cerclage. “Listen, Mum. The doctor is optimistic that the membranes will go back inside so she can stitch the cervix closed. There’s hope.”

“How is Laurelyn handling this?”

“She’s okay—willing to do whatever it takes to keep this baby inside for as long as possible.”

“I’m packing a bag as we speak. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

This is going to be a long road per Dr. Sommersby. “You don’t have to come now, Mum. There’s nothing you’ll be able to do except sit in an uncomfortable chair and look at Laurelyn while she slowly slides toward the head of the bed.”

“Then that’s what my job will be—not staying four hours away.”

I hang up and prepare myself for the other call I have to make to Jolie Prescott. I still haven’t forgiven her for making Laurelyn cry, telling her she had made a stupid mistake by becoming pregnant. L didn’t tell me so but I wonder in the back of my mind if her mum might have encouraged her to have an abortion. If she did, she’s smart for not telling me. I don’t think I could ever forgive her for such a thing.

“Jolie, it’s Jack. Laurelyn asked me to call you because something has happened.”

“Is she okay?”

“She is but there’s been a complication with the baby and she’s in the hospital.”

“Is she having a miscarriage?” Her voice sounds a little too hopeful.

“She could lose the baby but the doctor is doing everything possible to prevent it.”

“I need to talk to Laurelyn because I have some great news. Jake and I are getting married.”

All I see is red. What a bitch. She finds out her daughter is in the hospital fighting to save the life of her grandchild and her response is to tell Laurelyn about her happy news. Un-fucking-believable! Perhaps she’s mentally ill on some level. No sane person would be so indifferent to their child.

“She’s asleep,” I lie. I won’t allow her to upset Laurelyn. “I’ll have her call when she wakes.” Or maybe I won’t. I’m not sure speaking to her mum is beneficial right now. I think it could cause a lot more harm than good.

I didn’t sleep much last night. Even after I was given a sleeping pill, I only dosed in intervals. I don’t think Jack Henry nodded off once all night, although I repeatedly asked him to try and get some sleep. The nurse showed him how to turn the chair into a bed but he refuses, and each time I open my eyes or move, he slides to the edge of his seat and asks me if I’m okay. He’s like a guard dog watching over me and our baby.

I brush my teeth and Jack Henry helps me wash up. “Did you tell Margaret they’re doing an ultrasound this morning?”

He’s standing at my bedside wearing his cotton sleep pants and a T-shirt, rubbing his scruff. He has a case of bed head, although he never slept, and he couldn’t look more adorable. “Yeah. She wants to stay and watch if it’s okay with you.”

Of course, it’s fine by me. “I don’t mind. I’d love for her to see the baby.”

“She’ll be really happy about that. She never got to be with Em when they did any of hers.”

I’m almost afraid to ask about my mom but I need to. “You never mentioned it, but did you talk to my mom?”

“I did.”

“What did she say?”

He looks like he’s thinking up something to say. “I told her what was happening and that we were going to do everything possible to save the baby.”

“What did she say about that?”

“She asked if you were miscarrying and then told me she wanted to talk to you because she had good news. She and your dad are getting married.” He looks like he’s angry. “I didn’t think her timing was appropriate, so I told her you were asleep and would call her later.”

Asking about the miscarriage without any concern for me or the baby and then jumping straight into her good news … that hurts. But it’s just like my mom. I don’t get the disconnect there. I haven’t even laid eyes on this baby yet and I already know I’ll put his happiness ahead of my own. That’s what a real mother does.

She’s hoping I’ll lose the baby because she thinks I should be pursuing my career instead of a family. This is a problem for me and I’m not sure she’ll continue to hold a place in my life if she’s going to wish my child away. “She probably won’t call to check on us but if she does, tell her the nurse is with me and I can’t talk.” I can’t handle her right now.

Margaret arrives only moments before Dr. Sommersby comes into the room for my scan. “Is it okay if my mother-in-law stays?”

“That’s fine with me if it’s all right with you.”

I look at Margaret and she’s wearing a huge grin. That’s how a grandmother should be, ecstatic about seeing her grandchild, not wishing it away. “Yes. I would very much like her to be here.”

The ultrasound procedure is the same as yesterday—lots of measuring and documenting—but Dr. Sommersby is nice enough to show Margaret some great close-ups of the baby. She agrees with me—that the baby looks like Jack Henry—but in the end there’s no change in the membranes, so we’ll continue doing what we did yesterday. I’ll continue to lie with my head down and we’ll check for improvement tomorrow.

Day four. I didn’t think I’d become sick of this so quickly but I am. I don’t want to stay here any longer. I want to be home at Avalon. I cried like a baby after Jack Henry finally went to sleep last night because I didn’t want him to see me. I’ve been holding it in, putting on a tough exterior, because I don’t want him or Margaret to see my weakness and mistake it for selfishness.

I can see how one could lie here and become depressed. Maybe that’s what’s happening to me now, but I’ll keep doing what I have to for this baby and pray the membranes have retreated.

I wait on pins and needles, lying on a bed of nails upside down, as I hold my breath for the verdict. “I don’t see hourglassing, Laurelyn. I think we can put you on the surgery schedule and place the cerclage today.”

Hallelujah! I want to jump out of bed and turn cartwheels down the hall.

Jack Henry squeezes my hand and leans up to kiss me. “I knew you’d do it. I never doubted you for a second.”

Things move rapidly, prepping me for surgery, and I’m nervous. No … more like petrified. There are still risks involved with this procedure, so we aren’t out of the woods yet. But the prognosis is much improved from what it was four days ago.

My surgical nurse and anesthetist come into the room to move me to the OR. Jack Henry looks as terrified as I feel. “You’re going to do perfect and Dr. Sommersby is going to take good care of you. I’ll be right here waiting.” He leans down and kisses my mouth. “I love you, L.”

“Love you too.”

I’m wheeled down the hall backward, the fluorescent lights flashing as we move beneath them. It’s disorienting moving in the wrong direction and the flickering doesn’t help. It’s nauseating. “I don’t feel well.”

The bed is stopped and a washcloth is placed over my face. “Close your eyes and don’t watch the overhead lights.” I remember the nurses telling me to notify them immediately if I felt nauseated. Vomiting could cause my membranes to balloon out further or possibly even rupture. “Concentrate on your breathing and take slow, deep breaths. We’re almost there.” I feel something being placed in my hand. “This is an alcohol pad. Sniff it. It’ll help the nausea pass.”

I bring it to my nose and inhale deeply. Miraculously, it helps. I sure wish I’d known about that little trick a couple months ago.

The freezing cold air of the operating room hits me the second I’m taken inside and my body involuntarily shakes before it’s really even had a chance to cool. My teeth are clenched tightly and a rigor causes me to jerk. “I have some warm blankets for you once we get you moved over.”

I’m slid with sheets and a backboard to a table in the middle of the room. Bright lights shine directly on my crotch. Stirrups await, and I’m pretty sure I know what’s next. I’ll be spread-eagle for everyone in this room to see. How humiliating. I hope they put me to sleep first.

I look up and see the upside down face of the nurse anesthetist placing an oxygen mask over my mouth and nose. “Just a little fresh air for you, Mrs. McLachlan.” A moment later the woman standing over me says, “I’m going to give you something through your IV to make you really sleepy.”

“Okay.”

And everything goes black.