“No.”
“What?”
“Where is…” He hesitated.
“Where is who?”
“Where’s our baby?”
“Our baby?”
“Where’s our baby?” He repeated. “I saw her. Where is she?”
“We…we don’t have one. There is no baby.”
He just stared at me, looking confused until his eyes closed again. I didn’t know what to make of it and concluded that he was just delusional from all of the medication.***A few hours later, Damien was moved into the intensive care unit. His clarity had returned, and he no longer mentioned anything about a baby. He probably had no recollection of it. Still, hearing him ask to see our baby—a baby we would never have—was definitely painful. It made me wonder whether on some subconscious level, Damien was longing for a child more than I thought.
“Did you receive any special deliveries while I was under?”
“Oh, we sure did. You’re very clever.”
“The next couple of months are gonna suck,” he groaned.
“Why?”
“That’s how long it’s supposed to take for a full recovery.”
“I’ll be your private nurse. Don’t worry.”
“Mom, block your ears.” Damien spoke in a low voice, “That’s not gonna work. I can’t have you looking all cute and tending to me when we can’t have sex for at least three weeks. I’m gonna end up breaking the rules, and if I end up dead…”
“It’ll be all my fault?”
“No. I was gonna say, it will all be worth it.”
“We’ll figure something out, so that doesn’t have to happen.”
“I just want to go home.”
“I know. I just want you home, too.”***Damien was approved to be released after five days. There were no surprises or complications as far as his prognosis was concerned. We were so grateful to God that we would finally be able to slowly but surely move on with our lives.
It felt like I could finally breathe after months of worry.
That feeling wouldn’t last.
A few weeks into Damien’s recovery at home, one of my biggest fears would come true.CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURGOD’S PLAN“Notice how they never show these pretty boy hosts doing any work for more than a few seconds. How much money you want to bet they’re not really doing shit when the camera stops rolling?”
As Damien lay on the couch watching a home improvement channel with his big feet on my lap, I stared at the red line that ran down the middle of his otherwise flawless, rock-hard chest. The scar was a permanent reminder of the risk he took for us.
I knew he’d made the decision to have the operation, not only to better his quality of life, but also so that he and I could have a better chance at a longer life together. The scar was also a constant reminder of the fragility of life.
I had to leave the room. Whenever I got overly emotional, I was afraid he would be able to see right through me. I couldn’t let him see that something was seriously wrong. I wasn’t ready to face it myself, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to put him through any kind of stress over nothing—over speculation.
Another day…another denial.
My period was now officially three weeks late. Even though I’d never missed a cycle in my life before, I refused to believe that could mean I was pregnant. I wouldn’t take a test, because I was too scared of the consequences, unable to even fathom that possibility, unable to fathom what Damien’s reaction would be. So, I just kept letting the days pass.
Not to mention he was still in a fragile state. He was only just beginning to get back to normal, certainly nowhere near one hundred percent. I couldn’t risk putting him under any kind of unnecessary stress. There was still a chance it was nothing. I’d read that stress could potentially delay a menstrual cycle. I’d been under so much stress in the weeks before his surgery that it was easy to see how that could have technically happened. I was on the pill, which was ninety-nine percent effective.
Still, as much as I tried to talk to myself, the not knowing was starting to eat away at me.
“Hey. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. Come here.” He moved closer to me. “Sit down right here.” Pointing to the floor in front of him, he positioned my body between his legs and began to massage my shoulders. “Has this been too much for you?”
“What?”
“Having to take care of me while I recover?”
I looked behind to face him. “Of course not. It’s been my pleasure to take care of you. Don’t ever think that.”
He dug the base of his palms deeper into my muscles pressing in a circular motion. “What’s going on with you, then?”
“I think the stress of the past month is just catching up with me. Everything is okay,” I lied.
After a half-hour of sitting in the same position, I lifted myself off the ground. “You know what I just remembered? We are all out of shredded cheese. I was going to make tacos tonight. I’m gonna head to the store and get some.”