Carrot Cake 21, Coffee 8: Staying Strong
Title: Staying Strong
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Carrot cake 21 (carry), Coffee 8 (shadow), rainbow sprinkles (Rebecca), whipped cream (Danny and Michael are various versions of "young"), hot fudge.
Word Count: 1156
Rating: PG.
Summary: Rebecca Sierbenski can pinpoint the exact day that her life fell apart.
Notes: An attempt to explain, though not excuse.
Rebecca Sierbenski can pinpoint exactly the day that her life fell apart.
Everything seemed so perfect, before. She had a lovely house in the lovely suburbs, close enough to her parents to see them occasionally but not close enough for the smothering advice she'd married to leave. She had her firstborn, her beloved little daughter, with her silky cap of blonde hair and her husband's twinkling blue eyes. And she had her husband, her Frank, who smiled at her, caressed her shoulders and called her "Becka" in bed.
There were flies in the ointment, of course. She was a stay-at-home mother-- by choice, because the moment they'd put her Daniella in her arms she couldn't imagine being away from her baby. She'd carried Daniella everywhere for nearly a month, and cried herself to sleep the first time her baby slept in a different room. Some of the other mothers in her playgroup thought this unnatural dependence, and snickered behind Rebecca's back about women who couldn't get their priorities straight. Rebecca ignored them, as much as she could-- it wasn't always easy.
And then there were her parents, and her siblings. They didn't like Frank. They were not shy about saying so. Rebecca chalked it up to jealousy or sorrow at losing a daughter at the time. Later... later she thought they must have had a sixth sense, seen something she didn't, bound up as she was in her daughter and her husband and her perfect life.
But she didn't know anything then. Then, she only knew that she was happy.
When she found out that she was pregnant again, she was ecstatic. She loved Daniella and Frank so much, she could hardly imagine fitting anyone else into her love, and yet the first time she felt her baby move she knew she could. She could love this baby as fiercely as anything.
There is a snapshot in her mind, of the day before her life fell apart. Frank is barbecuing in the backyard, singing something in Polish at the top of his lungs. Daniella, just over a year old, her teddy bear clutched by one leg and dragging on the ground, is patting her small hand across Rebecca's barely-stretched belly, cooing, "Baby, baby." They are happy. They are frozen, but they are happy.
The next day, she had her sixteen-week scan. The next day, she found out that she was carrying a boy.
The next day, she found out there was something wrong.
It's strange, how clearly some things stick in the mind. Rebecca remembers the doctor's face in sharp, vivid detail: how excited he was (you're having a little boy!) and then how suddenly solemn (Please excuse me for a moment, Mrs. Sierbenski).
Frank wasn't there. He was supposed to be, but he wasn't. Rebecca remembers thinking that if he'd only come when he was supposed to, it wouldn't have happened. Michael would have been normal and then none of it would have happened.
The doctor asked her to agree to some tests. Rebecca demanded to know the problem, her voice rising and shrieking and hysterical. A tiny part of her stood apart, remarked on how shrill she sounded, how she'd never sounded that way before. The doctor asked her to calm down, and told her that it might be nothing, but they needed to do some tests, so would you please sign here, Mrs. Sierbenski, and I'll get back to you.
She signed where he told her and went home shaking.
Osteogenesis imperfecta, was the diagnosis. Brittle bone disease. Rebecca had never even heard of it, but Frank's face went blank and his lips pressed flat when she told him. It ran in his family, she found out later. He'd never bothered to tell her.
Osteogenesis imperfecta. The baby-- Michael Alan; they'd already named him-- would have brittle bones. The slightest fall could snap his body in half. He might have hearing problems, or be entirely deaf, if something damaged the tiny, irreperable bones in his ears. There was no cure, barely any treatment-- they'd have to guard him every moment of his fragile life, or he would fall and break his neck, and Rebecca knew before she even held him that she could not survive that.
It was only hypothetical, the doctor warned. They could not be sure until he was born. They would have to do tests, more tests.
But Rebecca was sure. She knew from the moment she saw Frank's flat, empty expression that it was true. She knew then that nothing would ever be the same.
It is not because of Michael that her life fell apart. Not precisely. She loves him deeply; she will give her blood and her breath and her bone to keep him safe. It is not Michael's fault he was born this way, by Caesarian section to prevent his body being compressed, to keep his bones intact. It is not Michael's fault that a slip on the stairs that only bruises Daniella will shatter his arm. It is not, she tells herself fiercely, and repeats it until she and everyone she knows believes it. It is not.
It is the disease's fault, for daring to settle itself in her child. It is Daniella's fault, for taking Michael into situations when she knows she knows he could get hurt, badly hurt. It is the doctors' fault, for not finding the cure.
And it is Frank's fault, for not telling her, for not wanting Michael, for not calling her "Becka" anymore and for not looking at Daniella anymore and for saying those horrible things that Rebecca can never forgive him for. And it is her fault, for not knowing, for not doing something about it. She knows she could have done something about it, if she only tried.
So she tries, now. She tries as hard as she can. She wraps Michael up in the cotton-ball batting of her care and protection, puts herself between him and every sharp edge, every blunt doorknob. She grows used to rushing him to the ER, to testing when a cast is ready to come off. She goes to the endless doctor's appointments, the interminable physical therapy sessions, with the steady patience and firm step of a soldier.
And she stays strong, for Michael, who cannot be strong. For Michael, she will keep fighting, and never give in. She is who she is, for Michael. She is strong.
So when Frank leaves for the second time, she does not cry. When her mother gives her pitying looks, she does not cry. When she realizes that Daniella never touches her anymore, never even looks at her without anger in her eyes, although she can feel something breaking deep inside her, she does not cry.
And when she wakes up one bright April morning to find that her children are gone, she does not cry.
She thinks that she has no tears left.
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Carrot cake 21 (carry), Coffee 8 (shadow), rainbow sprinkles (Rebecca), whipped cream (Danny and Michael are various versions of "young"), hot fudge.
Word Count: 1156
Rating: PG.
Summary: Rebecca Sierbenski can pinpoint the exact day that her life fell apart.
Notes: An attempt to explain, though not excuse.
Rebecca Sierbenski can pinpoint exactly the day that her life fell apart.
Everything seemed so perfect, before. She had a lovely house in the lovely suburbs, close enough to her parents to see them occasionally but not close enough for the smothering advice she'd married to leave. She had her firstborn, her beloved little daughter, with her silky cap of blonde hair and her husband's twinkling blue eyes. And she had her husband, her Frank, who smiled at her, caressed her shoulders and called her "Becka" in bed.
There were flies in the ointment, of course. She was a stay-at-home mother-- by choice, because the moment they'd put her Daniella in her arms she couldn't imagine being away from her baby. She'd carried Daniella everywhere for nearly a month, and cried herself to sleep the first time her baby slept in a different room. Some of the other mothers in her playgroup thought this unnatural dependence, and snickered behind Rebecca's back about women who couldn't get their priorities straight. Rebecca ignored them, as much as she could-- it wasn't always easy.
And then there were her parents, and her siblings. They didn't like Frank. They were not shy about saying so. Rebecca chalked it up to jealousy or sorrow at losing a daughter at the time. Later... later she thought they must have had a sixth sense, seen something she didn't, bound up as she was in her daughter and her husband and her perfect life.
But she didn't know anything then. Then, she only knew that she was happy.
When she found out that she was pregnant again, she was ecstatic. She loved Daniella and Frank so much, she could hardly imagine fitting anyone else into her love, and yet the first time she felt her baby move she knew she could. She could love this baby as fiercely as anything.
There is a snapshot in her mind, of the day before her life fell apart. Frank is barbecuing in the backyard, singing something in Polish at the top of his lungs. Daniella, just over a year old, her teddy bear clutched by one leg and dragging on the ground, is patting her small hand across Rebecca's barely-stretched belly, cooing, "Baby, baby." They are happy. They are frozen, but they are happy.
The next day, she had her sixteen-week scan. The next day, she found out that she was carrying a boy.
The next day, she found out there was something wrong.
It's strange, how clearly some things stick in the mind. Rebecca remembers the doctor's face in sharp, vivid detail: how excited he was (you're having a little boy!) and then how suddenly solemn (Please excuse me for a moment, Mrs. Sierbenski).
Frank wasn't there. He was supposed to be, but he wasn't. Rebecca remembers thinking that if he'd only come when he was supposed to, it wouldn't have happened. Michael would have been normal and then none of it would have happened.
The doctor asked her to agree to some tests. Rebecca demanded to know the problem, her voice rising and shrieking and hysterical. A tiny part of her stood apart, remarked on how shrill she sounded, how she'd never sounded that way before. The doctor asked her to calm down, and told her that it might be nothing, but they needed to do some tests, so would you please sign here, Mrs. Sierbenski, and I'll get back to you.
She signed where he told her and went home shaking.
Osteogenesis imperfecta, was the diagnosis. Brittle bone disease. Rebecca had never even heard of it, but Frank's face went blank and his lips pressed flat when she told him. It ran in his family, she found out later. He'd never bothered to tell her.
Osteogenesis imperfecta. The baby-- Michael Alan; they'd already named him-- would have brittle bones. The slightest fall could snap his body in half. He might have hearing problems, or be entirely deaf, if something damaged the tiny, irreperable bones in his ears. There was no cure, barely any treatment-- they'd have to guard him every moment of his fragile life, or he would fall and break his neck, and Rebecca knew before she even held him that she could not survive that.
It was only hypothetical, the doctor warned. They could not be sure until he was born. They would have to do tests, more tests.
But Rebecca was sure. She knew from the moment she saw Frank's flat, empty expression that it was true. She knew then that nothing would ever be the same.
It is not because of Michael that her life fell apart. Not precisely. She loves him deeply; she will give her blood and her breath and her bone to keep him safe. It is not Michael's fault he was born this way, by Caesarian section to prevent his body being compressed, to keep his bones intact. It is not Michael's fault that a slip on the stairs that only bruises Daniella will shatter his arm. It is not, she tells herself fiercely, and repeats it until she and everyone she knows believes it. It is not.
It is the disease's fault, for daring to settle itself in her child. It is Daniella's fault, for taking Michael into situations when she knows she knows he could get hurt, badly hurt. It is the doctors' fault, for not finding the cure.
And it is Frank's fault, for not telling her, for not wanting Michael, for not calling her "Becka" anymore and for not looking at Daniella anymore and for saying those horrible things that Rebecca can never forgive him for. And it is her fault, for not knowing, for not doing something about it. She knows she could have done something about it, if she only tried.
So she tries, now. She tries as hard as she can. She wraps Michael up in the cotton-ball batting of her care and protection, puts herself between him and every sharp edge, every blunt doorknob. She grows used to rushing him to the ER, to testing when a cast is ready to come off. She goes to the endless doctor's appointments, the interminable physical therapy sessions, with the steady patience and firm step of a soldier.
And she stays strong, for Michael, who cannot be strong. For Michael, she will keep fighting, and never give in. She is who she is, for Michael. She is strong.
So when Frank leaves for the second time, she does not cry. When her mother gives her pitying looks, she does not cry. When she realizes that Daniella never touches her anymore, never even looks at her without anger in her eyes, although she can feel something breaking deep inside her, she does not cry.
And when she wakes up one bright April morning to find that her children are gone, she does not cry.
She thinks that she has no tears left.
