April 19, 2012
I imagine walking through the front door carrying the diaper bag. At the same time, Mimie held Nico's tightly wrapped body in her arms. I'm brought back to reality by a bright light illuminating through the small window of the front door, changing the color from amber to bright yellow. A car was driving down the street, and the stained glass captured the car light from the headlights.
I shift my glance from the door to Christopher, my youngest. I am so tired, yet I can't sleep. I have so much on my mind. I have to find a nanny. Who can care for these kids better than mom when I'm not around? Everybody needs their mom. That thought brings me back to the day she passed away. The thoughts I had that morning.
I recalled those events of the day I found out Mimie had died as I stared beyond Christopher. My vision gets caught in the moving drape caused by the downforce wind from the ceiling fan.
I remember telling a friend and fellow officer on the scene that hellish morning, "Is this real? Is this happening?" I cried heavily.
I look at him in his eyes and say to him, "Everyone needs their mom. The boys need their mom. I'm the dad. They need mom. I need my mom right now."
It pains me to write this. To relive this. But it's still fresh, and I can replay it verbatim. My son Christopher moves, and my gaze moves back to him, and I smile, wiping the tears from my face. I recall when we walked through the door with him.
We had a scheduled doctor's appointment in the morning to have an amniocentesis to check his lung maturity. The doctor had to take a large needle, stick it into Mimie's belly, and draw the fluid out. Once we had the fluid in a vial, we had to take it to the hospital and have it evaluated. Anything over fifty on the lung maturity chart, and we could schedule another c-section and have a baby. We have to have all these precautions now due to the loss of the twins and complications with Nico.
With the fluid in a vial and Nico in his stroller, we walked back to the car, talking and laughing, excited that we were about to meet Chase. Yes, that was his name the entire pregnancy.
We arrived at the hospital, and we were so calm. We just left the doctor's office, and Chase was healthy, and we could see him on an ultrasound. If his lungs were healthy, we would schedule his c-section and take him at 35 weeks with 4 days of digestion. Everything was going right.
The front desk told us to take the fluid to the lab to have it processed. After getting lost, we stumbled upon the facility.
It was a little room. Just a series of cubicles sectioned off around a window. People were waiting to give blood samples, so we took a number and sat with them.
After waiting, Mimie and I got nervous. "How long will this fluid keep?" I asked Mimie. "I don't know," she said worriedly.
We both examine the vial of amniotic fluid. So, with our concern, I asked the check-in desk," Can we just drop off this vial?" He told me we had to take it to the maternity ward on the other side of the hospital. It was a far walk, especially for my pregnant wife, but she made it just fine.
Finally, we are in the right place. The lady in the maternity ward begins to check us in. We were shocked, and I told the woman, "No, I think you're mistaken. We are not here to give birth. We are here to just drop off this vial of amniotic fluid."
She looked at me and said, "No, we're going to test the fluid, and if the baby's lungs are mature, then we're taking him today. So I have to check you in and admit you."
Our mouths dropped. We needed to prepare. "You're taking the baby today?" Mimie said, shocked. "Yes. Wouldn't you rather have the baby in hand?" the receptionist said.
So, as the hospital staff admitted Mimie into the hospital, I had to run home and again pack clothes in a frenzy. I also had to find childcare for Nico! The doctor said I had to be back by 6pm or he would deliver the baby without me. Which gave me exactly 3 hours to do it all.
After gathering clothes and getting a dear old friend to watch Nico, I arrived at the hospital, where baby Christopher was born at 7:06 pm.
We changed his name from Chase to Christopher the moment we held him in our arms because he looked just like Dad.
This door has seen so much throughout the years of our life together. The ups and downs of our relationship. The good and the bad times, to the downright ugly. Mimie and I shared so much and tried our best to excogitate our relationship to make it work to our advantage. I thought I had a lifetime.
Time flies, and people change; we have to evolve. As people, it is up to us to bend with the changes our loved ones go through in our relationships. To bend is to grow. To grow is proof that we are learning and evolving as a couple because it shows we understand each other.
The door to our house was a view into our lives. Although Mimie and I weren't the perfect couple, we were perfect for each other, and the door aligned perfectly with our lives. With each opening and closing of the wooden rectangular opening, the mystery swirled as to what the day would bring us.
As I lay here and contemplate my life and the recent changes, I can't help but think that this door is forever closed and if another one will open. At this moment, it doesn't feel that way. There will never be another door quite like this one.
The memories are locked in behind it, and they will never be shared with others because my kids are too young to remember, and the only one that gets it gets us, and our inside jokes, Mimie, are gone. And now I am left to tell stories that no one will understand because they didn't live them.
This is what keeps me awake at night. It's not the lack of the sandman or the low light creeping through the window distracting me. I cannot see beyond the door window into a world that, from my view, doesn't get me. I'd rather stand behind it and gaze from a distance because I feel safe locked behind it.
They say time heals all. And my grief will subside, and with it, my memories will fade. But time isn't perfect for me. It drags on, and my mind recalls everything as if it happened yesterday.
Time can help me heal if I listen to the clock's tick-tock as I lay here trying to sleep. Counting the fan rotation is not helping. Someone, please close the door behind them and turn off the light. It's been a long night so far.
1,217 words
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Christopher Fusaro. The author of Captain Imperfecto.
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