Possibilities - Part EightA
First of all, thank you all for your kind comments and well-wishes. You make me blush and you make me smile. Knowing you're all thinking good thoughts for me and MrApril, is a wonderful feeling.
Now, on to this part... oh, and I apologize for having A and B parts, but in case you hadn't guessed, I'm trying to wrap this up in nine parts total (get it, nine parts, nine months of pregnancy) plus a possible epilogue, but I don't want to go so long between giving you guys something to read!
VIII.
A week after her visit to the ER, Allison is back at work. She’s been remarkably calm about everything and she‘s happy to be seeing patients again. You, on the other hand, are not happy to have her back at work and you’re only calm because ‘overprotective husband’ is not a title you’re eager to have hung around your neck. In fact, you’ve been purposely keeping away from her to avoid even the appearance of hovering.
Apparently you’ve been doing too good a job, because Wilson keeps asking you if everything is all right. You aren’t ready to talk to him or anyone else about your thoughts, much less your feelings, because they are confusing even to you.
After the miscarriage, the only thing you could tell yourself that was of any comfort, was that at least you still had Allison. When she got pregnant again, of course you were thrilled, but you tempered that with the thought that she’d had one miscarriage and could have another, and that you would get through it as long as she was all right. This latest little scare has brought all of your fears back to the surface, and now they’re worse because you can’t tell yourself anymore that the baby is just a collection of tissue and that Allison’s life is the only thing that matters.
You’ve had pregnant patients in the past, and dealt with expectant fathers who couldn’t hold themselves together and couldn’t make a clear decision about whose health was more important, their wife’s or their child’s. You swore that you would never be like that. If anything happened, you were going to immediately be there to tell everyone to do whatever they had to do to save Allison. You know you’ll still make that same decision, because living without her isn’t an option you’re willing to consider. But now there is guilt involved, and you know you’ll have to think twice, three times, before finally giving the order.
This is something you should talk to Allison about, but you know it will upset her, and besides, you’re really not in the mood to argue about it and you’re sure she’ll argue. It’s very possible she’ll see the baby the same way you saw your leg, and that scares the hell out of you.
She has been talking about decorating the nursery. She’s already picked out a crib and dresser and a rug with flowers around the edges. She wants to paint the room a pale green color and hang pale lavender curtains on the windows. You’ve avoided discussing it beyond grunts. You haven’t even bookmarked anything you want to buy for the little spud.
On Thursday night, you arrive home first and decide to start dinner. Usually she’s the one who does the cooking, but you’re a lot more handy in the kitchen than you ever let on to Wilson when he was staying with you. By the time you hear the front door opening, you have two chicken breasts baking in the oven and couscous ready to go on the stove.
Her smile as she walks in the kitchen warms you in ways you still have a difficult time accepting and will never reveal to her or any other person. Just as she’s about to open the oven to see what’s inside, she stops and reaches down to her belly. For just the smallest, smallest instant, you are gripped with fear, and then she smiles again.
“She’s really been active this afternoon,” she says. “Here, feel.”
She steps towards you, grabs your free hand and presses it to her hard, rounded little stomach. You feel a hard kick and quickly move your hand away.
“Yeah, regular soccer player,” you comment before turning back to the stove.
There is a quick flash of disappointment or confusion or concern in Allison’s eyes, but she hides it well and tells you she’s going to change into more comfortable clothes.
When she leaves the room, you look down at your hand an can still feel the sensation of your daughter’s movement against it. You need to talk to Wilson.
The next morning, you arrive at work to a new patient. That puts a significant kink in your plan to find Wilson and talk to him about your irritatingly confusing feelings. At least the patient is interesting. You have an hour-lng diagnostic session before sending your minions off to do your bidding. West will get the patient history from the family, Pierce will run a CAT scan and Mason will run all the blood work. That leaves you free to hunt down Wilson.
You start by wandering out onto the balcony to peer into his office. There are drifts of fallen leaves around the low brick walls, and they crackle beneath your shoes and your cane. You remember that at this time last year, Allison had just found out she was pregnant. Now she’s two months from delivering. With a shake of your head, you clear your thoughts and concentrate on your mission.
Wilson is sitting at his desk, and there’s a patient seated across from him. Normally a patient would not be any obstacle, and you’d just barge in and start talking. However, as much as you hate to admit it, you’re going to him for advice, and pissing him off is probably not going to get you much. You linger outside for a few minutes to see if the patient is going to leave, but it’s cold and your fingers start to go numb, so you limp back into your office and slump down onto your chair. You’ll check again in fifteen minutes.
You’re back on the balcony in ten.
This time Wilson is alone. You sit on the wall that separates your balconies and then swing your legs over, helping the damaged one along with your hand. The leaves are just as plentiful on his side of the wall, and you kick at them as you move towards the door. A quick rap with your cane against the door gets his attention, and he doesn’t even roll his eyes as he comes to unlock it.
“Lovely day for a stroll,” he quips as you follow him inside and sit in the chair that was previously occupied by his patient.
“Yeah, lovely.”
“I’m going to guess that you’re not here for a consult, so what is it? Allison’s okay, isn’t she?”
“She’s fine,” you tell him. “How much do you love your kids?”
He stares at you for a second, looking as though he’s sure he’s misheard you.
“What?”
“And Rebecca. What about her?”
“House, what the hell is going on?”
“Nothing, just taking a poll,” you say as you drum your fingers along the handle of your cane.
“Yeah, right,” Wilson replies with a snort and an exasperated look.
“What about before the little ankle-biters were born?” you ask, avoiding his gaze by rearranging the pens and pencils in his desk organizer.
He squints his eyes and then widens them as if some epiphany has come to him.
“Oooooh,” he says, and then continues on in his most understanding and comforting voice, “House, it’s perfectly normal for fathers to feel a lack of connection with their baby before it’s born. I’d think that would go double for you, since you’ve always made the point that until it starts breathing on its own, a baby is just a lump of cells.”
“That’s not the problem,” you tell him with a grunt. “I wish it was.”
He leans back in his chair, looking confused again.
“Well, then what is it? Obviously you’ve got something on your mind.”
“I don’t know why you’d say that,” you say, regaining some of your cocky attitude.
Wilson just sighs and shakes his head. “House, just spit it out.”
“I’m getting attached to the little spawn,” you grudgingly tell him.
Wilson smiles, the smile of the ignorant and says, “Well that’s great!”
“No it’s not great,” you interrupt him before he can launch into his ’you’re going to be a great father’ speech. “Did you miss what happened last week? Did you forget that she’s already had one miscarriage and is at risk for half a dozen complications? I don’t want to be attached to the kid until after it’s born. I need to be able to make decisions about her without thinking twice. Now all I can think is that if something happens I’m going to be a shitty father for choosing her life over the kid’s, and I’m going to be a shitty husband for even considering anything else.”
You’ve grown restless while talking and are pacing the office, stabbing your cane into the rug with each step. When Wilson doesn’t say anything, you look over at him and see him staring at you with sympathy in his eyes. Great, just what you didn’t want.
“You can’t beat yourself up like this, Greg,” he says, using your first name which makes you twitch.
“I’m not looking for sympathy, I’m looking for --” Shit. You don’t know what you’re looking for. Maybe it is sympathy. Maybe you just want someone to tell you that you’re not the only person who’s felt torn apart over something that is supposed to be joyous. “Half the time I can’t get the stupid grin off my face, and the other half I’m resenting the kid for holding Allison’s body hostage,” you mutter as you drop back into your chair.
“I’m going to guess she doesn’t feel that way.”
“I wouldn’t know,” you tell him.
“Well, talking to her would probably be a good idea. If anything does happen, the two of you need to be on the same page.”
“And what if we aren’t?” you say, reaching the crux of the matter. “What if she says she wants the baby saved at all cost?” You look at him darkly, daring him to give you an easy answer, but he can’t.
“I think you need to at least talk about it.”
Hoisting yourself to your feet, you feel you’ve aged just having this conversation. You turn and head out the door without saying anything else.
“House,” Wilson calls when your hand is on the doorknob.
“Yeah?”
“For what it’s worth, you’re going to be a great father, whether you believe it or not. You wouldn’t be having these thoughts if you weren’t.”
The temptation is to throw back a snide remark, or say nothing at all, but almost unbidden, the word ‘thanks’ passes through your lips and then you open the door and head back to your office.
Now, on to this part... oh, and I apologize for having A and B parts, but in case you hadn't guessed, I'm trying to wrap this up in nine parts total (get it, nine parts, nine months of pregnancy) plus a possible epilogue, but I don't want to go so long between giving you guys something to read!
VIII.
A week after her visit to the ER, Allison is back at work. She’s been remarkably calm about everything and she‘s happy to be seeing patients again. You, on the other hand, are not happy to have her back at work and you’re only calm because ‘overprotective husband’ is not a title you’re eager to have hung around your neck. In fact, you’ve been purposely keeping away from her to avoid even the appearance of hovering.
Apparently you’ve been doing too good a job, because Wilson keeps asking you if everything is all right. You aren’t ready to talk to him or anyone else about your thoughts, much less your feelings, because they are confusing even to you.
After the miscarriage, the only thing you could tell yourself that was of any comfort, was that at least you still had Allison. When she got pregnant again, of course you were thrilled, but you tempered that with the thought that she’d had one miscarriage and could have another, and that you would get through it as long as she was all right. This latest little scare has brought all of your fears back to the surface, and now they’re worse because you can’t tell yourself anymore that the baby is just a collection of tissue and that Allison’s life is the only thing that matters.
You’ve had pregnant patients in the past, and dealt with expectant fathers who couldn’t hold themselves together and couldn’t make a clear decision about whose health was more important, their wife’s or their child’s. You swore that you would never be like that. If anything happened, you were going to immediately be there to tell everyone to do whatever they had to do to save Allison. You know you’ll still make that same decision, because living without her isn’t an option you’re willing to consider. But now there is guilt involved, and you know you’ll have to think twice, three times, before finally giving the order.
This is something you should talk to Allison about, but you know it will upset her, and besides, you’re really not in the mood to argue about it and you’re sure she’ll argue. It’s very possible she’ll see the baby the same way you saw your leg, and that scares the hell out of you.
She has been talking about decorating the nursery. She’s already picked out a crib and dresser and a rug with flowers around the edges. She wants to paint the room a pale green color and hang pale lavender curtains on the windows. You’ve avoided discussing it beyond grunts. You haven’t even bookmarked anything you want to buy for the little spud.
On Thursday night, you arrive home first and decide to start dinner. Usually she’s the one who does the cooking, but you’re a lot more handy in the kitchen than you ever let on to Wilson when he was staying with you. By the time you hear the front door opening, you have two chicken breasts baking in the oven and couscous ready to go on the stove.
Her smile as she walks in the kitchen warms you in ways you still have a difficult time accepting and will never reveal to her or any other person. Just as she’s about to open the oven to see what’s inside, she stops and reaches down to her belly. For just the smallest, smallest instant, you are gripped with fear, and then she smiles again.
“She’s really been active this afternoon,” she says. “Here, feel.”
She steps towards you, grabs your free hand and presses it to her hard, rounded little stomach. You feel a hard kick and quickly move your hand away.
“Yeah, regular soccer player,” you comment before turning back to the stove.
There is a quick flash of disappointment or confusion or concern in Allison’s eyes, but she hides it well and tells you she’s going to change into more comfortable clothes.
When she leaves the room, you look down at your hand an can still feel the sensation of your daughter’s movement against it. You need to talk to Wilson.
The next morning, you arrive at work to a new patient. That puts a significant kink in your plan to find Wilson and talk to him about your irritatingly confusing feelings. At least the patient is interesting. You have an hour-lng diagnostic session before sending your minions off to do your bidding. West will get the patient history from the family, Pierce will run a CAT scan and Mason will run all the blood work. That leaves you free to hunt down Wilson.
You start by wandering out onto the balcony to peer into his office. There are drifts of fallen leaves around the low brick walls, and they crackle beneath your shoes and your cane. You remember that at this time last year, Allison had just found out she was pregnant. Now she’s two months from delivering. With a shake of your head, you clear your thoughts and concentrate on your mission.
Wilson is sitting at his desk, and there’s a patient seated across from him. Normally a patient would not be any obstacle, and you’d just barge in and start talking. However, as much as you hate to admit it, you’re going to him for advice, and pissing him off is probably not going to get you much. You linger outside for a few minutes to see if the patient is going to leave, but it’s cold and your fingers start to go numb, so you limp back into your office and slump down onto your chair. You’ll check again in fifteen minutes.
You’re back on the balcony in ten.
This time Wilson is alone. You sit on the wall that separates your balconies and then swing your legs over, helping the damaged one along with your hand. The leaves are just as plentiful on his side of the wall, and you kick at them as you move towards the door. A quick rap with your cane against the door gets his attention, and he doesn’t even roll his eyes as he comes to unlock it.
“Lovely day for a stroll,” he quips as you follow him inside and sit in the chair that was previously occupied by his patient.
“Yeah, lovely.”
“I’m going to guess that you’re not here for a consult, so what is it? Allison’s okay, isn’t she?”
“She’s fine,” you tell him. “How much do you love your kids?”
He stares at you for a second, looking as though he’s sure he’s misheard you.
“What?”
“And Rebecca. What about her?”
“House, what the hell is going on?”
“Nothing, just taking a poll,” you say as you drum your fingers along the handle of your cane.
“Yeah, right,” Wilson replies with a snort and an exasperated look.
“What about before the little ankle-biters were born?” you ask, avoiding his gaze by rearranging the pens and pencils in his desk organizer.
He squints his eyes and then widens them as if some epiphany has come to him.
“Oooooh,” he says, and then continues on in his most understanding and comforting voice, “House, it’s perfectly normal for fathers to feel a lack of connection with their baby before it’s born. I’d think that would go double for you, since you’ve always made the point that until it starts breathing on its own, a baby is just a lump of cells.”
“That’s not the problem,” you tell him with a grunt. “I wish it was.”
He leans back in his chair, looking confused again.
“Well, then what is it? Obviously you’ve got something on your mind.”
“I don’t know why you’d say that,” you say, regaining some of your cocky attitude.
Wilson just sighs and shakes his head. “House, just spit it out.”
“I’m getting attached to the little spawn,” you grudgingly tell him.
Wilson smiles, the smile of the ignorant and says, “Well that’s great!”
“No it’s not great,” you interrupt him before he can launch into his ’you’re going to be a great father’ speech. “Did you miss what happened last week? Did you forget that she’s already had one miscarriage and is at risk for half a dozen complications? I don’t want to be attached to the kid until after it’s born. I need to be able to make decisions about her without thinking twice. Now all I can think is that if something happens I’m going to be a shitty father for choosing her life over the kid’s, and I’m going to be a shitty husband for even considering anything else.”
You’ve grown restless while talking and are pacing the office, stabbing your cane into the rug with each step. When Wilson doesn’t say anything, you look over at him and see him staring at you with sympathy in his eyes. Great, just what you didn’t want.
“You can’t beat yourself up like this, Greg,” he says, using your first name which makes you twitch.
“I’m not looking for sympathy, I’m looking for --” Shit. You don’t know what you’re looking for. Maybe it is sympathy. Maybe you just want someone to tell you that you’re not the only person who’s felt torn apart over something that is supposed to be joyous. “Half the time I can’t get the stupid grin off my face, and the other half I’m resenting the kid for holding Allison’s body hostage,” you mutter as you drop back into your chair.
“I’m going to guess she doesn’t feel that way.”
“I wouldn’t know,” you tell him.
“Well, talking to her would probably be a good idea. If anything does happen, the two of you need to be on the same page.”
“And what if we aren’t?” you say, reaching the crux of the matter. “What if she says she wants the baby saved at all cost?” You look at him darkly, daring him to give you an easy answer, but he can’t.
“I think you need to at least talk about it.”
Hoisting yourself to your feet, you feel you’ve aged just having this conversation. You turn and head out the door without saying anything else.
“House,” Wilson calls when your hand is on the doorknob.
“Yeah?”
“For what it’s worth, you’re going to be a great father, whether you believe it or not. You wouldn’t be having these thoughts if you weren’t.”
The temptation is to throw back a snide remark, or say nothing at all, but almost unbidden, the word ‘thanks’ passes through your lips and then you open the door and head back to your office.