The Empty Jar(62)

“I love you already, baby girl,” I croon, curling the little bundle toward my face so I can kiss the sparse, damp, blonde waves that top her head.

“Nate?”

The sweetest voice speaks my name. I don’t have to turn and look at Lena’s face to know what I’ll find. Her heart will be in her eyes. I know it. I can almost feel the happiness, the fulfillment in them like a warm trade wind rolling off crystal-blue waters, filling all the recesses of my soul.

Overwhelming gratitude gathers around my vocal cords, choking off any words I might’ve said otherwise, drowning out the raw, bleeding love that’s spewing from my heart. So rather than speaking, I move slowly toward my wife and lay my little bundle across her chest, pressing my cheek to Lena’s as she cries.

“Thank you for her, Nate,” she mutters, sobbing softly over our child. “She’s perfect. She’s my perfect little miracle.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

She is.

She is perfect, and she is a miracle.

As I take out my phone and start recording this moment, I wonder, with a heart never happier yet never more aggrieved, if Grace will be the only miracle the two of us will be fortunate enough to get.





Twenty-two

Blind Love

Nate



Lena has dozed off and on since delivery. I saw Dr. Taffer talking to Dr. Stephens in the hall right after we were brought up to this room. And just a few minutes ago, a nurse brought Grace and helped Lena to feed her for the first time.

Someone might as well have had a knife, twisting it in my gut. That’s exactly what it felt like to watch my beautiful wife put our beautiful child to her breast. There is no doubt in my mind that I will never see anything more breathtaking than the two of them together.

I’m positive I’ll never forget Lena’s expression either.

Her world is complete. This is all she’s ever wanted–for us to be a family—and she got her wish. It’s there in every loving line of her face—the awestruck gaze, the curved lips, the smooth brow. She’s whole.

And I’m whole merely watching them.

The scene was absolutely perfect until Dr. Stephens came in to check on Lena. With her, she brought the first niggle of unease to my mind.

“Looks like momma and baby are getting acquainted,” she says with a placid smile. “I’m glad she latched on quickly. I think it’s important to breastfeed her for the first day or two. Get as much of that colostrum in her as you can before we put her on formula.”

“Formula?” I ask.

Dr. Stephens turns her never-wavering smile toward me. “Yes. Considering some of the medications Lena will be taking, her breast milk won’t be safe for the baby.”

I say nothing.

Although my mind is spinning with questions, I don’t want to ask them now. Not at a time such as this. To disrupt this precious moment, the time when Lena is first feeding and getting to know our child, seems tantamount to sacrilege. So I stand silently by the bedside, processing the doctor’s words, my dread growing, until Dr. Stephens turns back toward Lena.

I watch my wife glance up at her obstetrician, her features more peaceful than I’ve ever known them to be, and she nods. She doesn’t question, she doesn’t argue. She simply agrees. Maybe she knows something I don’t.

It’s the consequent visit of Dr. Taffer, Lena’s oncologist, that fills in some of those blanks.

“How are we doing?” Lheanne Taffer asks when she walks in, perching one hip on Lena’s bed and angling her body so that she can see both Lena and me.

“Wonderful,” Lena replies without hesitation.

“Glad to hear it. Looks like the little one made a grand entrance.” She leans in to look down into Grace’s face, her expression closed.

“She did. But she’s here. That’s the main thing.”

After only a second’s pause, Dr. Taffer turns all her attention to Lena. “Are you in pain?”

“No.”

“While you’re here, I’d like to order some testing so we can get a bead on where you are with the cancer before you’re discharged. How does that sound?”

Lena takes her time in answering, something that makes all the muscles in my chest tense up. “Can we wait a few days? Let me enjoy her a little bit first?”

It’s Dr. Taffer’s turn to pause. I wonder what she’s thinking. Is she debating whether to push the subject? Is she considering giving Lena some less-than-welcome news? Is she trying to soften a blow that I alone can’t see? Is she, God forbid, thinking Lena doesn’t have time to wait?

My lungs seize at the thought.

When the doctor finally responds, everything from her features to her body language is carefully neutral. “Of course, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

“It is.”

The two women share a long, intense look before the oncologist stands. It’s obvious she wants to say more, but isn’t sure how and when to go about it. “Lena, you’re at least going to need to start a couple of medications.”

I can’t hear Lena’s sigh, but I see it lift her chest along with our child who rests on it. “Why? What’s going on?”

“I was looking at your labs. Your ammonia levels are climbing. The stress of the pregnancy on your liver only aggravated an existing problem. We need to get that down. I suspect you’re working on hepatic encephalopathy. Grade one at least. It’s crucial that we get a handle on this, Lena. I know you’ve been having some confusion, too, and… Well, you know how it goes.”