The doctor
instructed me to “pack” her wound with gauze twice a day, scrubbing the inside
of it with peroxide each time I changed her dressing. The wound was about four inches long, an inch
and a half wide and an inch and a half deep.
It was raw meat and I was required to stuff 4x4 inch gauze pads in it
twice a day.
As he finished
explaining, the doctor said, “I am glad you are doing this. There are plenty of husbands who just have
the nurse come to the house twice a day…”
Right there, I
considered kicking this guy’s butt. Why
did he have to give me the option to wimp out after I ignorantly volunteered for duty? I began to hate this man
I’d just met, and I don’t hate anybody.
After planning how I would have to dispose of his body if I killed him, I
decided against it. I then calmed down.
While I knew that
we were going to have struggles and tough times, I didn’t think our love for
each other required actions that were more intense than the feeling of a simple
hug or a kiss goodnight or the struggle of an argument, or even the birth
experience itself. But this clinched it.
I didn’t think I
could live long enough to have a week like this one. I saw my son born, I saw my wife cut open,
then sewn up, and then burst open again.
I couldn’t relate to myself in these circumstances. I couldn’t believe I was the one everyone in
the room was depending on to be “nurse” for Sunday. This just wasn’t me. I couldn’t do it. Her wounding was much too powerful for me to
live through. I felt like I was dying in
that room, I was so stressed. Her life
was up to me, and, by extension, Jonah’s.
Twice a day, I was ensuring the health of my family’s future destiny
with a simple, intense ten-minute change of bloody bandages. Since Sunday’s belly was too big for her to
see it, I felt alone in my silent panic.
I responded to all
of this with a smile as my hands shook violently at the thought of what I had
to do.
I walked out of
that room a different man. I couldn’t
relate to myself in there because I wasn’t me anymore. I was responsible at a higher level than I
had experienced. And I still couldn’t
handle it.
I was seeing my
shaking hands and Sunday’s tear streaked face and I knew I was on my knees with
this heavy load on me. I couldn’t take
this by myself, and although Sunday was certainly there physically, I couldn’t
tell her about my fear. I couldn’t tell
her that I was petrified that she was going to die. I couldn’t tell her how awful her belly
looked. I couldn’t tell her that I loved
her, but I didn’t know if I could love her enough to see her scars every single
day, twice a day. I couldn’t tell
her. I just couldn’t. I was silent, weighted down and silent.
When we got home, I
made sure Sunday was comfortable, and then I went into our bedroom and called my
parents. I bawled my eyes out. I’ve
always thought of myself as a pretty creative and visionary type of person,
someone who can see himself past a tough situation into a place of
triumph. This time, it wasn’t
happening. I was a changed person. I wasn’t defeated, but I certainly needed
some help. I could only see her open
belly and the potential for disaster. I
certainly knew what was at stake and it scared me silly.
While I talked to my
parents, I only remember what Dad said, mostly because I recognized that it was
our first father-to-father conversation.
They both knew what was at stake, but Dad had the special position of
father and husband in the conversation.
He knew what it was like to carry a load he couldn’t handle. He knew what it was like to be frozen by the
prospect of failure. In that moment, he
could connect with me, and he offered to lift that load. I have no doubt in my mind that I could have
physically fulfilled the promise I made to the doctor and to Sunday: I would dress her wound every day, just like
I said. The conversation with Dad that
night allowed me to fulfill that promise with the knowledge that he was there,
understanding, supporting, lifting the weight off of my shoulders until I could
move again. He knew I was on my knees,
and he knew that, being eight hours away, he couldn’t immediately do anything,
but he also knew that I needed a lift.
Right there, on the
phone, he gave it to me. He said, “We’re
here. And we can be there, if you need
it.”
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