Possibilities - Part NineA
Getting towards the end of this finally! I believe there will be one more part after this one (9B) and then an epilogue.
On a more personal note, my last try at pregnancy did not work, and this month I have been giving myself hormone injections in preparation for one more shot at a more natural method before going to IVF. It's been a very stressful time, but MrApril has been wonderful and I am so thankful for all of my LJ friends as well.
However, I think that I will be writing more personal friends-locked posts, and so I wanted to let people know that, and let them know that if you would like me to friend you so that you can read them, just comment and I'll do so. Up until now, I've friended very few people because I've had so few locked posts! Naturally all of my fics will remain open to all, so you don't have to worry about me friending you unless you also want to keep up with my personal life - mainly my journey towards pregnancy.
Now, on to the story. As always, comments and criticism and advice are all welcome!
IX.
Thanksgiving comes, and with it another visit from your mother. She’s so ecstatic about the baby, and has brought bags of tiny baby clothes and brightly colored toys. You roll your eyes at the cuteness overload and think that maybe it’s time to hunt around for that clown onesie again.
Allison loves having your mother around, and the morning after Thanksgiving, she tells you that she thinks you should ask her to move closer. Two or three visits during the year are not going to be enough. She says that your daughter is only going to have one grandparent she can count on and she wants them to have as much time together as possible. You tell her that most women despise their mothers-in-law, but she shoots back that she is not most women.
Saturday morning, Allison goes to a prenatal yoga class, and that leaves you and your mother alone together. You don’t hate that as much as you used to. In fact you enjoy it. She’s a smart, interesting woman. You don’t blame her for your childhood. She was a product of her times, and defying her husband wasn’t something good wives did. There is something deep inside you that tells you she would have fought for you if your father had been truly abusive. Maybe you just need to believe that, but you don’t question it.
In the middle of a cutthroat game of gin, you tell her that Allison wouldn’t mind if she moved closer to Princeton. When you reach for your next card, she covers your hand with hers, fingers slim and cool, veins just becoming prominent on the back of her hand. You look at her and she smiles at you and says that the old house is too big and she’s been getting tired of New York.
Later, when you’re in the kitchen getting coffee, she walks in behind you and leans against the counter.
“You’re happy now, Greg, aren’t you?”
A little shrug isn’t enough for her you know, and so you reply with, “Yeah, Mom, I’m happy.”
“I’ve been hoping for that for you for a very long time,” she says, and then touches your arm as she walks back into the living room.
When Allison arrives home from her class, your mother is sitting on the sofa reading the paper. She calls Allison over to look at an advertisement for a house in the area, and a second later the two of them are actually squealing. You don’t think you’ve ever heard Allison squeal before - well, not that kind of squeal anyway. It feels good to have made the two women in your life happy on the same day. Then it occurs to you that very soon there will be a third. A lazy sort of grin spreads across your face and you turn away from the excited chatter and head to your study to watch some football.
There isn’t much time for house-hunting before your mother leaves on Sunday, but you put her in touch with your real estate agent (she’ll probably like the cheerfulness) and Allison promises to drive around to any possible winners and take pictures. As the two of you watch her drive away, Allison leans against you and you wrap an arm around her shoulder. It’s an action that once seemed foreign and has become instinct.
“Happy?” you ask her, thinking of your mother’s question and knowing what the answer will be, yet still wanting to hear it.
“Ecstatic,” she replies, and kisses you hotly on the mouth to prove it.
There’s definitely something to be said for pregnancy hormones, and you spend the rest of the afternoon enjoying the benefits.
Unfortunately the next day is Monday and it signals the start of a very long week.
A patient came in over the weekend and you pushed him off onto your fellows after telling them what the diagnosis was, but apparently your diagnosis was wrong. Now the guy’s in a semi-catatonic state, and, just to make things worse, his teenage son is now exhibiting symptoms. Your fellows are all good doctors, maybe even as good as your original team was, but you can’t help wishing that your wife was still sitting around the table. You haven’t felt that way in a long time and it irritates you and sets the tone for the rest of the week.
By Wednesday, you haven’t slept more than twelve hours in your bed, although you’ve had several uncomfortable naps on the chair in your office. Your patients are doing better, but Cuddy has already assigned you a new one. By Friday you’re still working on little sleep and too much caffeine, and when you wake up your leg seizes in an agonizing cramp before you even swing it over the side of the bed.
You massage it with the knuckles of your right hand and hear rustling beside you as Allison rolls over and props herself up on her elbow. Great. Because you love it when she sees you in all your crippled glory.
“Okay?” she asks, her shorthanded way of voicing concern without making it too personal with such words as “Are you all right?” or “How can I help?” which only serve to make your inadequacies more obvious.
“Could use some coffee,” you mutter, which is your way of deflecting all attention from the actual problem which is currently throbbing beneath your hand.
She doesn’t question you, just gets out of bed and pads towards the kitchen in her robe and thick-soled slippers. Alone, you flop onto your back and keep your hand clutching your thigh. The thought of a toddler running through the house and flinging herself onto you flits through your mind and makes you involuntarily flinch. For the first time, you wonder if you’re too old for all of this.
The smell of coffee drifts through the air and you lurch out of bed and head for the bathroom. When you’re done in the shower, there’s a mug waiting on the counter for you and a heart drawn on the foggy mirror. She can be a real sap sometimes. While you brush your teeth, you stare at the slowly fading image and feel some of your anxiety melting away.
It’s Allison’s last day at work and the two of you drive in together. Her due date is still two months away, but with the scares she’s already had; it wasn’t too hard to convince her to take an early maternity leave. She tells you on the drive in that it will give her more time to look for a house for your mother. That doesn’t sound like ‘taking it easy’ to you, but your mood's been improving since your shower, and so you’re ready to argue and spoil it so soon.
No, the time for that comes about five hours later when Wilson stops by your office with some books. Lamaze, Hypnobirthing, Bradley Method, the covers are all pastel shades with happy babies and relaxed looking mothers smiling blankly out at you.
“What are these?”
“Sarah told me to bring them in for Allison. She ended up doing hypnobirthing, but she read all of them. You two should start looking for a class.”
“A class?”
Wilson looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. “Haven’t the two of you talked about this stuff at all?”
“It’s birth. What is there to talk about? Women have been doing it for… hmm, lemme check… yep, for forever.”
In truth you hadn’t given it much thought. You figured she’d go in, get a nice epidural, scream and swear and push out the kid. In your mind, the idea of un-medicated birth is akin to giving up Vicodin in favor of sweet tarts.
“Well, Allison and Sarah were talking on the phone last night, and apparently she’s decided to take slightly more interest in the details.”
“Great,” you mumble, dropping the books onto your desk.
“Hey, it’s not so bad,” Wilson tries to commiserate, but you give him an evil glare as he begins to ramble about the sense of togetherness that a birthing class can give.
What you’re imagining is the sense of irritation you’ll feel in a room full of people young enough that you could have delivered half of them. Wilson leaves you to your thoughts, but you don’t have long to dwell, because within minutes, a light knock on the door frame gets your attention. Glancing up from your fascinating desktop, you see your wife standing in front of you, smiling.
“I thought we could have lunch. You know, give Wilson’s wallet a break before you start hitting him up for money every day,” she says with a grin.
You grunt a reply and stand up, pushing the birthing books across the desk to her.
“Wilson brought those for you,” you say, and then continue with, “so, when should I expect to give up hours of my life to have people mutter about me being a dirty old man?”
She looks startled for a moment, but then shakes her head and just looks at you with a half-amused, half-annoyed look on her face.
“First, I have no intention of putting myself through hours of birthing class, much less, you. I can read these books and watch the DVDs that come with them. Second, do you still really think that’s what people are saying about us?”
“If the limp fits,” you grumble.
“Your limp is nothing. You get around better than half the perfectly fit men in this hospital.”
“Yeah, well I still look like I’m robbing the cradle.”
At that, she actually laughs.
“Have you looked at me lately? Really looked at me? Because sometimes I think you just see me through time travel glasses or something, and although it’s flattering, it’s a little annoying at times like these.”
Now you’re getting pissed at the fact that she’s not taking you seriously.
“What am I supposed to be seeing?” you ask. “Because what I see is a woman who could probably have hooked up with half the doctors in this hospital.”
She rolls her eyes and points at her hair.
See that? That’s grey,” she says, directing your attention to a few bits of silver threaded through her brunette hair. Hmm. You hadn’t noticed them before. “See that?” she points to the corners of her eyes. “Those are worry lines.” Yeah, you see them now. You probably gave them to her. “See those?” she points to the corners of her mouth. “Those are laugh lines.” You are smug enough to think that at least if you’re responsible for the other wrinkles, you can probably also take credit for those.
“Yeah, so?” you say, unwilling to give in.
“So? So, you’ve probably aged better than me over the past five years. No more wrinkles, no more grey hair, you’re practically the same man you were when I started working here. I, on the other hand, definitely look older. Chronologically, I may not be catching up with you, but no one seeing us on the street is thinking that you’re my father or uncle or a cradle robber. They’re thinking we’re a cute couple. I know you hate that, but it’s true.”
It shouldn’t surprise you anymore when she cuts down your insecurities like a weed whacker, but it does. You’re sent half your morning feeling old and grumpy and now with a few words you’re back to feeling like a lucky bastard. She seems to sense the change because she takes a step forward and grins up at you.
“Better now?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, granny,” you say, and when she goes to punch you, you grab her wrist and pull her close and kiss her full on the lips. “Let’s get lunch, gorgeous,” you whisper in her ear. “I’ll even pay.”
Five hours later, your petty, vain concerns are the furthest things from your mind.
When you and Allison carpool, you are usually the one trying to get her to leave early, or at least right on time. However, today is Friday, her last day, and when four-thirty rolls around and she still hasn’t come to tell you she’s ready to leave, you’re surprised. You have some last-minute test results to review and you assume she’s giving one last look over her patient charts before reluctantly passing them on to the doctors who will be filling in for her. It doesn’t occur to you to worry until you notice how dark it’s gotten outside and see that the time is almost six o’clock.
Tossing on your coat, and grabbing up your bag, you head for the door and then for the elevator. The immunology floor is quiet and your footsteps are the only ones you hear as you approach Allison’s office. It’s slightly smaller than yours, but there’s a small sofa against one wall. That is where you find her, cell phone tossed carelessly to the side, tissues littered around her body, and her hair forming a veil around her lowered face.
“What’s wrong?” you say, without preamble.
When she looks up at you, the paleness of her skin and the redness of her eyes tell you that it is something horrible. For a second she looks startled, as if she’d forgotten where she was or what time it is. Then her eyes focus on your face and you think she’s about to start crying again. You hate that more than just about anything. Joining her on the sofa, you open your arms and let her curl against our side. With your arms wrapped around her, you again ask her what’s wrong. Her voice sounds hoarse and worn out as she tells you that her brother called her. There was a snowstorm out in Wisconsin, and a car accident, and now your wife is an orphan.
On a more personal note, my last try at pregnancy did not work, and this month I have been giving myself hormone injections in preparation for one more shot at a more natural method before going to IVF. It's been a very stressful time, but MrApril has been wonderful and I am so thankful for all of my LJ friends as well.
However, I think that I will be writing more personal friends-locked posts, and so I wanted to let people know that, and let them know that if you would like me to friend you so that you can read them, just comment and I'll do so. Up until now, I've friended very few people because I've had so few locked posts! Naturally all of my fics will remain open to all, so you don't have to worry about me friending you unless you also want to keep up with my personal life - mainly my journey towards pregnancy.
Now, on to the story. As always, comments and criticism and advice are all welcome!
IX.
Thanksgiving comes, and with it another visit from your mother. She’s so ecstatic about the baby, and has brought bags of tiny baby clothes and brightly colored toys. You roll your eyes at the cuteness overload and think that maybe it’s time to hunt around for that clown onesie again.
Allison loves having your mother around, and the morning after Thanksgiving, she tells you that she thinks you should ask her to move closer. Two or three visits during the year are not going to be enough. She says that your daughter is only going to have one grandparent she can count on and she wants them to have as much time together as possible. You tell her that most women despise their mothers-in-law, but she shoots back that she is not most women.
Saturday morning, Allison goes to a prenatal yoga class, and that leaves you and your mother alone together. You don’t hate that as much as you used to. In fact you enjoy it. She’s a smart, interesting woman. You don’t blame her for your childhood. She was a product of her times, and defying her husband wasn’t something good wives did. There is something deep inside you that tells you she would have fought for you if your father had been truly abusive. Maybe you just need to believe that, but you don’t question it.
In the middle of a cutthroat game of gin, you tell her that Allison wouldn’t mind if she moved closer to Princeton. When you reach for your next card, she covers your hand with hers, fingers slim and cool, veins just becoming prominent on the back of her hand. You look at her and she smiles at you and says that the old house is too big and she’s been getting tired of New York.
Later, when you’re in the kitchen getting coffee, she walks in behind you and leans against the counter.
“You’re happy now, Greg, aren’t you?”
A little shrug isn’t enough for her you know, and so you reply with, “Yeah, Mom, I’m happy.”
“I’ve been hoping for that for you for a very long time,” she says, and then touches your arm as she walks back into the living room.
When Allison arrives home from her class, your mother is sitting on the sofa reading the paper. She calls Allison over to look at an advertisement for a house in the area, and a second later the two of them are actually squealing. You don’t think you’ve ever heard Allison squeal before - well, not that kind of squeal anyway. It feels good to have made the two women in your life happy on the same day. Then it occurs to you that very soon there will be a third. A lazy sort of grin spreads across your face and you turn away from the excited chatter and head to your study to watch some football.
There isn’t much time for house-hunting before your mother leaves on Sunday, but you put her in touch with your real estate agent (she’ll probably like the cheerfulness) and Allison promises to drive around to any possible winners and take pictures. As the two of you watch her drive away, Allison leans against you and you wrap an arm around her shoulder. It’s an action that once seemed foreign and has become instinct.
“Happy?” you ask her, thinking of your mother’s question and knowing what the answer will be, yet still wanting to hear it.
“Ecstatic,” she replies, and kisses you hotly on the mouth to prove it.
There’s definitely something to be said for pregnancy hormones, and you spend the rest of the afternoon enjoying the benefits.
Unfortunately the next day is Monday and it signals the start of a very long week.
A patient came in over the weekend and you pushed him off onto your fellows after telling them what the diagnosis was, but apparently your diagnosis was wrong. Now the guy’s in a semi-catatonic state, and, just to make things worse, his teenage son is now exhibiting symptoms. Your fellows are all good doctors, maybe even as good as your original team was, but you can’t help wishing that your wife was still sitting around the table. You haven’t felt that way in a long time and it irritates you and sets the tone for the rest of the week.
By Wednesday, you haven’t slept more than twelve hours in your bed, although you’ve had several uncomfortable naps on the chair in your office. Your patients are doing better, but Cuddy has already assigned you a new one. By Friday you’re still working on little sleep and too much caffeine, and when you wake up your leg seizes in an agonizing cramp before you even swing it over the side of the bed.
You massage it with the knuckles of your right hand and hear rustling beside you as Allison rolls over and props herself up on her elbow. Great. Because you love it when she sees you in all your crippled glory.
“Okay?” she asks, her shorthanded way of voicing concern without making it too personal with such words as “Are you all right?” or “How can I help?” which only serve to make your inadequacies more obvious.
“Could use some coffee,” you mutter, which is your way of deflecting all attention from the actual problem which is currently throbbing beneath your hand.
She doesn’t question you, just gets out of bed and pads towards the kitchen in her robe and thick-soled slippers. Alone, you flop onto your back and keep your hand clutching your thigh. The thought of a toddler running through the house and flinging herself onto you flits through your mind and makes you involuntarily flinch. For the first time, you wonder if you’re too old for all of this.
The smell of coffee drifts through the air and you lurch out of bed and head for the bathroom. When you’re done in the shower, there’s a mug waiting on the counter for you and a heart drawn on the foggy mirror. She can be a real sap sometimes. While you brush your teeth, you stare at the slowly fading image and feel some of your anxiety melting away.
It’s Allison’s last day at work and the two of you drive in together. Her due date is still two months away, but with the scares she’s already had; it wasn’t too hard to convince her to take an early maternity leave. She tells you on the drive in that it will give her more time to look for a house for your mother. That doesn’t sound like ‘taking it easy’ to you, but your mood's been improving since your shower, and so you’re ready to argue and spoil it so soon.
No, the time for that comes about five hours later when Wilson stops by your office with some books. Lamaze, Hypnobirthing, Bradley Method, the covers are all pastel shades with happy babies and relaxed looking mothers smiling blankly out at you.
“What are these?”
“Sarah told me to bring them in for Allison. She ended up doing hypnobirthing, but she read all of them. You two should start looking for a class.”
“A class?”
Wilson looks at you like you’ve grown a second head. “Haven’t the two of you talked about this stuff at all?”
“It’s birth. What is there to talk about? Women have been doing it for… hmm, lemme check… yep, for forever.”
In truth you hadn’t given it much thought. You figured she’d go in, get a nice epidural, scream and swear and push out the kid. In your mind, the idea of un-medicated birth is akin to giving up Vicodin in favor of sweet tarts.
“Well, Allison and Sarah were talking on the phone last night, and apparently she’s decided to take slightly more interest in the details.”
“Great,” you mumble, dropping the books onto your desk.
“Hey, it’s not so bad,” Wilson tries to commiserate, but you give him an evil glare as he begins to ramble about the sense of togetherness that a birthing class can give.
What you’re imagining is the sense of irritation you’ll feel in a room full of people young enough that you could have delivered half of them. Wilson leaves you to your thoughts, but you don’t have long to dwell, because within minutes, a light knock on the door frame gets your attention. Glancing up from your fascinating desktop, you see your wife standing in front of you, smiling.
“I thought we could have lunch. You know, give Wilson’s wallet a break before you start hitting him up for money every day,” she says with a grin.
You grunt a reply and stand up, pushing the birthing books across the desk to her.
“Wilson brought those for you,” you say, and then continue with, “so, when should I expect to give up hours of my life to have people mutter about me being a dirty old man?”
She looks startled for a moment, but then shakes her head and just looks at you with a half-amused, half-annoyed look on her face.
“First, I have no intention of putting myself through hours of birthing class, much less, you. I can read these books and watch the DVDs that come with them. Second, do you still really think that’s what people are saying about us?”
“If the limp fits,” you grumble.
“Your limp is nothing. You get around better than half the perfectly fit men in this hospital.”
“Yeah, well I still look like I’m robbing the cradle.”
At that, she actually laughs.
“Have you looked at me lately? Really looked at me? Because sometimes I think you just see me through time travel glasses or something, and although it’s flattering, it’s a little annoying at times like these.”
Now you’re getting pissed at the fact that she’s not taking you seriously.
“What am I supposed to be seeing?” you ask. “Because what I see is a woman who could probably have hooked up with half the doctors in this hospital.”
She rolls her eyes and points at her hair.
See that? That’s grey,” she says, directing your attention to a few bits of silver threaded through her brunette hair. Hmm. You hadn’t noticed them before. “See that?” she points to the corners of her eyes. “Those are worry lines.” Yeah, you see them now. You probably gave them to her. “See those?” she points to the corners of her mouth. “Those are laugh lines.” You are smug enough to think that at least if you’re responsible for the other wrinkles, you can probably also take credit for those.
“Yeah, so?” you say, unwilling to give in.
“So? So, you’ve probably aged better than me over the past five years. No more wrinkles, no more grey hair, you’re practically the same man you were when I started working here. I, on the other hand, definitely look older. Chronologically, I may not be catching up with you, but no one seeing us on the street is thinking that you’re my father or uncle or a cradle robber. They’re thinking we’re a cute couple. I know you hate that, but it’s true.”
It shouldn’t surprise you anymore when she cuts down your insecurities like a weed whacker, but it does. You’re sent half your morning feeling old and grumpy and now with a few words you’re back to feeling like a lucky bastard. She seems to sense the change because she takes a step forward and grins up at you.
“Better now?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, granny,” you say, and when she goes to punch you, you grab her wrist and pull her close and kiss her full on the lips. “Let’s get lunch, gorgeous,” you whisper in her ear. “I’ll even pay.”
Five hours later, your petty, vain concerns are the furthest things from your mind.
When you and Allison carpool, you are usually the one trying to get her to leave early, or at least right on time. However, today is Friday, her last day, and when four-thirty rolls around and she still hasn’t come to tell you she’s ready to leave, you’re surprised. You have some last-minute test results to review and you assume she’s giving one last look over her patient charts before reluctantly passing them on to the doctors who will be filling in for her. It doesn’t occur to you to worry until you notice how dark it’s gotten outside and see that the time is almost six o’clock.
Tossing on your coat, and grabbing up your bag, you head for the door and then for the elevator. The immunology floor is quiet and your footsteps are the only ones you hear as you approach Allison’s office. It’s slightly smaller than yours, but there’s a small sofa against one wall. That is where you find her, cell phone tossed carelessly to the side, tissues littered around her body, and her hair forming a veil around her lowered face.
“What’s wrong?” you say, without preamble.
When she looks up at you, the paleness of her skin and the redness of her eyes tell you that it is something horrible. For a second she looks startled, as if she’d forgotten where she was or what time it is. Then her eyes focus on your face and you think she’s about to start crying again. You hate that more than just about anything. Joining her on the sofa, you open your arms and let her curl against our side. With your arms wrapped around her, you again ask her what’s wrong. Her voice sounds hoarse and worn out as she tells you that her brother called her. There was a snowstorm out in Wisconsin, and a car accident, and now your wife is an orphan.