Heartache
The pain is like a blunt object, stabbing and squeezing, and it's so intense, it wakes her up and drives her to tears. She doesn't say anything, just sits up and doubles over, wrapping her arms around her middle. She's silent as she tries to fight the tears, but they're already rolling down her cheeks and she can't just will the pain away, can't just wait it out like she does with all her other hurts. She doesn't know what her body is doing anymore and this is something new.
Jethro is there by her side in a heartbeat, pressed close to her. He's scared. "Jen?"
She just shakes her head, unable to think for a moment, unable to answer him. The cramps and the pain are blinding, blocking out all her other senses. She can't feel the rub of the cheap, 200-thread count sheets against her bare legs or the thin, wool blanket against her forearms. She can't hear the muffled traffic noises and the honking from the street below. She can barely hear Jethro. It feels like she's in a bubble, a void, and all the sounds have been sucked out and all the air has been bled out. All that's there is the white noise.
"Your heart?" he asks. He thinks it's another complication from her surgery and he's already out of bed.
"No," she manages to answer, shaking her head again. The pain comes in deep, cramping waves, and for a moment, she thinks it might be going away, but it never lets up. "I don't know what it is," she adds, screwing her eyes closed again. He watches her like a hawk for a moment, debating his options and his choices. As another wave passes enough that she can open her eyes again, she sees him going for the phone. "I don't want an ambulance," she says, taking deep breaths, but it isn't doing much.
Jethro crouches beside her, looking up at her and it's clear he's questioning her decision, but he doesn't say so. Instead, he just asks, "What do you want?" Anything, he'll do anything.
She can't think, it hurts so much. She just wants to curl up into a ball and die. "Grab my sweatpants," she responds after another moment that seemed to go on forever. He does as she asks and she slides from bed, trying to fight the natural instinct to double over again, but she's still hunched over as she pulls on the sweats with NIS down the leg. Her bare feet are cold on the thin carpet and somehow, she manages to find her sneakers. Style is not an option; she's not even going to bother changing her shirt.
His hands are on her shoulders, her arms, anywhere he can put them as she dresses. Now he's noticing how pale she is and her skin is clammy. "Jen..." he says, but he's not sure what else to say. His heart is pounding in his throat and he feels useless. There's not a damn thing he can do right now.
"Go hail a cab," she says. She's all one word answers and short sentences and he's never seen her like this. Even on her worst days at his house, she was never in this much pain. He can't help feeling like he's about to lose her, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he recognizes that she's making life-preserving actions when he had been so certain she'd just give up. He's afraid to leave her side, but he can't ignore the sense of urgency, so he grabs his wallet and heads for the elevator. When he's gone, Jen sinks to the floor, arms wrapped around herself. Whatever is going on, she wants it to be over.
A few minutes later, she joins Jethro outside in the street. He hasn't been able to hail a cab yet and she stands there with her arms crossed, her shoulders hunched, her eyes closed. He glances over his shoulder at her, watching as the wind pushes at her and whips her red hair around her face and he almost feels like she'll blow away. His attention is drawn away from her as a yellow Prius pulls up in front of them.
"Whatever emergency room is closest," he barks at the cab driver. The cabbie pulls out into early morning traffic and Jen huddles against Jethro, barely changing her position from how she was standing in the street. She keeps her eyes closed and the tears have stopped, but she sniffles between deep breaths. "Oh, Jen," he says as he runs his hand through her hair. She's breaking his heart and he's not sure how many pieces his heart can break into before it can't be put back together.
Without moving, she says, "I'm not dying, Jethro." Well, she is, but it won't be today and it won't be tomorrow. She's starting to think this is just another part of the ALS rearing its ugly head; she was told to expect muscle cramps. Or maybe these were menstrual cramps unlike anything she's ever had before. She'd been like clockwork until the surgery and then all bets were off. Her body has been through hell over the last few months and she honestly wouldn't be surprised if it turns out it's giving up on her. But it doesn't feel like that.
"You better not," he answers as the cab pulls up at the only ER in downtown Manhattan. Jen checks in with the nurse, giving her name as Jennifer Gibbs without even thinking, and has her basic vitals taken, then they're parked in the waiting room with a promise that a doctor will be with them soon. She leans against Jethro again, going back to sitting with her eyes closed. When she's just sitting there quietly, all she can feel is how much it hurts. She tries the deep breaths again, even just as something else to focus on, and before she knows it, they're calling her name. It's only after she goes in with the doctor that the bleeding starts.
Jethro stays behind, knowing he'd just get in the way of her pride and when she finally emerges from behind the double doors, he feels like it's been an eternity. He gets up from the uncomfortable plastic seat and cuts the distance between them. She doesn't look up at him, doesn't look anywhere but at a spot somewhere on his middle. He bends at the waist slightly, trying to catch her eyes and he doesn't like what he finds there. The fire he'd started to see come back into them was gone. She's dead alive. He doesn't need his gut to tell him something happened.
"Jen, what happened?" he takes her shoulders in his hands, "Are you okay?"
She shakes her head and he's not sure what she's saying 'no' to. 'No, she's not okay' or 'no, she won't tell him what happened'? Then she fills in, "Not here. I just want to go home."
"We'll go home, then." As they start for the ER entrance, he wonders if she'll go back to shutting him out or if she really will tell him. Outside, she surprises him by starting towards the subway station. "You don't wanna take a cab?"
"Save the money," is all she answers with.
It's a short ride, just a couple stops uptown, but they sit in silence the entire way. She's withdrawn into herself. Her posture is closed off, her arms wrapped around herself again, not leaning against him like she had done earlier. Jethro keeps his eyes on her. The not knowing is killing him. He can see she's still in agony, but a very different kind. And again he feels useless. He will until she lets him in.
They get to the hotel and ride the elevator up to their floor, still in silence. He follows behind her, not taking his eyes off her, but she doesn't seem to care. Jethro is starting to wonder if they gave her something for the pain because she seems so numb and unaware. He lets them into their room and Jen goes straight for the chair in the corner by the huge picture window, stepping out of her sneakers as she crosses the room. She pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them, resting her cheek against one. The room overlooks all of Manhattan and the view is spectacular on clear days like this one, but Jen isn't seeing it; she's just staring out the window at nothing. It's a million-dollar view that would make most people happy, but it's wasted on her.
Jethro comes over with a blanket he ripped from the bed, that same scratchy, thin wool one and drapes it over her, but she doesn't move. He's not even sure she heard him come up, or if she even realizes he put the blanket around her shoulders. Crouching in front of her, he says, "Now will you talk to me?"
For a moment, she doesn't move, still sitting there silently with her toes sticking out over the edge of the seat. She's still lost in that void. The traffic noises have picked up outside. They were gone long enough that rush hour traffic has filled the streets below, but she's not hearing them. His voice sounds as far away as the noises from outside, like the room is swallowing it up. The air feels colder than it did that morning, more still and almost suffocating. She pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Even though he's crouched there in front of her, she feels like there's no life in the room. Like a mausoleum.
Jethro thinks she's going to ignore him, but finally she turns her head to him. She meets his eyes and her lower lip is trembling and she's trying so hard not to burst into tears. "I'm so sorry, Jethro," she blurts out and her voice breaks in the middle and she's unable to keep the tears back any longer. "It was a miscarriage," she shakes her head, guilt all over her face, and the next sentence almost gets lost in her tears, "I didn't even know I was pregnant."
She wants to apologize again and again and again and she cries so hard, her lungs hurt. Because she knows it's her fault. For as long as she could remember, she had wanted children, but had made the choice not to because they fit into her plans as well as he had. The cosmos has given her everything she wanted only to pull it out from under her before she can even grasp what she had.
Then the realization hits her and guts her, "I was a mother for seven weeks."
It's never easy and you never know
What leaves you crying
And what makes you whole
There ain't no way that I can hold it down
Falling to pieces
Forever in doubt
Why don't you tell me again
How you'll still be there
When the heartache ends
[words 1802]
Jethro is there by her side in a heartbeat, pressed close to her. He's scared. "Jen?"
She just shakes her head, unable to think for a moment, unable to answer him. The cramps and the pain are blinding, blocking out all her other senses. She can't feel the rub of the cheap, 200-thread count sheets against her bare legs or the thin, wool blanket against her forearms. She can't hear the muffled traffic noises and the honking from the street below. She can barely hear Jethro. It feels like she's in a bubble, a void, and all the sounds have been sucked out and all the air has been bled out. All that's there is the white noise.
"Your heart?" he asks. He thinks it's another complication from her surgery and he's already out of bed.
"No," she manages to answer, shaking her head again. The pain comes in deep, cramping waves, and for a moment, she thinks it might be going away, but it never lets up. "I don't know what it is," she adds, screwing her eyes closed again. He watches her like a hawk for a moment, debating his options and his choices. As another wave passes enough that she can open her eyes again, she sees him going for the phone. "I don't want an ambulance," she says, taking deep breaths, but it isn't doing much.
Jethro crouches beside her, looking up at her and it's clear he's questioning her decision, but he doesn't say so. Instead, he just asks, "What do you want?" Anything, he'll do anything.
She can't think, it hurts so much. She just wants to curl up into a ball and die. "Grab my sweatpants," she responds after another moment that seemed to go on forever. He does as she asks and she slides from bed, trying to fight the natural instinct to double over again, but she's still hunched over as she pulls on the sweats with NIS down the leg. Her bare feet are cold on the thin carpet and somehow, she manages to find her sneakers. Style is not an option; she's not even going to bother changing her shirt.
His hands are on her shoulders, her arms, anywhere he can put them as she dresses. Now he's noticing how pale she is and her skin is clammy. "Jen..." he says, but he's not sure what else to say. His heart is pounding in his throat and he feels useless. There's not a damn thing he can do right now.
"Go hail a cab," she says. She's all one word answers and short sentences and he's never seen her like this. Even on her worst days at his house, she was never in this much pain. He can't help feeling like he's about to lose her, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he recognizes that she's making life-preserving actions when he had been so certain she'd just give up. He's afraid to leave her side, but he can't ignore the sense of urgency, so he grabs his wallet and heads for the elevator. When he's gone, Jen sinks to the floor, arms wrapped around herself. Whatever is going on, she wants it to be over.
A few minutes later, she joins Jethro outside in the street. He hasn't been able to hail a cab yet and she stands there with her arms crossed, her shoulders hunched, her eyes closed. He glances over his shoulder at her, watching as the wind pushes at her and whips her red hair around her face and he almost feels like she'll blow away. His attention is drawn away from her as a yellow Prius pulls up in front of them.
"Whatever emergency room is closest," he barks at the cab driver. The cabbie pulls out into early morning traffic and Jen huddles against Jethro, barely changing her position from how she was standing in the street. She keeps her eyes closed and the tears have stopped, but she sniffles between deep breaths. "Oh, Jen," he says as he runs his hand through her hair. She's breaking his heart and he's not sure how many pieces his heart can break into before it can't be put back together.
Without moving, she says, "I'm not dying, Jethro." Well, she is, but it won't be today and it won't be tomorrow. She's starting to think this is just another part of the ALS rearing its ugly head; she was told to expect muscle cramps. Or maybe these were menstrual cramps unlike anything she's ever had before. She'd been like clockwork until the surgery and then all bets were off. Her body has been through hell over the last few months and she honestly wouldn't be surprised if it turns out it's giving up on her. But it doesn't feel like that.
"You better not," he answers as the cab pulls up at the only ER in downtown Manhattan. Jen checks in with the nurse, giving her name as Jennifer Gibbs without even thinking, and has her basic vitals taken, then they're parked in the waiting room with a promise that a doctor will be with them soon. She leans against Jethro again, going back to sitting with her eyes closed. When she's just sitting there quietly, all she can feel is how much it hurts. She tries the deep breaths again, even just as something else to focus on, and before she knows it, they're calling her name. It's only after she goes in with the doctor that the bleeding starts.
Jethro stays behind, knowing he'd just get in the way of her pride and when she finally emerges from behind the double doors, he feels like it's been an eternity. He gets up from the uncomfortable plastic seat and cuts the distance between them. She doesn't look up at him, doesn't look anywhere but at a spot somewhere on his middle. He bends at the waist slightly, trying to catch her eyes and he doesn't like what he finds there. The fire he'd started to see come back into them was gone. She's dead alive. He doesn't need his gut to tell him something happened.
"Jen, what happened?" he takes her shoulders in his hands, "Are you okay?"
She shakes her head and he's not sure what she's saying 'no' to. 'No, she's not okay' or 'no, she won't tell him what happened'? Then she fills in, "Not here. I just want to go home."
"We'll go home, then." As they start for the ER entrance, he wonders if she'll go back to shutting him out or if she really will tell him. Outside, she surprises him by starting towards the subway station. "You don't wanna take a cab?"
"Save the money," is all she answers with.
It's a short ride, just a couple stops uptown, but they sit in silence the entire way. She's withdrawn into herself. Her posture is closed off, her arms wrapped around herself again, not leaning against him like she had done earlier. Jethro keeps his eyes on her. The not knowing is killing him. He can see she's still in agony, but a very different kind. And again he feels useless. He will until she lets him in.
They get to the hotel and ride the elevator up to their floor, still in silence. He follows behind her, not taking his eyes off her, but she doesn't seem to care. Jethro is starting to wonder if they gave her something for the pain because she seems so numb and unaware. He lets them into their room and Jen goes straight for the chair in the corner by the huge picture window, stepping out of her sneakers as she crosses the room. She pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them, resting her cheek against one. The room overlooks all of Manhattan and the view is spectacular on clear days like this one, but Jen isn't seeing it; she's just staring out the window at nothing. It's a million-dollar view that would make most people happy, but it's wasted on her.
Jethro comes over with a blanket he ripped from the bed, that same scratchy, thin wool one and drapes it over her, but she doesn't move. He's not even sure she heard him come up, or if she even realizes he put the blanket around her shoulders. Crouching in front of her, he says, "Now will you talk to me?"
For a moment, she doesn't move, still sitting there silently with her toes sticking out over the edge of the seat. She's still lost in that void. The traffic noises have picked up outside. They were gone long enough that rush hour traffic has filled the streets below, but she's not hearing them. His voice sounds as far away as the noises from outside, like the room is swallowing it up. The air feels colder than it did that morning, more still and almost suffocating. She pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Even though he's crouched there in front of her, she feels like there's no life in the room. Like a mausoleum.
Jethro thinks she's going to ignore him, but finally she turns her head to him. She meets his eyes and her lower lip is trembling and she's trying so hard not to burst into tears. "I'm so sorry, Jethro," she blurts out and her voice breaks in the middle and she's unable to keep the tears back any longer. "It was a miscarriage," she shakes her head, guilt all over her face, and the next sentence almost gets lost in her tears, "I didn't even know I was pregnant."
She wants to apologize again and again and again and she cries so hard, her lungs hurt. Because she knows it's her fault. For as long as she could remember, she had wanted children, but had made the choice not to because they fit into her plans as well as he had. The cosmos has given her everything she wanted only to pull it out from under her before she can even grasp what she had.
Then the realization hits her and guts her, "I was a mother for seven weeks."
It's never easy and you never know
What leaves you crying
And what makes you whole
There ain't no way that I can hold it down
Falling to pieces
Forever in doubt
Why don't you tell me again
How you'll still be there
When the heartache ends
[words 1802]