Chai Tea Sunday (4 page)

In a foggy blur, semi-induced by morphine, I somehow managed to communicate to Dr. Lorel that, yes, I would be going with her to Mount Sinai. Of course I would be going.

The nurses, who had been hovering outside the door while we spoke to Dr. Lorel, quickly entered the recovery room to start preparing me for transfer and then wheeled me to the Labour and Delivery entrance doors. Both ambulances were already there, one in front of the other.

The nurses stopped my rolling bed to let Ella pass. Warmed and protected by a small transport incubator, our precious angel and her entourage of transfer team specialists flew by us at a frightening speed. My heart collapsed as I took in Ella's transfer device and all of its complicated gadgets, including a ventilator, various beeping monitors and a bunch of attachments that looked like itty-bitty baby pumps. The hurricane of activity — with our daughter in the middle like the eye of the storm — disappeared into the first ambulance.

I was next.

My own team of nurses and the paramedics who had been standing by transferred me onto the waiting ambulance gurney and, within moments, I had also been swallowed up. I watched from the inside as my tear-streaked mother pulled at her neck. My panic-stricken husband looked blank and absent.

“Are you coming?” I asked Eric who seemed to be frozen to the ground.

“I . . . uh . . . I . . . I can't. I can't. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But I can't. I can't.”

I felt all the blood drain out of my already panicked body. This wasn't happening. My mother stepped up. “I'll go. Eric, you stay here with your parents. We'll call as soon as we know anything.” Dumbfounded, I watched as my mother —
not
my husband — climbed into the ambulance and took my hand.

My mother and I said nothing to each other the entire ride to Mount Sinai. But she never let go of my hand. Not once during the entire ride.

Three hours later, Eric walked into the private Mount Sinai hospital room where my mom and I were waiting. His eyes remained focused on the ground, his hands jammed into his jean pockets. I could see through the door that his parents were with him, but had waited in the hall.

My mother was still at my bedside, holding my hand. She had spent the past few hours crying with me while we impatiently waited for updates from the doctors. None had come, and they were still taking tests and trying to figure out what was wrong with Ella.

“You decided to come?” I said, more sarcastically than I intended.

“Nicky, I . . . uh . . . I don't know what to say. Everything happened so fast, and I panicked. Is she . . . is she okay? Is Ella going to be okay?”

“We don't know yet. The doctors are still examining her and taking more tests. I haven't been allowed to even see her yet. No doctor has come by. We're just going on what the nurses are telling us.” I refused to waste my energy on him. My focus needed to be on Ella.

Eric awkwardly stood next to the bed, looking as though he was near tears. Neither of us knew what to do or say. The spiral of complicated emotions seemed to encircle the room at increased speed with each passing minute. The morphine I had been given after my C-section was beginning to wear off and I needed to remain perfectly still to avoid the searing jabs from tearing through my lower abdomen.

“Why don't I give you two some privacy?” my mother asked, standing from her chair. “Nic, will you be okay if I take a walk and get some coffee? I'll bring you back a latte.”

“Yes, thanks Mom. That would be great. And I'll be okay. Thanks for being here and staying with me.” I failed at my attempt to smile at her, but wanted her to know I was grateful for her support. Plus, I was unable to prevent myself from throwing a verbal dagger Eric's way.

When exiting the room, my mother patted Eric on the shoulder, as if to tell him that it was okay. I knew she understood everyone reacts differently in tragic situations. She had been handed some doozies in her lifetime and had come to believe that it is not possible to know how you will react in a bad situation. That is, until you are in it.

I was not as understanding. I was devastated by all that had happened, and insurmountable panic was consuming every inch of my body. I was scared, oh so scared, about what lay in our path. And like the cherry on top of our squashed cupcake, my husband had crushed me when he had abandoned Ella and me at a time when we needed him the most.

Eric and I sat in silence. We said nothing to each other. The agonizing minutes crawled by at a pace slower than dial-up internet. I didn't trust myself to speak. I didn't even trust myself to look at him. He had taken my pain to a higher, more explosive level, and I was worried about what would come rushing out of my mouth if I began to talk.

Forty minutes later, after my mom had returned with my father, Eric's parents and six lattes, an exhausted and visibly upset doctor came into the room. He didn't introduce himself, but his badge read Dr. McKinnon.

After confirming we were Ella's parents, he cleared his throat and stated, “I'm sorry to tell you that your daughter is very sick. We've been running tests all afternoon, and we suspect she has something called neonatal hemochromatosis. It is a very rare condition in which toxic levels of iron accumulate in the liver and other tissues of a fetus. It occurs while the baby is developing in the womb and occasionally, but not often, can be detected in utero by ultrasound.”

Dr. McKinnon paused, and let us take in what he was saying. I could hear Eric's mother crying softly in the corner and my mother went to her side to comfort her as she wiped away her own tears.

“What does it mean?” Eric asked, suddenly seeming more angry than afraid.

“She has liver failure and now her other organs are shutting down. She doesn't have much time,” Dr. McKinnon said gently. “You should come and spend time with her in the
NICU
. I suspect she has only a few days. We are doing everything we can for your daughter. We have the pediatric liver specialists from SickKids Hospital suggesting experimental treatments for us to try, but so far she is not responding to our resuscitative measures.”

My breath left me. I struggled to move. I needed to get out of the bed and go to her. But I was tied to the bed by catheter and
IV
. Dr. McKinnon gently guided me back down, and explained that I would be able to see her as soon as the nurses cleared me to go in a wheelchair — probably within an hour or two. Dr. McKinnon turned to Eric and told him he could visit the
NICU
with him if he would like as he was returning there immediately.

“Can you bring Ella here to the room?” Eric demanded, squishing his face into an expression I didn't recognize. His eyes seemed both disturbing and new — even to me — his wife and partner of almost fifteen years.

“We need to support her breathing and organs right now, and I think it's best if she stays in the
NICU
. An entire team is doing everything we can for your daughter.”

“Will she . . . can she . . . is there a chance this might get better?” I was clinging to hope.

“Occasionally, but not often, some newborns have been known to overcome the effects of neonatal hemochromatosis. But you need to know that Ella's condition is severe — the worst we have ever seen. You need to prepare yourselves. . . .” He paused, almost at a loss for words. “I'm so sorry.”

“When will you be back?” I asked, desperate for the doctor to stay, yet knowing it was better if he was with Ella.

“One of our team members will bring you updates. I will try and come back later this evening, but the nurses are also here whenever you need them.” Dr. McKinnon paused, his gaze shifting from Eric to me as an empathetic sadness filled his eyes. “I'll ask a nurse to see if we can get Nicky into a wheelchair soon. So you can both come together and see Ella in the
NICU
.” He quickly left, seemingly uncomfortable and anxious to exit the room.

“Thank you, doctor,” Eric replied, barely above a whisper. He sank into the chair at the end of my hospital bed, and buried his head in his hands, shoulders shaking with his sobs.

My mother came to my side and sat gently on the bed to make sure she didn't tug at my catheter or cause pain to my fresh C-section wound. Gingerly, she pulled me into a warm hug so we could cry together.

Yet my tears didn't come. I was numb. In shock. Denying everything the doctor had told us. For some reason, at that moment, I felt absolutely nothing.

Brian stood awkwardly in the corner, moving his hands from his pockets to his side, while Amelia sat on the arm of Eric's chair, her hand placed firmly on his shoulder. Brian muttered something about needing air and quickly left the room, shooting his wife an apologetic look before he disappeared, promising he would be back soon.

From my bed, I could hear Amelia's soft words, whispered through her sniffles. “Go to her, Eric. She needs you. You need each other.”

Slowly, Eric stood to full height and crossed the room. He stood beside my bed, and awkwardly patted my back in a way that reminded me more of a proud father congratulating his son after scoring a goal than a husband consoling his wife in a tragic time of grief.

I turned from my mother and held my arms up to Eric, as though I was a toddler wanting to be picked up. I was desperate for him. I needed him.

When Eric finally kneeled beside my bed and opened his arms to me, I buried my head in his chest, my arms clinging to his neck. His strong arms wrapped themselves around me in an embrace that felt more familiar to me than anything I had ever known.

I collapsed into him. And then the tears came.

A short while later, Dr. McKinnon reappeared at my bedside. He gently placed a hand on my shoulder, and said the words I would never, ever, forget, in a voice that was filled with softness and compassion. “I'm so . . . I'm very sorry to tell you this, but Ella has taken a turn for the worse.” The doctor paused, almost as though he were waiting for something, or someone. Then, he cleared his throat and continued, “We're going to bring her to you now so you can be with her in the short time that she has left.”

I stared at him, letting the silence fill the room. Panic pulsed into my throat, threatening to suffocate me.

“How long do we have?” I croaked, unsure of where my words had come from. I recognized my own voice as much as I did Eric's eyes, which seemed to have adopted a foggy glaze.

“Maybe an hour or so,” Dr. McKinnon replied softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Shouldn't you be keeping her in the
NICU
? You said that was where she needed to be — that you need to support her. . . .” Eric questioned. The doctor shook his head sadly and, from behind him, a nurse appeared, carrying a tiny baby wrapped in a pink blanket and a knit hat. My baby. My Ella.

The nurse handed me our beautiful angel, and my heart went through emotions that were so mixed I somehow felt numb. It was as though I had managed to sleep on every part of my body in the wrong way, and every limb and tip was asleep with pins and needles.

I held our baby girl, and forced my memory to snap the picture that I would hold forever in my mind and heart. No one said a word as tears slid down my cheeks, anointing our baby girl and all of her beauty.

I begged God for help. Begged Him to make her better. To turn Ella into a healthy newborn with glowing pink cheeks and a little smile that took over her face when gas bubbles formed in her tummy.

But my prayers went unanswered.

It happened quickly. Eric was at my side, holding her entire hand with his pinky finger, and all four grandparents were cuddling in.

Ella's eyes fluttered open, only for a moment, as if she was greeting us, and taking in our faces before moving on.

And then our precious baby girl took one final breath, and she was gone.

I walked through the motions of the next three weeks in a semi-comatose fog. My mother appeared at every meal with brown grocery bags filled with whatever homemade soup or stuffed chicken that she had whipped up the night before. Despite her constant efforts, I couldn't seem to choke down more than three bites per meal, let alone the plateful she continually begged me to eat.

“You're recovering from major surgery, honey,” my mother said gently. “You need to keep up your strength so that your body can heal.”

I would shake my head, no, and she would crawl into my bed. Tenderly, she raised the soup spoon to my lips, just as she had done so many times when I was a baby. Like a little bird, I opened my mouth to take the tiny bites my mother offered. When I could take no more, I turned my head, still silent, and my mother would stop pushing me. At least until the next meal.

The three times daily Meals on Wheels delivery from my mother was matched by tuna casseroles and lasagnas brought forward by friends and neighbours. Everyone wanted to help, but no one knew how. No one even knew what to say. So, instead, people cooked.

Two days after we lost Ella, Eric shocked us all by announcing he was going back to work. He claimed there were several time-sensitive cases that needed his attention, and he didn't want to let down his clients.

“But
work
, Eric? Really, honey?!
Work
?” Amelia cried, covering her pursed lips with an open hand when she found out the news. She and Brian had come over to see how we were doing, and my mother was serving them tea and the fresh scones she had picked up from a bakery earlier that morning. I was still upstairs in bed, but could hear the group discussing Eric's work plans through my open bedroom door.

“I know it seems a bit soon, Ma, but I'm not doing any good here. And I just . . . I can't . . . I can't be here. It hurts too much.” I could sense the uncomfortable pause all the way upstairs. “And my cases aren't going to wait for me. I need to get back. There's nothing I need to stay home for.”

“What about your
wife
?” Brian asked gently. I could hear the surprise and disappointment in his voice.

“I'll be here with Nicky at night, and there are lots of people here during the day to help take care of her, including all of you guys. Plus Maggie is flying in tomorrow, so she'll be able to help too.”

“And what about the memorial service on Thursday?” Amelia asked.

“Of course, I will be there.”

The awkward silence that followed Eric's answer was obvious even to me, one floor up. I pulled the covers up over my ears and wished they would all just go away.

As I wrapped my arms around myself, I was greeted with new pain as my tender breasts reminded me that my milk had come in. My doctor had told me to get a really good bra and, other than that, I just needed to wait out the unfairness of my body wanting to breastfeed the baby I didn't have.

Eric came up ten minutes later and got in the shower. When he finished, he barely looked at me as he got dressed in our walk-in closet.

“So you're going back to work, Eric? Today? Were you planning on telling me?” I asked quietly from our bed when he came near me to get his watch from the bedside table.

“It's what I need right now, Nic.”

“I see. Okay, then.” I didn't have the energy to protest or even try to understand how he could just pick life back up so quickly after going through such heartbreaking loss. Or why he wasn't holding on to me as I drifted, listless, in my complicated veil of grief.

Then Eric kissed me quickly on the cheek and was gone.

When my father picked Maggie up at the airport early the following morning, she came directly over. My mother let them in, and Maggie walked straight upstairs and crawled into bed with me.

“Oh, Nicky. I'm so,
so
sorry.” My sister crawled right under the covers and hugged me in a way that only a sister can. She said nothing more, but continued hugging me as I sobbed into her shoulder, letting the tears flow. I could smell the familiar scent of her hand cream and, for a moment, it took me back to a happy place from long ago.

“Can I get you anything? Are you hungry? Thirsty?” Maggie asked. “Mom said you haven't eaten today yet.”

I shook my head. I didn't want anything. I wanted nothing but Ella.

“Have you been sleeping?”

I shook my head again. I dozed on and off throughout the day and night, but hadn't had a solid stretch of sleep since I had returned home from Mount Sinai.

“How did this happen, Maggie?
Why
did it happen?” Fresh tears slid down my face, hot and burning as they formed trails on my cheeks. Maggie pulled me back into her hug.

“
Shhh shhh
. . . Nicky. I don't know, big sister, I really don't. It's not fair. It's really so very unfair.”

“You didn't even get to meet her!”

“I know, Nicky. I'm so sorry. I wish I would have come home earlier. I had no idea that you'd go into labour so early.”

“You couldn't have known that. Or what was going to happen. I just wish you could have held her. I wish she could have met her Aunt Maggie!”

“I hold her in my heart. And I
feel
like I know her.” Maggie's eyes lined with tears. She grabbed the box of tissues from my bedside table.

“Well, I feel like I'm in a nightmare.” I sobbed into the tissue she handed me. I hiccupped, then coughed, my breaths struggling to keep up with my sobs. Slight twinges deep within my C-section incision burned, and I silently thanked my mother for ensuring I routinely took the heavy cocktail of meds that masked the majority of my post-surgery pain. “I just can't believe this is happening. I need to wake up from this awful dream, Mags. Please, please help me wake up! Help me feel better.”

“
Shhh
, Nicky,” Maggie soothed, stroking my hair as she held me like a baby. “I wish I could do that for you. I really do.”

“I miss Ella so much and I can't make the pain stop. I need it to go away. I can't take how much it hurts. Please. Make it stop.”

“I know, Nic. I know. Let it all out. Let it all go.” My sister clung to me even tighter. Hugged me harder, until the sobs that emerged from somewhere deep within me shook my body in a way that almost scared me. I could feel drool lacing its way out the sides of my mouth, down my chin and onto my sister's shirt, but I didn't care. I wept until my choked sobs turned into a howl-like sound coming from my throat. I wept and sobbed into my sister's chest until, finally, I had no more tears to give, and I fell asleep in her arms.

The memorial service was small and quick. Only our parents, Maggie, Eric and I attended. Eric's brothers and their wives wanted to come, but I couldn't face anyone other than the small group. I knew they would understand. And if they didn't, I didn't care.

My mother choked back a sob as the minister read from Ecclesiastes,
“There is a time for everything, And a season for every activity under heaven: A time to be born and a time to die . . .”

Surprisingly, no tears fell from my eyes. I felt numb, like I was watching the service from afar instead of attending. I reached for Eric, who was sitting beside me, still and quiet. His hand felt like cold stone. I squeezed it, but was given nothing back. He stared straight ahead, never glancing at me or acknowledging that I was even there.

When the service was over, we all returned to our house and my mother took over hostess duties. She put on a pot of coffee and pulled out freshly baked banana bread. I wondered when she had found the time to bake.

“It was a lovely service,” Amelia said awkwardly, breaking the silence. “Didn't you think so, Eric?”

He shrugged, then nodded yes, before grabbing himself a beer from the fridge and sitting at the kitchen table, staring only at its surface. I could feel his pain. I sensed it in everything he was doing. Or wasn't doing, as the case might be. I was desperate to hold him. To console him. But he wouldn't let me in. I was being barricaded by his grief and I struggled to understand the best way to knock down his wall of sorrow.

My mother asked what I would like to drink and put a plate of warmed banana bread in front of me. I shook my head, telling her I wanted nothing. The banana bread sat before me, untouched. Eventually it got cold.

“I think I'll go upstairs for a rest,” I told the group, unsure of what else to say or do. “Stay for as long as you'd like.”

“Want me to come with you?” Maggie asked, standing from the kitchen chair she was sitting on.

“No. Thanks, Mags. I'll be okay on my own.”

I slowly walked the stairs and climbed into bed, still fully clothed in my black pant suit. Tears, and then sobs, finally greeted me, and I bit into my pillow, not sure if I wanted to let them out or force them to stop.

I heard movement in our hall, and was certain that Eric was coming to check on me. To take me into his arms and tell me everything was going to be okay. I strained to listen and heard him enter the office. He shut the door and it sounded like his muffled voice was on a conference call.

Anger snapped through me as I sat straight up, mascara clumping my eyelashes together and leaving stains on the white pillow case I had been hugging. I got off the bed too quickly, causing pain to snake through the site of my incision, and I burst through the door to our office.

“Seriously, Eric?
Seriously
?! You're doing work?
Today
? Ten
minutes
after we said goodbye to Ella? Are you seriously that cold?”

“Tim? I'm going to have to call you back.” Eric clicked his BlackBerry off and turned to face me, his eyes pierced and angered, yet lined in devastation and sorrow. “Nic, you knew I was on a work call. You can't come in here like that, yelling at me. . . .”

I cut him off. “We just had the
memorial service
. For our
daughter
. How could you? How could you even think about work?”

“The Stevens case is going to trial tomorrow and I had to talk to Tim about some last-minute details. I can't help it if the world isn't stopping for us.”

“Let someone else at your firm deal with your fucking case. I don't give a shit about it, and neither should you, Eric.”

“Nicky, please, you need to calm down. Our family is right downstairs. . . .”

I knew he was right, but I didn't care. I was beyond furious. He had pushed me too far, and newly formed anger coursed through my veins like pulsing blood. I no longer cared — about anything or anyone.

I stared him straight in the eye, and heard the silence of our families sitting downstairs, uncomfortable to be with each other and unsure of what to do or say. “Maybe we should go?” I overheard Amelia say quietly. Then, a moment later, the soft click of our front door being pulled shut.

“Are you happy? Now our family is gone and they think we're crazy.”

“You
are
crazy, Eric! You don't even want to deal with what's going on. You just want to pick up where you left off and pretend that nothing happened. We had a
daughter
. She
died
.”

“You think I don't know that, Nicky? You think I
don't know that
?”

“Well, you sure as hell aren't acting like it.”

Eric threw his BlackBerry across the room, leaving a chipped divot where it bounced off the painted wall. “Fuck,” he grunted, his frustration reaching a new height. He crossed the room and picked up his BlackBerry to inspect it. Made sure it was still working. “I'm getting out of here for a while, Nicky. I can't deal with you, or this, right now. I'll be back in a few hours.”

“Fine. Whatever, Eric.” My husband squeezed past me and exited the room. He didn't bother to look back to see that my legs had buckled under the weight of my grief and that I was curled up, sobbing, in a ball on the floor.