I've got this

This story contains themes of grief and death.

"How're you feeling?" Jack asks, blonde-brown hair falling annoyingly fetchingly over his giant forehead. Seriously, a confusion of wildebeests could comfortably stampede on it. It wouldn't even be a stampede, it would be a leisurely stroll on the empty expanse. "Kara?" He checks again, smiling down at me softly, pulling back my hair from my own sweaty temple, gazing at me as if he loves me even when I look like crap. The audacity. "How're you feeling, hon?"

"I just pushed an 8-pound human through my genitals. I'm soaked in my own sweat, I'm covered in God-knows-what fluids, my stomach feels like someone reached inside and pulled my guts out - how do you think I feel?" I snap at my husband, exhausted, patience at an all-time low for any other inane questions well-meaning well-wishers may have after my thirteen-hour birthing fest.

"Maybe this little guy can help?" My doctor's amused voice pipes up from the side.

We angle our heads in her direction, where she walks toward us cradling a tiny little thing in her arms.

But when Jack extends his arms as if he gets to do this first, I swat at his hands. "Don't you dare."

Dr Gale's soft chuckle sounds out a second before she gently lowers the bundle wrapped in a cotton white and blue hospital makeshift swaddle onto my chest, into my own waiting arms.

This is what 8 pounds feels like? It feels tiny. Delicate. Ohh. Oh God, I'm going to make a mess of this. Why don't they make you go through exams before you do this? Theory and practical. With minimum passing grade. You should need a certificate that states you can be a practicing parent. They just let you keep the baby because it came out of you? That's like awarding you a degree because you took the class and finished a final assignment. How's that fair to the baby? What if I turn out to be--

Did he just kiss me?

My heart beats faster than it has ever before, throat goes dry.

"Oh look, he's kissing his mommy." Dr Gale coos somewhere in the periphery. Or maybe it's one of the nurses. Or it could honestly be Jack and I couldn't tell the difference. Because every atom in me is focused on soft, slightly moist lips imprinting on my suddenly cold skin, while this wisp of a thing nuzzles into my chest, hiding its face, like it's counting on me to keep it safe from prying eyes all around us.

And then it happens instantly, just like that.

An odd sort of clarity wraps around me going straight to my heart, all chaos gone, calm prevailing.

How hard can it be to literally murder anyone who looks at him sideways?

Yeah, okay. I got this.

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It's very likely my son was a dog in his previous life. Who else struggles like their life is in danger when all I'm trying to do is give him a bath? In a special tub. In the kitchen sink. While I'm keeping a maniacal, carefree grin on my face so as to not spook him. Dr Peters said in his last well visit that kids react to adult moods. If you're scared he's going to cry, he's going to cry because you're scared. I think it's psychobabble, but I'd rather not take a chance. So I'm smiling, like this is a happy, joyous occasion, as I slowly run the water from the tap, slowly getting him damp so it's not a shock, not rushing it, mumbling things like doesn't this feel nice, doesn't this feel good.

I don't think he's buying it. That suspicious look says it all. He hates baths. I hate giving him baths. Baths are hated overall.

"Such unnecessary coddling. Makes kids weak." My mom pipes up helpfully behind me. And my mom-in-law joins in, tsk-ing, "In our day, we just told them what's what, did what was required and kids had to deal with it."

Of course this is where we have the answer to, can they see eye-to-eye on anything?

Stupid freaking maternity leave.

It'll be a good thing, he said. Both moms will be here to help while I'm at work, he said.

I'm going to kill Jack.

After I give Theo a bath and then drown in my own tears because what kind of terrible mother can't even give her own kid a BATH without making him wail the house down?? Maybe Moms United are right. Maybe I'm being too--no, no no. This damn tap. Why is it doing that thing again?

Because you forgot to call the plumber, you ninny. Because taps don't like bad mothers. Because taps hate me like everyone and everything hates me. Because--

What...what was that sound?

I stare at Theo.

He made it...with his mouth. Then he makes it again.

Ohh...is he laughing? Not smiling, no, not even laughing.

No, he's full on giggling at the tap every time it ejects out a gush of water with a sputter. Which, now that I listen to it...sounds like a fart. I snort, trying to be ladylike and an adult. In response, Theo stares back at me, and giggles some more.

In a moment we're both chortling like idiots, our mutual enemy, the bath, forgotten. Cackling away, Theo smacks his hands in the puddle of water in the small tub before splashing my face with it.

"Oh, it's so on, you silly, beautiful boy." I mock growl, before splashing him back.

But instead of continuing the water battle, he leans forward, places his open mouth on my cheek and starts blowing resounding raspberries on my wet skin.

It tickles. So I tickle him back, the weight pressing down on my heart replaced with a lightness that could make me float, even as I swipe at the tears that won't stop falling.

He's happy.

I'm...fine. Huh. Maybe Dr Peters' logic works in reverse?

Yeah, okay. I got this.

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Will these people stop arguing so I can get this done and get out of here?

"I think we need another thirty minutes to go through the 2 and 5. The numbers aren't adding up and we need to have an answer out to Alina by end of day tomorrow." Josh says, waving the chronic workaholics flag like it's something to be proud of.

If Theo's one of the last left to be picked up today, this dude is not going to be able to wave anything anytime soon.

"I agree." I say, the epitome of professionalism while my mind spirals. "I'll set up a meeting for early morning tomorrow to close this out."

Josh the Ass looks at me pointedly. "I have time right now. If Bob, Harmon and Katie can also stay on, we can resolve this today."

I'm a pacifist. I'm a pacifist. I'm a pacifist.

"I have to pick up my son from daycare, folks." I grit my teeth and tell them, explaining when I don't really want to or should have to because I do my job and I do it really well, "My husband's traveling and I don't have any alternate arrangements." Not to mention I still have to go home and cook because even if my husband was here, he can't cook to save his life.

"Oh, of course." Josh responds immediately. "Family comes first." Why do I feel like there's a wait for it? "We can finish this without you, Kara."

Like hell he will. I smile sweetly. "I'd prefer to be there for the discussion, Josh, since I will be providing the update to Alina."

Before he can say anything, Bob weighs in. "Let's do this tomorrow. I have to go."

That's it. I have to go. Doesn't matter why. He's already at the door of the meeting room while Josh bobs his head like the witless chicken that he is. "Alright, tomorrow it is."

I'm seething all the way to the daycare. I'm seething when I see that Theo's the only one left, crouched on the floor over something, all other kids picked up for the day. Flashes of the last time this happened come screaming to me. Theo in a corner, crying his heart out because everyone went home but his mom hadn't shown up. I thinked you not coming, he'd said to me between sobs and hiccups.

I brace myself, when he looks up at me, and his mouth splits into this bright, hearty ear-to-ear smile.

"Mom! Look!" He points a little finger at a small board book open on the floor in front of him, his face full of wonder and delight. "You got me this same book!"

Then he gets up and runs at full speed toward me. I pick him up when he reaches me, taking a deep whiff in of that scent that drives me crazy in the best way, while he plants one wet kiss on my cheek, then continues babbling about the book, pointing at it.

I release the breath I didn't realize I was holding.

Screw you, Josh. I got this.

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"You've got to be strong for his sake, Kara." Jack says to me in that calm tone which makes me want to not be a pacifist.

Like I'm the crazy mother for crying when my child is crying, for hugging him and not letting him go when he clearly doesn't want to go to school. How does Jack do it? Be this stoic, unaffected parent who's quick to dole out consequences but won't indulge Theo even a little.

"I can homeschool him." I mutter over Theo's head as he holds on to me for dear life, having ran back out from his kindergarten classroom into my arms for the fourth time.

Jack looks at me like I've grown a second head.

"Kara, he's going to be fine." He tries to reassure me at the same time as Theo's teacher tells me with a practiced polite smile, "Time for parents to go, Mrs Miller."

Heartless bitch.

I pull Theo apart from me, my heart cracking a little in the middle when he eyes me warily with a tear-stained face, snot spilling from his nose.

"Hey, you're gonna be okay, you hear me?" I keep my voice even. This is about him.

He blinks for a long second, big, blue eyes glistening. His lower lip wobbles when he pushes out in a shaky whisper, "You promise?"

I manage to keep a hysterical sob at bay. "I promise." I give him an assurance I can't possibly back up. Is this how he will learn to lie?

He better be okay. The universe and me will have words if it makes me a liar.

"You good to go inside, bud?" His teacher interjects with a hint of impatience, and I swear to God with this woman, was she not hugged enough as a child?

But Theo nods somberly at her, then turns to me, "I'll see you after school, okay, mom?" Gives me a peck on my cheek. Then wipes my face with his small palms. "I won't cry. So you don't cry, okay?"

I nod, somehow, because there's something stuck in my throat. I watch him go inside as she leads him to his cubby. I watch him as he keeps his bag inside the cubby neatly and walks over to the desk she guides him to.

He's not crying. He even smiles a little smile at the boy sitting adjacent to him.

Me on the other hand, I cry all the way home.

I've so got this.

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But Theo's only nine, is the thought that plays on a loop in my head.

"Are you sure?" Jack asks the third specialist we've seen in eight months.

I haven't bothered to remember his name. We chose the first one carefully, spent hours researching and learning everything about him. It's important to trust your doctor. He was the best. We loved him. Until he told us with a straight face that I'm unfixable. No matter what we do, and there's nothing he could do. A hole in one valve of my heart that cannot be plugged. Turns out, trust means squat if they tell you something you don't want to hear. The second one went the same way. Now this one.

It's not them. It's me. I'm going to die. Give or take a year, all of them uniformly said, adjusting their glasses.

I tune out for the rest of the conversation, trailing after Jack when he gets up and storms out with me, tugging me by my hand.

"It's ridiculous. He's telling us that a completely healthy person is going to just up and die? You're 37. 37! You don't ever fall sick. And he's telling me you have a weak heart? To hell with him. I'm going to look for someone who knows what they're doing."

I glance at him wordlessly as he grips the steering wheel like a vise, furiously talking about seeking a fourth specialist. A stubble he hasn't shaved for at least two days, deep, dark lines around his eyes, permanently furrowed brow, disheveled hair that is long overdue for a cut and a comb, shoulders slumped, his usually sharp features softened with exhaustion...I'm doing this to him.

Even after we pick up Theo from school, and Theo goes on incessantly, excitedly from the back seat about social studies tests and field trips and Minecraft in the same breath, Jack retains that rigid, weighted stance, and that sunken look.

So when I tuck Theo into bed that night, and he puts his arms around me, smothering me with kisses because I treated him with pancakes for dinner, all the denial, the bargaining ceases to exist. I see this for what it is.

No amount of specialists or opinions are going to help. He's going to lose me.

The only thing in my control is that I can't let him lose his dad too. I can't let them lose each other.

I won't.

For him and for Jack, I've got this.

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I've always hated hospitals with a burning passion. There's always something ominous about being within these walls. The hallways seem narrower, the rooms--even the ones they call suites--are smaller, and why is everyone always in such a damn hurry to diagnose or dissect?

And the food. It's express delivered straight from the kitchens of hell.

"Umm mom, you're doing that thing again." Theo says to me with a cheeky quirk of his mouth.

I'm going to miss that quirk. Although do people miss anything after they go to a better place? I better go to a better place. Sure, I've sometimes been a straight-up jerk to Mrs Altwell next-door, but mostly I've been good.

"Momm." Theo snickers.

"What?" I bite out.

"Your inside voice is outside."

"Huh?"

"You're talking out loud, mom."

Jack laughs next to him on the world's most uncomfortable couch.

"Mrs Miller." Dr Whatever walks in, all smiles as if this is a regular Sunday for him. "How are we doing today?"

I've been admitted after I collapsed laughing too hard watching an inane comedy sitting on our couch at home. How does he think I'm doing?

Jack and Theo snigger.

Right, I guess inside was outside again.

Dr Whatever sobers up, clears his throat, looks at the chart in his hands. Always a great sign when your doctor gets that look.

"I know I'd said we have a few more months at least, but it appears we have a complication. The latest scans, they're not...great." He swallows, looking at me first, then at Jack and Theo. "At this point, all we can do is make her comfortable."

White noise fills my ears.

He'd promised me more time. Not promised, more like advised us without guarantees, but it counts.

Theo's only ten. He turned ten last week. He's only in the fifth grade. He hates his teacher. He still can't be vulnerable with Jack because he feels ashamed to be anything but brave in front of his strong dad. We've worked on it, talked about it day after day, but it's still a work in progress. And Jack still burns himself making an omelet.

What happens when Theo goes through his first heartbreak? His second? Loses at chess competitions? Doesn't get into the college he wants? Can't find a job he likes? What if Jack's answer to everything is deal with it? Is Jack going to feed him sandwiches for the rest of his life? Will Theo even ask for special treats the way he demands them from me? Will he feel loved? Wanted? Will he ever giggle with Jack over anything? What if they never talk to each other outside of birthdays and anniversaries and...a death anniversary?

They're both suddenly at my side, Theo holding my hand, Jack's knuckles brushing my cheek.

Oh God. There's so much I still have to do. Talk to them about. Tell them how to deal with things. I thought I'd have more time.

Panic courses through me.

"I need..." I tell them urgently, heart heavy, hyperventilating. "...more time."

"Mom." Theo says softly, his voice piercing through the chaos in my head. "Hey, look at me."

I do.

He looks so big. He grew up so quickly once we told him what was going to happen. What is going to happen.

His thumbs swipe over my cheeks that feel damp.

"I'm s-sorry." I hiccup at him, tears refusing to quit. "I'm so s-sorry."

His lips touch my forehead, and Jack's hand is over his shoulder as he hugs Theo close, tight.

"Mom." Theo says, voice raspy but clear, his eyes sad but not afraid. "We've got this. We promise. You can rest now."

And just like that first moment in the hospital ten years ago, every atom in me settles.

Yeah, okay. I've got this.