Spilled Milk: Based on a true story (13 page)

Aunt Nikki slid
open the back door and grabbed the bottle of wine. She topped off my glass and
sat down with the bottle between her legs. “We’ll go shopping tomorrow.” The
bottle tipped into her mouth, and without looking at me again she slid down
into her recliner. “When in doubt, go shopping.”

Aunt Nikki had
to buy me a new suitcase to lug all the new clothes back to Pennsylvania with
me. She pushed a strand of blonde hair behind her ear as she made me promise to
make sure I visit at least once a year, to call her because she would forget
and that she loved me.

On the plane I
had a chance to regroup with the past week. Dad never got brought up again,
even though I tried one more time while we were making dinner the night before
I left. I was beginning to think that I would never be strong enough to admit
to anything, and that even if I put out an S.O.S with fireworks, whoever I was
trying to tell just wouldn’t understand.

I constructed a
Plan B. After high school I would find a college as far away from Pennsylvania
as I could. I would tell Kat what was going on right before I left so she could
move out, and I just wouldn’t let myself get attached to this new baby enough
to care. I was starting to feel broken down and for the first time the thought
of leaving everything behind and never coming back put a smile on my face.

They wanted to
induce Mom’s labor a few days after I got home since they were concerned that
if they let her go into natural labor it would be harder for her to manage with
her back. Mom and Dad left around seven that night to go to the hospital and
Grandma came up from Long Island to help mom with the baby after she got home.

Around eleven
that night we still didn’t hear anything but a lot of family kept calling to
ask. Grandma and I decided to put everyone in bed, and since I knew she could
sleep through a tornado I offered to keep the phone by my pillow for when they
called.

At three in the
morning the phone screamed next to me and I jumped up. “Hello? Dad? Is the baby
here?”

“Put Grandma
on, Brooke.”

“Okay. Did Mom
have the baby?”

“Brooke.” His
voice was barely above a whisper. “Wake up Grandma and put her on.”

I fled down the
stairs and shook Grandma awake, handing her the phone. She covered her eyes
against the living room light I had flicked on and before she could speak she
fell quiet. She pressed the phone to her ear and tears started falling.

It wasn’t until
Dad came home two hours later that I realized the seriousness of what had
happened to Mom. Grandma wouldn’t tell me anything even though she hung up with
my Dad and started calling all my aunts and uncles, telling them they needed to
get to Pennsylvania as soon as possible.

When Dad walked
through the door, his eyes were red and he lead Adam and I into the kitchen. “Mom
had somewhat of a heart attack. She lost a lot of blood. A lot. She’s on a respirator
cause she can’t breathe on her own.” Several family members had shown up and
everyone crowded in the kitchen.

“Everything was
going perfect until the last three minutes. Mom kept saying she felt like she
was going to pass out, so the nurse put an oxygen mask on her. Mom kept trying
to pull it off.” He wiped a tear from the scruff on his cheek.

“Then, the baby
came out. He wasn’t breathing. The nurses tried to revive him, and then
suddenly Molly just got limp in my arms.” He held up his arms to show where she
had been laying.

“She turned
blue. The doctor just stood there a minute, like he didn’t know what to do.
They asked me to leave. A few minutes later a nurse came out and told me that if
she had any family that I should tell them to come to the hospital. They’re
convinced she isn’t going to make it.”

“Did the baby
die?” I was the first to ask a question.

Dad nodded.
“For ten minutes he did. They were able to get him back and he’s on a respirator
too. They worked on Mom for over fifteen minutes before they got her back.”

Moms don’t die.
Mine doesn’t. She broke her back and had Shingles. She popped pills to keep
functioning and popped pills to keep numb. She had leg surgery, and foot surgery.
She always made it seem like she could die because of whatever sickness or
injury she had at the time, but she never did. The one time she’s sure she’ll
be back, something goes horribly wrong?

As family
members filed through the house Dad had to re-tell his story several times. It
wasn’t until the third or fourth time I heard it everything started to sink in.
Mom was leaving us. She was going to die. I leaned on my grandma, traumatized,
unable to cry. Grandma looked down at me, for the first time looking old.

“Okay,” Dad
said, “Let’s organize into groups to head up to the hospital.”

After three
cars of people were claimed and a friend of the family offered to stay behind
to cook and watch after the kids I pushed my way to the front of the crowd.

“Dad? Can I go
to the hospital?”

He shifted the
glasses on his face. “Well, I um, I’d really rather you didn’t.”

I locked eyes
with Grandma and pleaded with her. She shook her head.

“David,” she
started, “I think Adam and Brooke are old enough to make this decision, and I
think, considering the circumstances, that if they feel they need to go… then
they should.”

Grandma was
afraid that if Mom died I would need to say goodbye. Dad was afraid that if mom
was on her death bed, I would make it a point to tell her everything.
Absolutely everything. They were both right.

He shifted his
weight and looked down at his watch. My aunts and uncles nodded in agreement
with Grandma and left him little choice. “Well, if you want to go.”

Dad insisted I
ride with him, Adam and Grandma. “Dad, I don’t want to ask, but…”

“You should.”

“What are the
chances mom’s going to die?”

“Right now,
about eighty five percent is what the doctor said.”

Dad hustled us
down long hallways to a door marked
Waiting Room
. He waited until
everyone was inside and looked at the packed room of family. “Who wants to go
first?”

I wanted to
scream out that I did, but I was scared. Since only two people were allowed in
at a time with my dad, Grandma and Grandpa claimed the first visit. I settled
into a leather chair instead. One unimpressive light buzzed overhead and nobody
bothered to put on more lights. The soda machine hummed in one corner and I
turned my nose up at the smell of latex that floated through the room. I hated
that everyone sat in silence, heads hung low. It reminded me of a funeral home
and we weren’t even there yet.

The door opened
and Grandma needed help getting to a chair to sit down because she was crying
so hard. My stomach twisted to see her like that because I had never seen her
cry before. Adam remained motionless in one corner of the room and my stomach
flipped every time the door opened and someone else came in from seeing her.
Adam and I were next to go in.

“Now, before I
take you in,” Dad said, “I want you to know that mom doesn’t look like herself.
She’s very swollen because of all the medication.”

I’m not a child;
I can handle this, stop talking to me like I don’t understand.

We pushed
through the ICU doors and I tried to calm my heart. She was in the second room
on the right and after shutting the door, Dad led us around a curtain.

I wish I hadn’t
gone inside. I wish I never went into that room to see her like that. She was
lying on the bed, motionless. This wasn’t my mom at all. Tubes emerged from her
neck, mouth, nose, her hands… anywhere they could stick her. Her face was so
swollen I didn’t recognize her and her skin and eyes sloshed off to the side.
Her mouth was partially open, and a thick blue tube stuck out of it. A pump
next to her bed pushed air in and out of her lungs.

I couldn’t see
through my tears to make it over to her bedside so Adam took my hand and led me
to her. I reached out for her hand, careful not to touch any I.V’s.

“Ohhhh,” I
cried, and I couldn’t talk. An orchestra of monitors drowned out my sobs as I
tried to make sense of the beeping and zig-zagging lines.

A doctor pushed
past the curtain and whispered to my Dad for a minute before asking if Adam and
I had any questions.

“Why won’t she
wake up?” I asked, wiping my nose on my sleeve.

He looked at my
dad. “We have to keep her sedated, sweetheart. It means asleep. We have to keep
her asleep with medicine that way she can rest and heal. She would be in too
much pain if she were awake.”

My Aunt Nikki
arrived when Adam and I made our way into the waiting room. “I got on the first
flight I could.” She hugged me briefly before being whisked away into the ICU.
The afternoon went on like that. Family coming in and out, crying, falling
asleep in the stiff leather seats in the waiting room, and then doing it all
over again.

“Dad, can I see
the baby?” I asked.

He shook his
head and we walked down to the NICU where he was staying. I had never seen a
baby so fragile looking and he had just as many tubes sticking out of his skin
as mom did. ‘BOY NOLAN’ was printed on the side of his bassinet. A nurse
appeared and asked my dad if he knew the name yet. He rubbed his chin and
turned to walk out of the room. “I don’t care. Brooke, you name it.”

I looked at him
to make sure I had heard right and when I looked at the nurse she was smiling
at me, pen poised waiting to write down a name. Mom and I talked about a few
names here and there but nothing really jumped out at us.

“Ethan,” I
said. “His name will be Ethan.”

Sometime after
six someone mentioned something about a shower and food and it seemed like a
good idea, so a few of us packed into cars and made our way back to the house.
Uncle Bruce started up the grill and I passed out on the couch. I didn’t
realize I slept so late and when I woke up dinner was over and everyone was
hustling to get back to the hospital. Mentally exhausted, I stayed behind with
Aunt Nikki.

The crying and
running around didn’t stop for weeks. My aunts and uncles took turns feeding
the kids, keeping us entertained and visiting the hospital. Aunt Jean came home
with news that the respirator had come out.

Not even two
days later Uncle Jake walked into the waiting room where everyone was sitting
with a smile. “Well, she’s awake. She must be feeling better because she’s
cursing at the doctor and asking for a cigarette.”

I wanted to see
her right away so I was led back into her room. Mom’s eyes were slits of space,
but she was awake. I needed to see her awake with my own eyes. My instinct was
to breakdown and cry and scream but I couldn’t and I found myself slumped over
the rail of her bed pressing my face into her shoulder.

She seemed out
of it, and kept crying out over tubes that were coming from her groin area. When
they started to wean her off the drugs she realized who I was for the first
time and broke down crying. She was propped up on a pillow and was able to get
her arms around me for the first time in over a month.

I fell back
into a chair that was sitting next to her bed and sighed. A doctor came in
briefly and mentioned something about a lung surgery to clear up an infection
she had from being laid up so long. They scheduled it for two weeks later when
they felt she would be strong enough to withstand the anesthesia. The doctor
shook his head at my mom. “I don’t know how you’re alive, never mind awake and
talking. What a miracle.”

Dad looked at
me while he held Mom’s hand. He winked.

I felt
defeated. There were ample opportunities to talk to one of my aunts these past
couple of weeks and I didn’t. I didn’t think it would be fair to Mom. She was
the one suffering and trying to get better. My family was in turmoil, an
emotional mess, the last thing I wanted to do to them was ask them to deal with
another crisis. I felt like the timing would never be right.        

I pushed those
thoughts to the back of my head as Mom reached out and motioned for me to take
her hand. Her hand encased mine and I brought her hand up to my lips. “Welcome
back, Mom.”

I thought it
was a miracle baby Ethan was born in the beginning of summer. Mom eventually
came home with visiting nurses that stopped by once or twice a week. Dad
returned to his normal work schedule and most of the family that had been
staying with us was long gone. The majority of Ethan’s care became my
responsibility.

The first night
Ethan was home I got up every two hours to feed and change him. Dad wanted
little to do with him, mom couldn’t, and my other siblings didn’t want the
responsibility. In a little over a month I was a diaper guru and bottle warmer
extraordinaire. It was impossible to situate him on my non-existent hips while
I cooked dinner, but I could bathe, change and clothe him before he realized he
hit the water.

I was
exhausted. Paul took the back burner and the only time I saw him was when he
came over to my house, which wasn’t often. I missed him, even when we started
fighting over what he did with his free time which consisted of dabbling in
alcohol and weed.

Cristin would
come over to hold Ethan and play with him and more than once I would find myself
asleep with him on my chest in the living room or on my bedroom floor while I
folded laundry.

I cradled him
on my lap as I typed up book reports for my English Honors class that upcoming
year. He accompanied me in the bathroom, while I cleaned the house, and when I
played with Kat and Thomas. I bathed him, dressed him, burped him, and rocked
him when he had an upset stomach. I fell in love with him.

I became so
engrossed in watching Ethan breathe and grow that it took me two months to
realize I couldn’t remember the last time I had my period. Dad left for work
that night and Ethan had just taken his last bottle. When everyone else was
asleep, I pulled a chair away from the computer desk in the kitchen and turned
the computer on, placing the baby monitor next to me.