Unconditional

Snow swirls around me as I try to wrap my mind around the news I received. Sitting in the cold interior of my car, unable to bring myself to start it, my tears add to the chill overtaking my body. I welcome the bitterness, hoping it will cause numbness, and bring on memory loss.

How am I going to tell Nick?

Thinking of my husband brings a fresh wave of pain and tears.

My loving, supportive Nick.

From the moment I laid eyes on him, in a club, of all places, I knew he was the one. It was the strangest feeling. My heart didn’t stop beating and I didn’t lose my breath as you read in romance novels, but an awareness flowed through every fiber of who I was. His dark eyes and perfect smile called to me through the masses of people.

I had to meet him.

I remember shaking my head, thinking, He can’t be the one. He’s so not my type. I couldn’t picture him running down a field, carrying a football. I would be surprised if he stood six inches over my five-foot-two frame. I scoured the dance floor, looking for someone else to catch my eye, but something about him kept drawing me in. I chuckled at the absurdity of it all. Since my teen years, I’d been attracted to jocks, and the man to finally turn me to mush had me picturing cubicles and computers.

He’d ignored me, seemed to see right through me. It was my best friend, Amy-Lynn, who forced me to make the first move. I’m thankful for her persistence. At twenty-three, I may not have known what I was missing out on. Eight years later and he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. We’re connected.

I felt it that first night.

I feel it now.

Nick burrowed himself into my soul.

This is going to break his heart. He was sure I would be alright.

I try to calm myself, but my mind travels back to the appointment, to the words Dr. Wendell spoke. My head falls onto the steering wheel and fresh tears fall as I tumble into the madness of my memory.

Brenna St. James.

My head pops up from the magazine I wasn’t reading. An older gentleman with a kind smile awaits me. I stand slowly, holding the chair for support. If I try to move too quickly, it may bring on an episode. This is probably the best place for it to happen, but the embarrassment of these strangers seeing how my body tears me down is too much to handle. With slow, unsteady steps, I make my way toward the man and shake his extended hand.

I’m Dr. Wendell. It’s a pleasure to meet you.

It’s nice to meet you, I reply weakly. With my nerves wreaking havoc on me, forming a coherent sentence feels impossible.

White hair, mustache, small beard, glasses, bow tie—I take in the entire picture of the doctor before me, trying to calm myself. He’s talking about the cold weather, and I think I respond, but my brain feels so muddled. It’s not every day you have to meet a neurosurgeon. Unexpectedly, he breaks out singing Beyonce, To the left. Repeating the line while he does a little shimmy.

I can’t stop myself from giggling. His antics have their presumably desired effect. My tension starts to ease, and I feel a bit more relaxed. It’s hard not to like this guy.

Two lefts later, he opens the door to his office. It’s surprisingly cozy. I expected it to be clinical, sterile…I don’t know, whitewashed. Instead, a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled with books, family photos, a globe, and a couple of model skulls greets me. They aren’t as creepy as I would have guessed. Plants on coffee tables, a couch, and a rocking chair—he’s gone to great lengths to make sure his patients feel comfortable. I hardly notice the exam table against the far wall.

We spend the first part of the appointment going over my symptoms and when they started. He talks about the tests I’ve undergone and why my primary doctor felt they were necessary. I try not to get irritated all over again. I’ve spent nine months getting worse while my primary refused to listen to how I was feeling. Then she sent me to a completely insane neurologist. Months of my life have been wasted on unnecessary tests and doctors who refused to help me, and nothing changed until I finally got angry enough to demand who I saw.

Those demands led to this appointment.

Dr. Nugent sent over your final work up from a few weeks ago, he says after wrapping up his long list of questions. I also have all your files from Dr. Herrington and Dr. Lauzier.

I signed a waiver for all the tests I had done at the hospital to be sent to you, I add, hoping he has everything, and I don’t have to make another appointment. After getting the runaround for so long, I want answers.

Yes, I have all your scans, too. Would you like me to go through them with you? I find if the patient sees what’s happening to them for themselves, it helps them to be better equipped to make decisions.

I’m not sure what decisions he’s talking about, but my nerves kick into overdrive. I nod, unable to form words. Fear fills me as he signs into his computer and pulls my scans onto the screen.

At first, the grey images seem like a blur to me. I can easily tell it’s my brain, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be seeing.

This here, he points, are your cerebellar tonsils. They’re herniating out of the bottom of your skull and crowding your spinal column.

That doesn’t sound good.

It’s not ideal, he answers, pointing at the screen again. At blurry images, I don’t understand. There’s so much crowding, it’s restricting the flow of cerebral spinal fluid around your brain, otherwise known as CSF, and there’s a fluid obstruction.

Oh.

I should ask questions. Say something, but I’m at a loss for words. Thoughts. Anything.

The obstruction can put pressure on the brain stem and spinal cord, as well as block the CSF flow around and through your brain. Your symptoms will continue to escalate as the obstruction grows larger.

There’s a blockage between my brain and spine, fluid isn’t flowing correctly, and without getting the fluid to flow better, there is no way to slow down my symptoms. I want to shrink into the floor, become nonexistent…anything to take me away from his words.

Mrs. St. James.

Brenna, please, I squeak out.

Brenna, your symptoms are progressing rapidly due to the lack of fluid movement. They are going to get worse as the obstruction gets worse. The tonsils are hanging too low, causing too much crowding. Your brain will continue to produce CSF, but there is nowhere for it to go.

I stare into his blue eyes, begging him not to say what I know is coming. My heart races and I can hear the blood pumping through my ears. I blink twice quickly, trying to make it all go away.

My recommendation at this time is surgery. I feel it’s the only way to provide you any relief.

And my world disappears beneath my feet. I’m left free-floating in a sphere of panic, disbelief, and anger. How could my body betray me like this? Where is Nick? I need his arms around me, protecting me.

No one should hear they need brain surgery alone.

Dr. Wendell continues to tell me about the surgery, but I’m too lost to hear him. I have to stop him and ask him to start over. His eyes full of compassion and understanding, he starts over, and I do my best to keep it together. I manage to do just that until I get into my cold car.

I’m not sure how long I sit there, allowing myself to emotionally unwind, but my shivering spurs me into action. With shaking fingers, I rifle through the papers on my passenger seat, trying to find the keys I’d haphazardly thrown there in my need to break down. My eyes roam over the information and dates sprawled before me and my stomach churns. Fearing I’ll be sick, I slam my eyes shut, needing to block out the reminders of today’s news, and blindly search for the keys.

Where are they? I shout into the empty car, my voice broken.

I’m broken.

It’s why I’m sitting here, unable to call the one person who can comfort me. Comforting me means breaking him, and I can’t do it. With my keys found, I start the car and pray the warmth that will soon fill the space can bring me some peace.

Lowering my visor, I open the mirror and cringe at my reflection. Mascara streaks my cheeks, and all the color has drained from my face. Hollow eyes peer back at me.

I can’t talk to Nick looking like this.

I’m not sure where the thought comes from, or why I think cleaning myself up is going to make delivering this news any easier, but I grab napkins from the console and furiously scrub my skin. The paper is dry, and my skin starts to feel raw under the pressure, but I don’t care. I need to be me for a little longer.

Shoving all the papers to the floor, I grasp my purse. I take a few minutes to touch up my makeup and then give myself another once over. My eyes speak back to me, telling me no matter how much makeup I put on, or how many times I touch it up, it won’t cover the truth. I try to push the thoughts from my mind, but I can’t—no amount of positive thinking will change what’s about to happen to me.

Closing my eyes again, I lean my head against the seat and force myself to breathe. Trying to calm myself. Nick will need me as much as I need him. My voice needs to sound sure. I can’t tremble. I can’t cry. I sure as hell can’t break—no more than I already have. It’s time for me to be strong.

One more deep breath and I open my eyes, pull my cell from my purse, and force myself to focus on the snow falling around me. Keep your eyes on the snow. Watch the flakes fall. Get lost in the white. My fingers type out his work number and I bring the phone to my ear. I’m not sure which is louder, the ringing or my heart. It’s beating so fast, I’m afraid it’s going to pump right out of my chest.

Keep your eyes on the snow. You’ve reached Nicholas St. James. I’m currently away from my desk. Please leave a message and your contact information, and I’ll get back to you shortly.

A deep sigh falls from my lips and relief floods through me. I’ve never been so happy for Nick to have a meeting.

Hey, babe. I just left the doctor's. Driving home now and it’s snowing. I’ll be home in about a half-hour. Call me there.

I drop my cell in the drink holder and start the drive home in suffocating silence. I leave the radio off, but without the background noise, I realize how loud my mind is. Thought after thought bombards me. Questions I wish I’d asked. Questions I worry Nick will. Will he be able to handle this?

Will he leave me?

He’s stood by me through so much, but I can’t help but wonder if this will be too much.

My cell rings, dragging me from my wandering thoughts. I’m in no way ready to talk to Nick, but if I don’t answer, he’ll worry. Ten more minutes and I would have been in the safety of our home. With a sad heart, I reach for the phone, click the little green icon, and brace myself.

I’m about to find out how strong my marriage is.

Hello.

Hey, babe. How’d the appointment go?

Trying to lighten the mood, I joke, The doctor said it’s all in my head.

He sighs through the line, and I choke back the sobs trying to break free.

That’s great, Bren.

Uh…no. I’m so sorry, Nick. I shouldn’t have joked about this. It is all in my head, but it means I have to have surgery.

Surgery? His voice lowers, his words wavering.

Yeah, surgery.

Our call goes quiet while the news sinks in. I want to say something, but I have nothing to offer to soften the blow. How do I offer comfort when I feel so lost?

I wasn’t there for you.

His sad voice adds to the misery of the day. I wish I could tell him it’s okay, but I needed him. The more I think of what’s going to happen, the more I know how much I’ll continue to need him, so I say nothing.

I’m so sorry, Bren.

Surgery.

My world stops and the sounds in the cubicles around me cease to exist. The woman I love told me she’s having surgery and it’s all in her head. That means brain surgery, right? I couldn’t bring myself to ask her. And I can’t get past knowing I wasn’t there for her when she found out.

I’m struggling to breathe, feeling like I’ve been hit in the nuts with a sledgehammer. The pain is all-consuming.

Will my wife be okay?

My wife.

Those words have never felt more intimidating. We said, I do, and, Till death do us part, but being with her has never felt like work. Now, it feels like I’ve put in weeks of overtime in a few minutes. My body and mind are under assault, trying to fathom the unfathomable. This can’t be happening. Not to Brenna. Not to the girl I fell in love with. She’s too carefree and beautiful for this. I mean…will they have to cut her hair?

Man, her hair. The first time I saw her, I couldn’t stop staring at it. Every time she turned her head, a different shade of blonde greeted me. I wanted to be brave, tell her how gorgeous she was—hell, I wanted to bury my hands in her hair and thrust my tongue down her throat—but I was always too shy. Even the beer didn’t help. So, I stood there, unable to say a word. Under the lights at the club, it was hard to tell the color of her eyes. I thought they were brown, but the first time I saw them in the sun’s light, I was blown away. The green and golden flecks reflecting deep in the hazel had me mesmerized, and I haven’t come out from under her spell.

I stare at my office phone, cursing it, hating it for the life-changing conversation that happened. I’m still reeling and the fifty seconds I’ve allowed myself to sit here and breathe haven’t helped. Placing my anger at an inanimate object doesn’t erase any of the fear. Brenna is sicker than I thought. I somehow missed the signs.

Did she hear the regret in my voice before I hung up?

I need to get to her, to hold her, to show her how sorry I am she’s going through this. I need to apologize for every time I got angry at her for having a headache. Had I known it was this severe, I never would have lost my temper. It’s just so frustrating watching the person you love suffer all the time.

On autopilot, I shut down my computer, throw my coat on, and run for the door, not bothering to tell my boss I’m leaving. I’ll deal with that tomorrow. I need to get home and pull Brenna into my arms.

Snow slaps me in the face the second I step through the door, and I feel like a bigger asshole. Brenna didn’t just get the worst news of her life, she also had to drive in shit weather. She hates driving on a good day.

I wish these were the only ways in which I’d let my wife down recently. As I clean the snow off my car, my mind slips back to a few months ago, a day I’d rather forget.

I walk in and hang my keys on the rack, exhausted. Normally, Brenna makes a big meal, and I’ve been looking forward to it all day. But there’s no food cooking, and cartoons are playing on the TV. What the hell is going on?

I slip my shoes off and let my feet breathe for a second before walking into the living room. Brenna is lying on the couch with Brady tucked into her side, watching Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. He’s only fourteen months old and she knows I don’t like him watching television. I start to say something and notice her eyes are closed.

Are you kidding me?

She turned the TV on so she could take a nap?

Anger burns through me. I grab my son and she opens her eyes. She smiles at me and winces. Good, she must see how pissed I am. Brady is in no way old enough to watch himself. If she’s tired, she can go to bed early tonight.

Mind telling me what you’re doing? I demand.

Lying down, she replies, weakly.

When my normally feisty wife doesn’t tell me I’m acting like an ass, I should know something’s wrong, but my anger overrides rational thinking. Looks like you were sleeping to me. While the TV plays babysitter for our son.

I stare accusingly at her, waiting for her to reply, but she doesn’t. Instead, she places her arm over her eyes, enraging me. I will not be dismissed.

I’m talking to you, Brenna. You know I don’t want Brady watching too much TV.

How often do I let him watch TV, Nick? she asks in a whisper.

What?

I asked you how often I let our son watch TV. Not very. Had you have thought about that, you may have realized I wasn’t feeling well.

Not feeling well. Christ, she’s been to the doctor, and he has her on medicine. She needs to deal with it already.

What’s wrong now? I ask impatiently.

I have a headache, she says, her voice still barely above a whisper. UGH! These fucking headaches! Enough already. For months, all I’ve heard about is her headaches. Can we get through one damn day where I don’t have to hear about it?

You always have a headache, I yell.

Nick, she gasps, you know I have no control over them. I wish I did. I would never choose to live like this.

I want to feel bad, but I had a shit day, and the neurologist said the medicine would make her feel better. I don’t know if the medicine isn’t working or if she’s overthinking her newfound condition, but either way, I’m starving and want to eat dinner.

Whatever, I’m going to make dinner.

I ordered pizza. It’ll be here in a few minutes.

I head for the kitchen, wanting a beer to help me calm down. I get Brady a sippy cup of juice and set him free. His little feet pat across the floor, bringing a smile to my face. Until my eyes work their way to Brenna. She’s looking at me and trying not to cry.

I’m sorry about the headaches. I’ll try not to complain about them so much.

I can’t believe I was such an asshole to her. It didn’t matter what kind of day I had. My Brenna’s brain was working against her, and I was pissed at her for having a headache. Now, I can’t get to her fast enough.

My twelve-minute drive feels like it takes hours, but when I pull into my driveway, I suddenly wish I was anywhere else. I’m scared to go inside and face my wife. She needs me, but how do I look her in the eyes and tell her everything will be alright when I’m afraid it won’t? How do I comfort her when I’m falling apart?

I’m not me without Brenna.

Staring at my house, I try to envision where she is inside; if she’s crying or planning what to do next. I can picture her doing that. Brenna is a planner. She needs things to fit in their place and know everyone and everything is taken care of. She makes it look so easy, but it’s not. When she’s not around, I can never complete all the tasks she does.

Thinking of how she must be torturing herself with the details has me sucking in a deep breath. I swallow my fear and open the car door. Stepping back into the cold air is the jolt I need to propel me from zombie crawl to track star sprinter. I race into the house and close the frigidness behind me, wishing I could trap my fear out there, too.

I quickly kick off my shoes and drop my coat on the floor. Silence hangs heavy in the air, and I stand paralyzed for a minute, debating what the best course of action is. Do I walk in and ask her to tell me everything? Maybe pull her into my arms and let her tell me at her own pace? Shit, this is so much harder than I’d imagined.

I stand in place, hoping she’ll call for me, but her words don’t come. Knowing the longer I stay away, the bigger an asshole I become, I finally force myself to move. My legs feel like they’re weighed down with cement. Every step is harder than the one before and I start to wonder if I am strong enough to face her.

Do I have a choice?

I promised her forever, and I meant it. There have never been conditions on my love, and I don’t plan to put any in place today.

Squaring my shoulders, I take the last two steps into my living room and find Brenna on the couch. She’s curled in on herself, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. Her head is resting on the cushion and if not for seeing her blink, I would have thought she was sleeping. She looks so tiny.

Bren?

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t acknowledge me. I kneel in front of her and realize it was a mistake. Her normally smiling, hazel eyes are blank, and it crushes me. Physically, my wife is in front of me, but she’s not really here. She’s lost somewhere inside her mind.

Babe. Talk to me. Please. My voice trembles and I work to keep the tears at bay.

Aside from her occasional blinking, she remains motionless.

Come on, Brenna. You’re scaring me, I say as I reach out and shake her side.

Slowly, she tilts her head, looks at me, and a single tear falls. I watch it drop from her eye, trace a path along her cheek, and pool on the fabric below. I’m not sure why I’m so entranced, but when I glance back at her, she’s staring at me—still lifeless.

I’m so sorry, Nick.

She doesn’t have to say anything else. I pull her into my arms and hold her close, letting her cry until there’s nothing left.

I know I should be paying attention to what’s happening in the room around me, but I can’t seem to focus. Poor Dr. Wendell. I don’t think he knew what he was getting into when he agreed to meet with all of us. I tried warning him my mom and mother-in-law would have a lot of questions. I guess I should have been more specific. He blocked off an hour for us. I should have known it wouldn’t have been enough time. We’ve been in here for almost two, and my mom is still reading from her notebook, spitting questions rapid fire. I give Dr. Wendell mad props. He has answered every inquiry with unwavering patience and compassion.

Nick and I have sat back and allowed our mothers to run the questioning show. I think we’re still in shock. In four days, I’ll be having surgery. We’ve made sure everything is set at home, but we haven’t talked about it. We’re doing everything we can to skirt around our feelings.

Nick is hurting. I’ve heard him crying in bed when he thinks I’m asleep. I’ve wanted to roll over and comfort him, but it would only make things worse. Nick doesn’t believe men should cry. I don’t know why. Maybe he thinks it makes him look weak. Maybe it’s a gender thing. I’ve never been able to get him to tell me how he came to this belief, but as I listened to him try to muffle his sobs, my heart shattered for the strong man lying behind me, broken.

As they talk about my brain, I’m thinking about how hurt Nick is. About how we should be trying for a baby. That was our plan. We always said we wanted another child when Brady turned two. He’s eighteen months now and there’s no chance of me getting pregnant anytime soon.

Hell, I don’t know if another child is ever going to be in the cards for us.

How can my brain hanging out of my skull by less than ten millimeters cause this much distress? I mean, it’s barely over nine millimeters. Millimeters are tiny. Yet, this small piece of me has thrown my entire world off-axis.

You’re sure there’s no choice but for my daughter to have surgery?

My mom asks the question, but I block out the answer. She’s asked Dr. Wendell this at least five times already, and he’s calmly explained why surgery is necessary each time. Mom knows my symptoms are getting worse by the day, but she’s praying someone will say her baby doesn’t have to go through this.

Her fear becomes more evident the longer we’re here. She’s been wringing a tissue in her hand, her body at full alert. Every small noise causes her to jump, and her overly rounded eyes can’t seem to fully close when she blinks.

I wish I could take this away for her.

My mother-in-law, Janice, sits ramrod straight, meticulously taking notes. She’s worried and needs to keep busy. She ran out of questions and the truth of what’s happening is becoming too much for her.

If I could make myself feel today, I would walk across the room and hold her hand, but I need the numbness to survive. To block out the reality of what’s going to happen to me, or I may never make it through.

What happens if her symptoms skyrocket before Tuesday?

I want to tell my mom to stop, but she needs this, so I keep my mouth shut and think back to a week ago when I was sent home from work. I don’t know why I latch onto this memory. Maybe it’s because it’s the newest in a long line of fuck me, my life is going to hell in a my-brain-fucking-hates-me hand basket memory I can easily grasp onto, despite feeling detached from myself.

Did you find everything you were looking for? I ask with a smile on my face, though I want to be anywhere but here. Nick and I agreed I would only work part-time until Brady is in school but working at a home improvement store is not where I saw myself.

The customer smiles and gives me the typical answer. I start to ring in the overloaded cart, all the while making small talk with the gentleman who thinks I care about the new mudroom he’s building. I don’t know how I always get the talkers. Nick says it’s because I’m hot, and I laugh at him whenever he says that.

The trick to framing is using two by sixes, he says, trying to impress me. You want your frame to be nice and stu…

His words fade in my mind as panic starts to overwhelm me. Something is wrong with my eyes. My focus shifts and in one second, everything goes from clear to nonexistent.

I c-can’t see, I blurt out.

That’s not accurate. My world hasn’t gone black, just blurry. There are bright lights everywhere, but I can’t make out any images. No longer is the gentleman with the long, in-need-of-a-washing hair, standing there. His cart of building supplies doesn’t register in my vision. I reach out, feeling my cash register, but it doesn’t break through the lights taking over. Panicked, I thrash my arms, hearing things falling to the floor.

I can’t see! I can’t see!