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For marrying a man, I wasn’t in love with, I have to say that I’m reasonably content—resolved. Branson is a wonderful husband. He’s been attentive and committed to making Reilly Farms thrive. Each night as we gather for dinner to chat about our day, I am more comfortable with our arrangement.
His interest in the farm is more than I could have hoped for, and I’ve grown to respect his business sense. He’s jumped in, working side by side with Clive, ensuring harvest is a success.
I know it will be.
Tonight, I’m seated on our chaise on the balcony outside the master bedroom. The heat has been bothering me the past few days, so I’ve stayed inside and rested. Pregnancy fatigue is crazy, I could literally pass out comfortably on a bed of nails. And the nausea—morning sickness—it’s more like anytime sickness and it’s relentless, but I’m coping.
“How are you feeling?” Branson asks as he joins me, offering a glass of ice water.
“Tired, but good.” Smiling, I take the glass and sip.
“Come. Let’s get you to bed.” His concern and willingness to take care of us is sweet, and I’m grateful for my husband’s friendship.
Nodding, I rise from my seat, but then the room starts to spin. Before I fall, Branson has me and guides me towards the bed.
“Maybe you should see a doctor. It can’t be normal to be dizzy,” he says, the shaky concern in his voice is evident.
As swiftly as it arrived, the dizziness is gone. “I feel better now. My pregnancy guide says many women suffer from the odd dizzy spell, but I’ll call the doctor tomorrow.” Snuggling into bed, I’m relieved the second my head hits the pillow. Branson crawls in beside me and pulls me into little spoon position.
In the dark, when he holds me, all sorts of thoughts run through my head. A part of me believes it is possible that we could make this marriage work, that we can be happy.
The past few weeks have been better than I imagined, and Branson has been a support I didn’t know I needed but am thankful to have. I find myself excited to be a mother, excited for the entire journey, and thankful that Branson is here beside me.
Is it possible that with time, I could fall in love with my husband?
I think it might be.
***
MY EYELIDS FLUTTER open to stark white lights and people scurrying all around me. Dazed, I try to focus, but I feel strange and so weak, like I’m floating away from myself. It’s peaceful, inviting—the frantic noise around me muffles as I close my eyes and drift.
As if waking from a nightmare, my eyes pop open and search my surroundings. The beep of machines and bedrail tell me instantly where I am, but confusion as to how I got here rushes through me, bringing on instant panic. Trying to move gets me nowhere, I feel like a heavy rock is holding me down, and I can’t muster the strength to sit up.
“Hey there,” Branson’s familiar voice coos as he leans in to look me in the eye—his are red, like he’s been crying.
My heart drops. That familiar lump of loss has returned with a vengeance, squashing me beneath its weight.
Sometimes you just know things. Like at this moment, I read the agony in my husband’s eyes, and I know it’s my own. Tears fall as my eyes leave his to search the air, trying to recall how it happened. How did I get here? How did I lose my baby?
“What...” I say, my voice dry, crackly. My throat aches, and I can’t get the words out—they’re too painful.
Leaning away, Branson returns with a cup of water and straw and puts the straw to my mouth. Drawing back the cold liquid, I try not to choke, but my throat is raw, and I’m so depleted that the simple action of sucking on a straw is stealing my last drop of strength. Confusion doesn’t help.
I was fine.
We were fine.
Branson takes my hand as tears fall from his eyes. “When I woke up this morning you were unresponsive and lying in a pool of blood. You hemorrhaged; they weren’t able to save...” He chokes on the last words, turning away as sobs shake his body. My bed quakes from the magnitude.
The questions I have are many, but they’re muffled by the deep knotted ache in my chest that is clogging my throat.
My baby.
Tears soak my cheeks, but my anguish is silent—shock prevents the words, buries the questions—none of which really matter, anyway.
My baby, my hope for the future, my heart...It’s gone. All is lost and in this exact moment, I wonder what sort of cruel God would make me endure this heartache—more heartache—I’ve had enough, and it seems impossible that I could survive this.
I want to scream, lose it, but I don’t have the energy.
I’m done, done with life, done with everything. Turning my head, I stare to the side of the room opposite Branson, avoiding his gaze, but mostly unable to stomach his presence.
This is wrong. Why is everything worth anything taken from me? Do I not deserve a little happiness, something?
Eleven weeks ago, my life spun upside down, but I was finally at peace with it, I was happy about the future.
Eleven weeks.
It doesn’t sound like a long time, but it feels like eternity.
I remember reading in my pregnancy guide: most miscarriages happen in the first trimester. We were so close. My poor little angel is with my parents now.
And I am still here.
With nothing.
I gave up the man I wanted to marry the father of my baby, and now like some sick cruel joke, my baby is gone, stolen from me.
My baby is gone.
Gone...
I’m never going to hold my baby, never going to look into its eyes—I so looked forward to becoming a mother, to...all of it.
Like a dam, the torment erupts, and I bawl, hysterically and uncontrollably. I feel Branson leaning in, holding me, but it means nothing. I can’t stop, and I’m having a hard time catching my breath.
Through my tears, I see a nurse fiddle with my IV and within seconds, I calm, float, soar away from my pain. The hysteria stops, and I welcome the sweet oblivion that unconsciousness offers me.
I hope I never wake up.
What’s the point?