The Empty Jar(46)

Together.

The perfect mixture of each of us, a piece of both Nate and me that will live on long after we’ve passed. Nothing could be more important than that.

Nothing.

Dr. Stephens says something that neither Nate nor I hear and then gets up to leave. When the door closes and we are alone, Nate leans down and presses his forehead to mine.

“A girl. I prayed for a girl,” he confesses on a shaky breath. “I hope she’s the very picture of her mother.” His voice is thick with barely-contained emotion. “Please God, let her be just like her mother.” He says the last with eyes closed and voice lowered, as if in actual prayer.

My heart lurches behind my ribs. It rips my insides apart to see my husband hurting. Even though he is, without question, deliriously happy about the baby, I know he’s also devastated over the impending loss of his wife.

He’s hurting. Badly. I can feel it.

I find it odd how happiness and agony so often travel in tandem, almost as though the one is made stronger by the other. The greater our happiness over the baby, the greater our agony over being unable to make a life together as a whole, as a family. As one grows, the other grows in direct proportion.

Exponentially.

It will always be this way, I know. For her as long as I live and, for Nate, as long as he does. But I also know there is no light without the darkness, no rainbow without the rain. I know without a doubt that it is the presence of my pain that makes the pleasure of this moment so much more meaningful. In the face of death, life takes on a new level of preciousness. And I have only a short amount of time to appreciate it before mine will be over.

Shortly after Dr. Stephens returns, we are released. I ask Nate to wait for me in the waiting room. All the pressing around Dr. Stephens did to get good pictures of the baby has stimulated my bladder.

It isn’t until I’m in the bathroom, door locked and away from prying eyes, that I give into the urge to cry. Biting down on my lip, I slide down the wall until I’m nearly squatted on the floor. Silently, I weep, knowing the tears will do me no good, but needing to shed them anyway.

When the worst has passed, I get up and splash cold water onto my face. As I pat my skin dry, my hands slow to a stop, hovering in midair out in front of my damp forehead. That’s the very moment that I know. That’s the moment when I know who my daughter will be to me, and to Nate.

I take my phone from my pocket and flick on the video, positioning the screen in front of my face and pressing record.

“I found out who you are today,” I begin, my smile still a bit soggy. “You’re a baby girl. You’re my baby girl. When I saw your tiny body on the sonogram, I felt like my whole world was complete.” I have to turn away from the camera for a moment to collect myself before I finish the short message. “Your daddy and I have talked about names for a while, but now I know why we couldn’t settle on one. We hadn’t met you yet. But now we have, and we know who you are. You’re Grace. My Grace. My precious, precious Grace. And I will love you long after I’m gone. My baby,” I whisper. “My baby Grace.”

When I stop the recording, my sobs begin anew. I fold over at the waist and let them have me. I can’t hold them in anymore than I can hold in the mournful moans that echo through my chest like a coyote’s howl, bouncing off steep canyon walls. I don’t quiet until I hear a soft knock at the door followed by the concerned voice of Dr. Stephens’s nurse.

“Lena, are you okay in there?”

Dragging in deep gulps of air, I compose myself the best I can, straightening my clothes and wiping my palms across my cheeks.

“Yes. I’ll be out in just one minute.”

Stillness greets me from the hall, and I set about putting myself back together before I dart from the bathroom and make my way quickly to the waiting room. I know when I see Nate’s face that I must look a fright. I simply grab his hand and pull him along behind me toward the door.

He says nothing, and neither do I.

He knows.

He knows.





Seventeen

Bad Medicine

Nate



By the middle of March, Lena is twenty three weeks along. I think we’ve both begun to feel secure in her ability to carry the baby to the twenty-eight-week mark, and hopefully beyond. Her labs are holding up and the Chinese medicine man she’s seeing routinely is really helping to keep her ailing body as fit and functional as it can be, all things considered. She’s said more than once that she’s beginning to think that God really is a God of miracles.

Every day, we put forth our best efforts to keep Lena and the baby healthy and to keep up our “Blaze of Glory” mentality. We make videos, separately, together and with Nissa occasionally, and I keep back ups for my back ups. My fear of losing them is still something that haunts me on a daily basis.

It’s as I watch one of our January videos that I get an idea for something that might make my beautiful wife smile. I’m always on the lookout for things that will make every one of her last days bright and special.

I make a mental list of the things I’ll need and then I text Nissa, enlisting her help. By evening I want to be ready to go on stage.

Gone are the days of being able to put things off. When I have an idea or something I want to do or say, I make a point of getting to them as quickly as possible. The ever-present, always-silent tick, tick, tick of a clock counting down is the rhythm to which I live my life now. Every day is a race against time and I know I have to make each minute mean something.