Waiting

I hate the muffled quiet in this tiny windowed room. I see doctors and nurses wander by, most of them deep in conversation, completely oblivious to our silent torment. It’s the waiting that’s the worst. Waiting for the doctor. Waiting for news. Waiting to find out if he will live. Waiting to find out if he will be the same as he was before they found the tumor. Before we knew that he could die.

I look at the man sitting across the room from me. He’s waiting too. His big brawny body barely fits into the chair. He leans forward, with his elbows on his knees and looks at the floor, the walls, the ceiling, anywhere but at me. His dark chocolate hair curls over the collar of his forest green polo shirt, the one I got him because it matches his eyes. The eyes that refuse to look at me. He hasn’t shaved, giving him the just got out of bed look, one of my favorites normally, but since the diagnosis two weeks ago, I haven’t seen that either.

I’ve been here. Waiting. I want to cross the room and sit with him, curling up on his lap like I have for the last ten years when anything made me sad or afraid. He won’t let me, though. He hates to be weak and this makes him scared and unsure, just like it does me. His strength is killing me when it should be holding me up.

We have both retreated into stoic silence, understanding in some way that words won’t make this better or easier. The silence was followed by rapid construction of walls, creating a distance that seems to be impossible to penetrate. A touch causes flinching, pulling away, finding another room. A place to hide from each other. I thought it would be better like this. I thought I could handle it on my own. Staying in the hospital, sitting with him, holding his little hand while I waited. I would try to read him stories, but the words wouldn’t come out without sobs and tears so I stopped. I was wrong. It isn’t better and I don’t know how to fix it.

I hear the rustling of his clothes as he stands up to leave the private waiting room they provided for us. The door swishes closed behind him and clicks quietly as though it is afraid to make noise too. When he is gone, a drop of liquid sneaks out of one of my eyes followed by another and another as I clench every muscle in my body trying to gain control and pull them back inside where they belong. I push my fists against my eyelids, hoping to stem the tide.

When I smell the mix of coffee and hot chocolate, hear the muffled thunks followed by sloshing as the steaming cups are quickly set on the warm maple table next to me, and feel myself lifted up and into his arms, I let go and the sobs start in earnest. “We can do this, babe,” his husky voice murmurs in my ear.

I wrap my arms around his neck and breathe in the clean, woody scent that belongs only to him. “What if we can’t,” I whisper into his neck, “What if we aren’t strong enough?” What I really mean is me, not we. What if I’m not strong enough?

He sits down with me still in his arms and holds me on his lap, using words and hands to tenderly soothe and reassure me, “You keep forgetting that we are in this together, sweetheart.  You aren’t doing this alone.”

“You left.”

“You told me to.”

“Oh. That was probably a bad idea.”

“Ya think?” I don’t see it because my face is buried in his shoulder resting comfortably on the soft cotton of his shirt, but I can feel the effects of his sardonic raised eyebrow as he looks down at me.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him softly, “I don’t want to do this alone anymore. I’m scared and it hurts. It hurts worse than anything I’ve ever felt before. I feel like I’m breaking apart from the inside.”

“Me too.” We sit in silence again. Warm silence filled with comfort and love and it’s not as bad as it was five minutes ago. I hate being wrong and he knows it but he doesn’t rub it in or make me feel bad about it. He just holds me and strokes my hair, letting it fall through his fingers a few strands at a time. “I love your hair,” he whispers.

“Thanks for not giving up on me.”

“Giving up on you would be giving up on us. We’ve been through too much for that to happen. Besides, no one else would put up with me,” he uses a finger to lift my chin so I have to look at his endearingly goofy grin, “I checked.”

I can’t keep the smile from spreading across my face at his words, “You are a dork.”

“You love me.”

“I love you.”

The door swooshes open importantly and the woman who held our son’s life in her hands walks in. She is not smiling. I feel my heart stop beating and hear him take in a deep breath for strength or patience maybe.

“I removed the tumor. Now we wait. He’ll be in the recovery room in a few minutes and a nurse will take you to see him,” she pauses and looks at me, “It’s not over yet. The likelihood of brain damage is…high. You need to be prepared.”

“But he’ll live,” Jeff says firmly, somehow finding the strength to focus on the positive.

“He’ll live,” she agrees with a slight smile.

The doctor turns to leave, shoulders beginning to slump with exhaustion. The surgery took several hours and she had been with him for a long time before that. “Thank you,” I tell her through the lump in my throat.

She turns back to look at me, “You are welcome. If you have any questions, call me.” She runs a hand through her hair, “This one got to me. He’s a brave little boy, a fighter.”

I smile and say, “He gets that from his dad.”

At the same moment, I hear my husband say, “He gets that from his mom.”

The doctor laughs as she walks out the door and into the busy hallway of the hospital, allowing the scents of alcohol swabs and disinfectant to invade the waiting room. When the nurse arrives, we follow her like we have all of the other times with one difference. My hand is firmly held in his and we walk together. We visit our son together. We both cry when we see the tubes coming out of his little body. Instead of pulling away from me, Jeff wraps his arms around me and holds me against him.

He sits down and pulls me back onto his lap while we wait for our baby to wake up. I look over and see sunlight spilling into the room through the window. It’s spring. There is a park below filled with people living their lives without having to wait. They feel the warmth of the sun and smell the flowers that have blossomed on the trees. Some are even chasing happily after kids and dogs. I used to envy them but not anymore. I rest my head on his strong shoulder and wait some more, wrapped up in his strength and love.