Joy, Short-lived

My boyfriend, Jake, and I had just spent the evening discussing our latest dilemma, my pregnancy. He had driven like a maniac to an open diner through two feet of snow because he couldn't stand being cooped up in my hotel room all night. When we got back to the parking lot at the hotel after breakfast, there were snowdrifts covering up an icy mess. His truck plowed through it effortlessly and he pulled up close to the door of the room.

He was angry with me because I refused to stay in Canada during my pregnancy and trust him to help me through it. He had made a lot of promises during our seven months together. Unfortunately, he had kept very few of them. Stubbornly independent, I needed to be in charge of this next phase of my life and I couldn't count on him. He didn't need to rescue me from this disaster he had contributed to.

Not wanting to sit like a queen, expecting him to help me down from the truck in the parking lot, I popped the door open and jumped out, falling hard on my back. It took my breath away. I hit my head on the opened door when I tried to sit up and fell back down, feeling sick. He ran over and helped me up.

Shaking his head, annoyed with me, he said, “See? See? You think you can do everything alone, eh? Come on, let’s get you inside. You couldn’t wait two minutes for me to help? Two fucking minutes. You are so damned stubborn.”

Shit. My head was bleeding, and I was dizzy and embarrassed about losing my footing. Jake sat me down on the bed and made a cold pack out of snow in a towel, holding it on my forehead. It slowed the bleeding, but it didn’t stop it. My stomach was getting ready to lose the breakfast I’d just eaten but I couldn’t stand up without the room spinning.

“I think- I need to – I’m going to throw up.” I said over a mouthful of sour acid.

He helped me to the bathroom. Oh, my God. He was going to see me vomit. How disgusting. I didn’t have a choice because I couldn’t stand on my own. It was so embarrassing. It was almost as bad as if he walked in on me taking a dump. Good heavens.

He held me up over the toilet and I heaved my guts out, literally. It seemed like it would never end. Then I started to hiccup. All I wanted was to rinse out my nasty mouth and lay down on the bathroom floor to sleep. I was not feeling well. I, the germaphobe, wanted to lie down on the nasty bathroom floor filled with filthy, microscopic creatures to sleep. I once threw a toothbrush away for the same offense.

Jake helped me to the sink to wash out my mouth, but my vision was too blurry to find the toothpaste. He helped me and practically carried me to the bed. I kept getting scared that the bed was tipping over and I’d fall out. My forehead was still bleeding, and he kept sopping it up with the now wet, lukewarm towel.

“Tina, I think we need to find a hospital. Do you remember where the hospital Jean Luc took you to was?”

“I don’t remember. We took a cab.” I told him, flopping back down on the pillow, trying to block the bright lights of the room from my eyes. “I’m okay. Just let me go to sleep. I’m fine.”

“No. Come on. I’m taking you to the hospital. I’ll stop at the diner and get directions.” He insisted, picking me up and carrying me out to the truck, not waiting for me to argue.

He sat me in the passenger seat then went back inside and brought out my jacket and the bedspread to wrap around me. He handed me the wet towel and said, “Hold this on your cut. Keep pressure on it. Okay?”

All I remember is snuggling into the pink bedspread and slumping against the cool passenger-side window. I don’t recall the trip to the hospital. Somehow, he had found it and before I knew it, I was being wheeled on a gurney into the Emergency Room with him running next to me.

I thought that was a bit extreme for a little cut on the head until I saw them unwrap me from the comforter. Did my head bleed that badly? I thought. The bedspread was soaked with blood. I went back to sleep and when I woke up all the blood was gone. I was clean and lying in a spartan bed in a quiet room with dimmed lights and beeping machinery.

I fell back asleep and when I woke up again a nurse was checking my vital signs. Satisfied that I was still alive she wrote something down on a clipboard and left the room.

Between the beeps of the machine and the dimmed lights, I saw a shadow in a chair next to the bed. I couldn’t connect my brain to that shadow, so I went back to sleep.

It felt so good to sleep without dreaming. No pain. No fear. Just peaceful sleep. I wanted to stay that way forever. In that silent space between sleep and wakefulness, I decided that falling in love costs too much. I couldn’t afford it. I promised myself it would never happen again. Then I sunk back into oblivion.

I woke up to bright sunshine streaming through the window shades. Not knowing how long I’d been out I looked around, trying to find a clock. The shadow in the chair was gone. I remembered the shadow now. That’s the thing about shadows; just when you think you’ve finally caught up with them, you haven’t.