Possibilities - Part SevenB
I don't know how many times I can apologize for the time between postings, but here I am doing it again. These last few months have been emotional ones for me as my husband and I try different medical procedures to get pregnant. It's definitely led to some sporadic writing on my part! Because of my earlier surgery, my doctor has been very proactive, and everyone in my life is very supportive, but it is still a frustrating disappointment each month when the pregnancy test reads "negative". We're trying a new routine of medication, ultrasound and IUI this month, and any positive prayers or thoughts would be very appreciated. We have an appointment with an IVF clinic next week, but oh how I would like to avoid having to go through in vitro!

Okay, enough blabbing, here is the next part.



Possibilities - Part SevenB

Allison is five months pregnant when the subject of living arrangements comes up. You come home from the hospital and smell dinner already cooking when you walk through the door. She’s not in the kitchen, so you go searching for her and find her sitting in the study.

“How’s the alien?” you ask.

She rolls her eyes at your pet term for the baby before answering.

“She’s fine.”

“Why are you sitting in here staring at the wall?”

“Thinking of what color to paint it. We have to start thinking about a nursery. I don’t want to get rid of the guest room because I’m sure your mother will be visiting us. I think if we squeeze things over a bit, we can fit a crib in here.”

She sounds slightly doubtful and you look at the tiny room. You know that Allison would rather move into a bigger place. She made an offhanded remark to that effect months earlier, but you quickly changed the subject and she never mentioned it again.

You’ve lived in the same place for almost twenty years. You know every creak in the floorboards and every ding in the woodwork – some of which were made from you slamming your cane into doorways when you were frustrated. You had the built-in bookcases installed in the living room and the floor reinforced to support your piano.

There is a lot of history within these walls, and even though some of it is very bad, there is enough in the very good category now to make things even. You will miss the place, but you are not going to “squeeze” your daughter in just because you detest change. She may not be born yet, but she still deserves more than that.

“No way,” you tell Allison.

“Greg,” she says reasonably, “she can’t sleep in the closet. We have to make room.”

“We’ll make room in a new house,” you say and when Allison just stares at you, you leave the room and dial Wilson’s number.

You already have the name and number for a real estate agent when Allison joins you in the living room.

She doesn’t ask you if you’re sure about moving, or if you want to think about it some more, and she doesn’t thank you for doing what you should have done a month ago. She just squeezes your shoulder and then goes into the kitchen to finish cooking dinner.

House-hunting is just as horrible as you imagined it would be, complete with cheery real estate agent and house after house that prove unsuitable. Too many stairs, too old, too new, too small, too big. Granted, you’re the one making most of the complaints, but it’s still an irritating process.

A month and a half of looking, and you finally find the perfect house. You don’t think it’s perfect at first, because you never think anything is perfect, but you quickly warm up to it.

Wilson is the one who puts you on to it, telling you that he’s heard that the head of Princeton’s biology department is finally retiring and heading to Florida. You know the man, and know where he lives, and you drive Allison by the house the next day. It is a Craftsman style home and sits in a pretty little neighborhood less than a mile from the Princeton campus and about two miles from the hospital. Allison loves it at first sight and you have your creepily cheerful real estate agent take you around it the next day.

With an open floor plan, four bedrooms, redone bathrooms and kitchen, and no stairs, it really is ideal. You pick on the worn wood floors, but secretly like them and all of the built-ins and period mantles and moldings. There is space for your piano and you decide that you can be happy there.

Five years ago you wouldn't have been happy anywhere, and it's hard to admit that now you would be happy - or at least as close to happy as you're ever likely to get - anywhere, as long as Allison and your baby were there as well.

Your baby.

While Allison has finally started to relax and enjoy being pregnant and planning for the baby, you find yourself resisting the pull of happiness. It’s too risky.

You’ve been in the new house for a week and a half when you get the 911 page to the emergency room. It’s Allison. As you’re rushing for the elevator and swearing about your limp, Wilson hears you and falls into step beside you. He guesses that something is wrong, but you brush him off. You can’t deal with well-meaning friendship at the moment.

Cuddy meets you at the elevator. She’s the first one who checked Allison out in the ER and she tells you that the head of obstetrics has looked her over as well. With terse words, you ask what happened. She knows to skip over the details. Allison passed out up in the immunology department and so far it just looks like her blood pressure is a bit high. You’re at the curtain area by the time she finishes and you push the white material aside, metal slides rattling against each other on the ceiling.

“I’m fine. The baby’s fine,” Allison says, sounding tired and a little annoyed, but looking pale and scared. “It’s not pre-eclampsia, I just need to cut back on the salt and rest more.”

That’s when it hits you. Against your best efforts, you were terrified for the baby as much as for Allison. You’ve lived months thinking that she could lose the baby at any moment. It’s been a thought that you pushed down and aside and away, but it’s always been there. You've become accustomed to the idea. What has been harder to ignore and impossible to think about for any length of time is the idea that you could lose Allison at the same time. You actually imagined this moment, but in your mind you were concerned only about your wife, checking her vitals, touching her clammy skin. Now you collapse onto the stool beside the bed and reach over to rest your hand on Allison’s belly.

You feel the baby kick and you tap in response.

“Teaching her Morse code?” Allison asks.

“Not yet,” you say, and follow it up with a saucy wink because you know that’s what she’ll expect.

A few minutes pass before Allison speaks again.

“I was really scared.”

You concentrate on the veins on the back of your hand. “Yeah,” is all you say before leaning over and kissing her hard on the lips. The stool skitters away as you stand up to get more leverage.

“No more clinic hours. No more patient rounds.”

Ordinarily she would instantly protest against your authoritarian demands, but not this time.

“Lisa already told me the same thing.”

“About time she got some sense.”

“I can’t believe you still harass her so much,” she says with a touch of amusement.

“Everyone has to have a hobby.”

She shakes her head and chuckles. It’s good to see your sense of humor has grown on her. You tell her to stay put and that you’ll drive her home after you dump all of your clinic hours on your fellows. You can tell that she’d rather just hop out of the bed and go back to work, but she reluctantly nods and closes your eyes. You pause for a second and just stare at her. Your heart rate has gone back to normal, your breathing is even, and the palm gripping your cane isn’t sweaty anymore, but you still never want to feel that kind of fear again.