The Choices We Make (20 page)

43

Four hours after they take her in, Kate is out of surgery. “Things went as well as they could have,” her surgeon says, standing in front of the three of us in the waiting room. “We'll be watching her carefully, especially for the next twenty-four, forty-eight hours, but we did secure the aneurysm and stopped the bleeding. She's in recovery now.”

“Is she awake? Can I see her?” David asks, relief flooding his voice.

The surgeon, whose name I can't remember, nods. “She's still unconscious, but you can see her. Just the husband for now, okay, folks?” He shakes David's outstretched hand, accepting his thanks with a warm smile, and is about to walk out when I stop him.

“How's the baby?”

He looks surprised the question comes from me. “The neonatologist will speak with you soon,” he says, looking at David. “But I can tell you the baby is doing just fine. He's a fighter, like his mom.” The surgeon smiles again, somehow unaware of our situation even though it should be written on Kate's file.

“I'm actually his mom,” I say, my voice as steady as I can make it. “And we have a guardianship document that says all decisions about the baby are to be made by me and my husband.” I see David visibly stiffen, and Ben shifts beside me. “So I would appreciate the updates about our son coming directly to us.”

The surgeon's mouth opens, closes, and then he recovers beautifully with another well-timed smile. “I see. Well, as I said, the baby is doing well and the neonatologist will speak with you shortly.” This time he holds my gaze.

“Thank you,” I say, lacing my fingers through Ben's, which feel limp and disengaged.

David says nothing further as he follows the surgeon out of the room, and I sit down to wait for the neonatologist, my heart hammering in my chest.

“What are you doing?”

I look up at Ben. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, why are you making a thing of this right now. In front of David?”

My face pulls down into a frown, and I stand to face Ben. “Because I am his mother, and you are his father, and that is what we are supposed to do, Ben. We're supposed to protect him. To speak for him.”

“Kate just got out of brain surgery, Hannah. She almost died. And we don't even know what's happening with her. So Kate needs us, too. She needs us to take care of David, not make this harder for him than it already is.”

“How am I making things harder by asking about our child's welfare?” I am on the verge of collapse, of a breakdown I know I need but don't want to have.

“Because you didn't even ask about Kate,” Ben shouts, incredulous. “You barely acknowledged the success of the surgery.”

I square my shoulders and let the breakdown come. “I have done nothing for these past three hours except sit beside David, who blames me at least in part for what's happening right now, and think about Kate. About how much I love her. And how badly I need her. And how horribly I've let her down. About how—” I can't continue, can't speak through my tears.

I take a jagged breath. “About how they might have found the aneurysm if she wasn't pregnant. David said it, and he's right. If her migraines were worse and there was no baby, then they might have checked into it. But the baby protected that aneurysm—don't you get it? She did this great thing for me, and it nearly killed her. And I can't do anything—
anything
—to change that.”

Ben sits so quickly it startles me. His eyes are glassy and stare straight ahead. “I know,” he whispers. “But I keep thinking, what would I do if it were you in there? How would I cope if your life were the one at risk? I want to be this baby's dad, to do the right thing by him. Of course I do. But I don't know him. I don't know what to do for him.” He shakes his head and starts to cry. I drop to my knees in front of him and take his hands in mine. “Am I a dad even if he's not here yet?”

“Of course you are,” I murmur, rubbing his hands and wiping my dripping nose against the upper sleeve of my sweater. “You were a dad the moment Kate got the positive pregnancy test.”

He squeezes my hands and nods. “I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“For questioning you about all this. You're right. We can't help Kate, not exactly, but we can help our son. But we have to consider David, too, as we do that, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, burying my face in his lap, feeling him lean down to hold me. We stay like that until a nurse comes to find us, saying Kate is settled in the ICU and we can see her now.

44

David stands over Kate's bed, his back to me, so I can't yet see her. I want so badly to turn and run away, back to my kitchen where a half-eaten dish of guacamole and melted margaritas and shriveled chicken strips that will now never become fajitas are waiting for all of us. Back where Clover is my biggest irritation, and waiting for the birth of our son my greatest anticipation. I'm terrified of what waits for me beyond the sliding glass panels that front Kate's room, unsure about what to say to David, how to apologize for earlier. And yet, where would I run to even if I could? This is the only place I can be.

I take a deep breath and knock on the door frame. David turns toward me, and then I see her. She's so tiny and pale in contrast to her dark hair, which now only covers half her head—the other half is shaved bald, with bandages thankfully covering some of the evidence of the craniotomy. There are tubes and wires crisscrossing her body and leading to an inordinate number of machines that surround her bed like a halo. And along with the ventilator snaking from her mouth, there's a drain tube coming out of her head that makes me squeamish to look at. I can't help it—my hand flies to my mouth and I choke back a sob.

“She's a bit swollen and bruised,” David says, and I nod as calmly as I can. Her face and neck do look mottled and puffy, like she just had her wisdom teeth out or had an allergic reaction to something. “It's from the surgery.”

And then I notice the bump of her belly, and the machine tracing the baby's heartbeat, and I start to cry. As relief floods through me I look back to Kate's face, feeling disloyal.

“I know it's hard to see her like this.” David comes and stands beside me, leading me into one of the chairs against the wall. “But she's stable, and that's the best news we could get right now, okay?”

I wonder how he's holding it together so well. He sighs and scrubs his hands over his face, and then I know he's only holding it together because there's no other option.

“About earlier...in the waiting room with the surgeon—”

David stops me. “It's okay, Hannah. You had every right to ask about the baby.”

“I hope you know I didn't mean to take anything away from...from what's happening with Kate.”

He keeps his gaze on the bed, the tubes, his wife. “I know.”

I look back at the bed, trying to find in it the Kate I know and love. But reconciling my vivacious friend with the frighteningly still figure, dwarfed by the medical equipment, is hard to do.

“It was just a migraine, like all the others. And she really seemed okay, Hannah. But then...she just wasn't.” David's voice catches and I go to him, wrapping an arm around his shaking shoulders. “She was trying to remember the babysitter's name, and I was reading an email on my phone. And then she said something but it didn't make sense, it was gibberish. A second later she collapsed.”

I nod, my heart beating furiously, imagining that moment. “Did you talk to your mom? How are the girls doing?”

“Very briefly. The girls aren't great. Ava is really struggling, she said, and they're both freaked out by what they saw, but they're hanging in there.” Kate would be horrified to know her girls had witnessed her collapse, that they'd probably have nightmares now about the moment they watched their mom fall to the ground unconscious. I bite my lip, holding back another round of tears.

“And how about you?” I ask once I have control of myself again. “How are you doing?”

He shrugs, which is probably the best he can do. If it were Ben in that bed...well, I'd be on the floor and catatonic.

“Anything new from the doctors?” I ask, shifting my thoughts back to David and Kate.

“They said...” He exhales loudly, then tilts his head back, eyes closing. “God, they said so many things. And most of them aren't good.”

I swallow rapidly, pushing back the bile that rises up in my throat.

“They keep saying they're happy with how well the surgery went.” He rubs his thumb over the top of Kate's hand. “Which really tells me they didn't expect her to live through it.” His shoulders shake, and I stare at the tattoos on the back of his neck before leaning in to hug him from behind. Kate was furious after he got the first tattoo, saying if he was going to forever mark his body, couldn't he of least have done it somewhere the whole world couldn't see? But I know she came to love those tattoos—it wasn't just ink needled under his skin; the tattoos were like love letters to his girls, proudly on display.

“They've blocked the bleed, which was our immediate worry. But we won't know how much damage—” David bows his head. “How much damage the blood caused. To her brain. And even though it's secured, it could rerupture.” I don't ask what happens if the aneurysm starts bleeding again. I can only guess that would mean very bad things for Kate. “And she's at risk for all kinds of things, like a heart attack, bleeding disorders, stroke, brain swelling.” He takes a deep breath. “It's a fucking mess, Hannah. She's a mess. Which is crazy because half a day ago she was perfect. Perfect.”

I try to steer the conversation back to a place where I can remain even the slightest bit detached. “So what happens now?”

“Now we wait,” he says, adding a moment later, “I can't believe this is happening.”

“You and me both.” I squeeze his shoulders again and try not to look at the tattoos. I can't think about Kate's girls right now. “Did they say anything about the coma? About how long they think she might be unconscious?”

David turns to look at me, and something in his expression makes my stomach drop. “Hannah—”

“People can recover from brain injuries,” I begin, feeling panicky. “My uncle had a pretty bad stroke, and he's fine except for a little shaking in his one hand. And he's in his sixties. Kate's only thirty-six. There must be someth—” My throat closes and the word gets caught. “That has to count for something. Right?” And running through the back of my mind is the baby. What happens to the baby if Kate stays in her coma?

“They don't know if she's going to wake up,” he says, so quietly I have to lean in to hear him over the monotonous whir of machinery currently keeping Kate's body working.

“They're wrong,” I say, my teeth chattering with my own shaking. I've held it in too long. “They don't know Katie like we do. She's tough. She's going to pull through this.”

“She is tough,” David says, nodding. “But her body is under a lot of strain right now, with the surgery and...the pregnancy.”

His choice of the word
pregnancy
versus
baby
sticks with me, leaving me with an uncomfortable feeling. It seems purposeful, and it makes my stomach hurt like I ate a too-spicy pepper.

“We need to talk about that,” he says, his words slow and methodical.

“About what?”

“The pregnancy,” David says.

The panic rises inside me like a tidal wave, but I try not to let it show on my face. “Why? Did they tell you something about the baby?” I'm instantly furious the hospital seems to be ignoring our guardianship documentation, and my request to be the first to know any updates on our son.

“Not exactly,” he says. “The truth is they can't say for sure if it's making this more difficult.”

“Making what exactly more difficult?” I'm confused now, my mind spinning. “I thought they said everything with the baby was fine?”

“The baby is fine,” he says, staring back at Kate's face. I stare at her stomach, at the bulge under the sheet. “But I don't think the pregnancy is helping things, Hannah. Her body doesn't need any extra stress right now.”

My hands drop off his shoulders, and I take a step back. I don't mean to do it, it just happens. Like I need to distance myself from him, from what he's about to say next.

“So I just wanted you to know we may need to do something about that.”

45

And just like that, David goes from being...well,
David
, to a person I feel nervous around—like I'm suddenly standing outside the previously cozy circle of our friendship, unaware of what he's thinking, scared about the decisions he might make.

As soon as he says those words,
we may need to do something about that
, I back away from him and out of the room without explanation. I race past Ben, who stands in the hallway outside the ICU, talking on his own phone. My cell is already ringing as I press it tightly to my ear, ignoring Ben as he calls out my name.

Once Annabel picks up on the other end, I stumble and stutter around my words, panicking about the guardianship document but more so about my influence as the baby's mother. She assures me the document stands—Ben and I will make all medical decisions regarding the baby.

“I know, I know, of course, of course,” I say when she reminds me Kate's needs take precedence, and David will make medical decisions for her while she can't. “It isn't about not wanting the very best for Kate. It's about also wanting the very best for my boy. Do the two have to be mutually exclusive?” I ask.

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” she tells me, and I'm not sure how to take that.

There is a battle brewing, and though I feel it—like the change in an airplane's cabin pressure at the beginning of a descent—it's still fuzzy around the edges, so I can't see it clearly yet.

But it won't be long now.

* * *

After I hang up with Annabel I make another call.

“Cee-Cee?” I haven't called her that since we were kids, but it comes out without thought.

“Hannah? Are you okay? What's wrong?” Unlike my own, Claire's voice is strong, ready for action. The relief of hearing it is enough to make me slide down the wall of the hospital's corridor, my legs no longer able to hold my weight.

“No, I am not okay.” I tell her everything that's happened. She listens, quietly, until I finish. Then she tells me what to do, and I've never been happier for it.

“Have you called Annabel Porter?”

“Yes. She's taking care of things from her end.”

“Good. Okay, now as soon as you hang up with me you're going back to the ICU. You will remind the nursing staff of your guardianship document, and show it to them, okay? Do you have a copy with you?”
Yes
, I tell her, tucking my phone in the crook of my neck and digging through my purse.
I have it right here.
“Good, put it in front of them. They'll understand what that document means. And tell them your attorney has been in touch with your patient advocate. I have no idea if that's true yet, but it doesn't matter. Just say it.”

I close my eyes and create the list in my head.
Show the nurses the document. Tell them about Annabel.
Patient advocate.
Make it clear I make decisions for the baby.

“Walk back into Kate's room, hold her hand and tell her you love her and you are not giving up on her or the baby. Then find Ben and figure out how one of you can always be in the ICU in case you're needed. Take turns, get some sleep on a cot if you have to, but one of you must always be there. Got it?”

Yes. One of us must always be with our son. With Kate.

She pauses, and I hold my breath, feeling uneasy again. “It's going to be okay, Hannah,” she said, her voice gentle and very un-Claire-like. I begin to cry softly and I long for my sister's arms around me. I am keenly aware of Kate's absence, lost without her. “And that's not me giving you platitudes, all right? You have done so much...so much for this baby. And Kate is strong. She's one of the most determined women I've ever met. I wouldn't want to compete against her for anything.” I laugh a little, wiping my tears, imagining Claire and Kate arm wrestling or locked in a two-woman tug-of-war. “I know she's your best friend, Hann, but I'm your sister. And I will always be here for you.”

* * *

Though I haven't left the ICU, as per Claire's instructions, I also haven't spoken with Kate in nearly three days. Well, that's not exactly true. I have been talking to her nonstop—telling her she needs to wake up, to push through, to come back to us—it's just that she hasn't said anything back. While, thankfully, she's still stable, she's not improving, either. And that has everyone worried.

In the past few days I've learned a third of the people in Kate's condition die immediately, where they fall, and am proud she's strong enough to still be here fighting, though her neurologist—a soft-bodied and soft-spoken man named Dr. Newman Voss, who has a penchant for very loud ties—explains luck has as much to do with it as anything else. Phrases like
vegetative state
and
maternal death
fill her small ICU room during consults crowded with medical staff, David, me and Ben. It's all I can do to keep my lungs filling with air and not curl up in a ball on the floor as her doctors list the risks, complications and frightening statistics—of which there are many—but I stay steady beside Kate, and our boy, the entire time. However, each time they mention the pregnancy, never calling it a baby like I wish they would, David glances at me, his expression difficult to interpret, and I have to look away.

Dr. Voss, when probed by David in those first few hours postsurgery, said Kate could have a slightly—and by slightly he reiterated we were talking an incremental, probably insignificant percentage—higher chance for a positive recovery if she weren't pregnant. When I push him on what a “positive recovery” means he's noncommittal. In gentle tones he says we need to prepare ourselves; the damage to Kate's brain is likely extensive and traumatic. But David hears something quite different. Despite his medical training and everything Dr. Voss has been telling us and Kate's lack of improvement, David becomes convinced if we deliver the baby, Kate will wake up and be
his
Kate again.

And while I want nothing more than for Kate to wake up—to hear her complain about how I let her eyebrows grow in and didn't read her the latest celebrity gossip magazines and spent far too much time crying at her bedside—I understand what Dr. Voss is trying to tell us.

It's highly unlikely we'll ever get
our Kate
back again.