Playmates

When my wife gave birth to Sawyer, our second child, a small piece of the placenta remained attached to her uterus after the delivery. Because of this, her body did not understand there was no longer a baby to sustain, and kept pumping blood. It was a strange combination of life and death, me holding my new son and Jen bleeding alarmingly. Apparently, given modern medicine, her situation was not as dire as it looked to me, but she did end up losing half her blood before the DNC was completed.

She was left quite anemic, laying listless under the hospital sheets. The attending doctor was concerned about her hematocrit, which measures the supply of healthy blood cells. Hers was quite low. What to do? A blood infusion? Those could be risky. Family gathered around her bed as she pulled herself to sitting long enough to nurse Sawyer, then collapsed back into the pillow. Max, our oldest, had been staying with Jen’s mom. I knew this was hard on him. I had spent the night before in the hospital, but it was decided I should get Max and spend the next night at home, so he could have some normalcy. Her hematocrit was up a little anyway. Everything would be fine.

I was happy to give Max a night in his own room, but it was strange lying in bed without Jen beside me. It only made me think of where she was. I hated hospitals. I was glad they existed on days like these, but all the blood-drawing and pulse-taking and chart-checking, all the wondering and worrying, was exhausting. There was no pleasure in any of it. It had only been thirty-six hours, but already I longed for normalcy. I complained about that very normalcy while living it, but it was looking pretty good to me that night.

I got up that the next day and made Max and me some breakfast. We’d go to the hospital that afternoon after a relaxed morning. I was getting ready to take a shower when the phone rang. It was her sister, calling from hospital: Jen’s hematocrit was back down again. I needed to come in. I hung up and found Max in his bedroom. We had bought him a little rug with illustrated streets and buildings. He was pushing a toy car along a road, telling the story of its journey to himself.

“Max,” I said. “I’m sorry, but we need to go to the hospital.”

He sat back and dropped the toy. “I just want to play.”

My heart just about cracked then, but I scooped him up and we were in the car and driving. No play now, I thought. Just worrying and checking and surviving. That’s life. I knew that wasn’t true, but that’s how it felt. I also knew Jen would be okay, but I didn’t know when or why. I told myself I’d be grateful once everything was back to normal, but I knew that wasn’t so. My complaints about my life remained. I still hadn’t sold a book; I was still waiting tables. No matter. I wanted Jen home. She was, after all, my favorite playmate.

If you like the ideas and perspectives expressed here, feel free to contact me about individual coaching and group workshops.

Everyone Has What It Takes: A Writer’s Guide to the End of Self-Doubt
You can find William at: williamkenower.com