Count to Ten

Count to ten.

Remember the heartbeat you heard the first time…of how fast and strong it was. Remember how you read bedtime stories from books, and some you made up, to the womb your daughter was developing in.

Now watch as the nurse tries to find any movement. Hear the silence excusing the desperate sliding of a wand trying to show you the most beautiful thing you will ever see. Feel the air thicken when she gives up, has to excuse herself to go get someone else who is better at giving you the news, all the while you are still staring at a monitor of black and white and nothing.

Count to ten.

Stifle the deep breaths that preempting the screaming that will come, not from yourself, but from the love of your life who is trying to grasp the situation. Man up, and know that she will need you more than ever, and prepare yourself for the worst.

Repeat what the doctors say about statistics and about what is “supposed to happen,” but with embracing, holding hands, and loving strokes of her hair to quell the anger and betrayal she feels toward the world…and to herself.

Count to ten.

Ten fingers. Ten little toes. You can see them perfectly right before they are all tossed into a haz-mat bin.

Count to ten.

Numb isn’t the word. Numb implies that you can remember how something was supposed to feel before it stopped. But, you turn that around to focus on helping your love get through the. Worst. Pain. Anyone can ever feel. Don’t scream…her ensured recovery will be your retribution.

Just try to make hardest calls you will ever to your family to let them know. The drive to the hospital where they will take care of everything that remains so you can start fresh does not stab at you like sitting in the waiting room while another family happily offers you to share some of their champagne for their daughter’s delivery. Then hear the silence that follows someone whispering to the group that not everyone who waits does so for good news.

Count to ten.

See some of the spirit come back to her after a few weeks, but also notice how she starts drifting away. She quits a lot of things, now. She gave up her passion, and now works part-time where she spends the little money she makes at the store in which she works. But, you prevail. You come up with little surprises to show you love her. You do all of the things you though she fell in love with you for. You are the book of a supportive spouse.

Even though she doesn’t kiss you anymore, she seems happier and to have gotten through it.

Get pregnant again. Hear the heartbeat again. Watch a still monitor and hear the most likely excuses again.

Count to ten.

This time, your love doesn’t cry as much. Instead, she goes out at night and stays out until the sun is up regardless of what she promised you. You start hearing more and more new names, and a great many of the ones that are repeated are not girls. The bills are not being paid as they should, because there is suddenly an influx of new clothes and whatever that comes in no matter what the financial situation is.

Dust is on everything, now. There are never more dishes in the dishwasher then the sink. The dogs bark at her when she comes in, and instead flock to the safety of you. You are trying to make things better. You get her counseling, then find out she lies to them to make it seem like things are better. And, life goes on. Other things happen, like finding out you may have a genetic condition (not related to the losses). But, she responds to that news with a an exciting account of the plans she has that weekend, the people she will hang out with, and the bars she may go to.

Count to ten.

Inevitably, you seperate to prepare for a divorce. The love you had is gone. The daughters you had are gone. The life you have is over, and you are so far away from any family or friends that the only living things you can talk to are the same ones you take out for a walk every two hours.

Now, find yourself on the ninth floor of a hotel. A place that, even though they have signs to the opposite, left the window unlocked so that you can sit on the ledge.

See everything and everyone below, sparatic and crazy. Loud. Bright. Flashy. And, busy. But, at the same time, feel the stoic wind’s breath swoon across your face almost caressing you as you teeter-totter above the pavement. Wonder how, if this little bit of air feels so good, how much better a rush of it would be. Look down.

Count to ten.

Count to ten.

Count to ten.