Dr. Taffer explains to me that she’ll be putting Lena on a pain patch that will give her continuous relief from the increasing pain in her side. It can be increased incrementally until she gets complete relief.
She also tells me about the Lactulose she’ll prescribe, a drug which will help eliminate some of the excess ammonia from Lena’s body, and hopefully, reduce the bouts of confusion.
When she’s finished, Lheanne glances back over her shoulder at Lena, sadness stealing over her features. “The main thing is that she’s able to enjoy as much of this as she can.” With one hand, she gestures toward Lena and Grace. Grace has fallen asleep after getting her belly full, and Lena is holding her as she sleeps.
Impulsively, I take my phone from my pocket and snap another picture. I never want to forget the tender look of adoration on my sweet wife’s face or the way our baby fits so perfectly in her arms and against her chest. It’s a scene Michelangelo himself couldn’t have adequately captured.
And one that will forever be etched on my heart.
“I hope you’re doing a lot of that,” the doctor says quietly, nodding at the phone before she moves back toward the bed. She lowers her voice to a whisper when she addresses Lena. “Congratulations, Lena. She’s absolutely beautiful. Just like her mother.”
Lena turns proud, shining eyes up to her physician. “Thank you.”
Dr. Taffer nods to her then to me and makes her exit. Although she didn’t give us worse news per se, it feels as though she did. There’s an implied urgency that makes my soul shrivel as if the world has suddenly frozen over all around me.
I hope you’re doing a lot of that.
I hear her words over and over again.
I make the determination right this minute to do it even more.
********
Grace is three days old when she’s cleared for us to bring her home. She’s a good baby, sweet-natured and agreeable, and I know that Lena and I feel the same way about her.
It’s like seeing the sun for the first time.
Or, for me, maybe like seeing the sun for the second time. I’ve known a love like this before. But only once in my whole life. It’s the love I have for my wife. I never thought I’d ever feel anything that could compare to it. But Grace… She snuggled her way into my heart right alongside Lena within thirty seconds of meeting her.
I’m as disappointed as Lena that she won’t be able to continue breastfeeding our daughter, but we both know that it’s for the best. Anything that can keep Lena comfortable and present for longer is, in my eyes, worth it.
The only problem is, the medication that Lena has been given to help lower her ammonia levels hasn’t had as dramatic an effect as we were hoping. In my mind, it should’ve put Lena back to rights. Completely. Only it hasn’t worked out that way, hasn’t worked quite that well.
The first time she was given a dose in the hospital, the nurse who brought it mentioned that it should help some, qualifications that didn’t inspire much confidence. And, as far as I could tell, it had only helped some. Lena still spends substantial quantities of time confused. She slept a lot in the hospital, but when she was awake, she was often disoriented.
At least the spells seem to be less dramatic now. Maybe that’s how the medication is helping—maybe it lessens the length and severity of her bouts of confusion. I’d hoped for total eradication, though, and so far, I’m very disappointed.
On the plus side, Lena seems content and more at ease at home. And I still harbor a tiny spark of optimism that the effects of the medication will be cumulative and that familiar surroundings will help things along. But only time will tell. And I’m not certain how much of that we have left.
I try to put the dismal future out of my mind. It feels something like betrayal to dwell on it, like I’m cheating on the present if I spend one moment of it mourning what hasn’t yet transpired. But it’s hard. It’s hard not to worry, not to watch my wife, sharply and constantly, as though she might disappear like a vapor if I look away for too long.
The mattress dips ever so slightly, and I come instantly awake. It’s the middle of the night, but it only takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the silvery moonlit room. All my senses come online with surprising rapidity these days, and all seem more acute than ever.
I listen closely for the cry of our child, but I hear nothing except for the muffled pad of my wife’s feet as she crosses the thickly carpeted floor. I hold myself perfectly still and wait for Lena to leave the room before I get up to follow her.
I’m still not sleeping soundly. Not only am I listening for my wife, but I’m also listening for sounds of our daughter. I can’t help wondering if I missed her cry, though, and if that’s what roused Lena.