~*~Crying, Waiting, Hoping~*~
by Hatter of Madness
Prologue
I will always remember today as the day that our lives were turned upside down.
We have only been married for three years—just a year after graduating Hollywood Arts—and already we've suffered through countless miscarriages. One time, you actually were pregnant the entire nine months, only to have our beautiful son be stillborn. We had our baby, Timothy Daniel Shapiro, cremated after his combined birth and death, his ashes given to us in an urn almost as beautiful as he was.
You didn't want more kids after that. You told me, "We could get a kitten. That will be like our baby." But I am a famous film director, and you are a famous actress on Broadway, and if we really want children, I say, we can always adopt.
But somehow, you just wanted that kitten, so I bought you the most beautiful kitten I had ever seen, a tabby named Audrey. Audrey is currently your pride and joy, and even though you're mildly disappointed that we still don't have a child, you love that cat more than anything I've ever seen before. It fills the void in your life where our baby would be.
When we got the news that you were pregnant, we should have been excited, but really, we were so, so scared. What if this one ends in another disappointment? What if we get attached to the baby, and then we have to bury it? What if, what if, what if?
But we can't help but get excited, too. Maybe, just maybe, we're getting another chance at this. You were over the moon when we found out that you were going to have twins, but I braced myself doubly for the harsh reality that might set in. Still, you are almost halfway through the pregnancy, and nothing bad has happened...yet. I still am cautious, even afraid of the age old wive's tales about being around a microwave or cat litter. I've even had you give up Broadway for the time being, which you didn't object to; you wanted a bit of a break anyway. I jokingly have offered you several roles in my movies, but you want a break from acting until our babies are older.
We have an appointment with the OB/GYN today. We're going to see our babies on a screen, see how they move and look, and possibly find out if we're having a set of girls, boys, or one of each. You like the names Addison and Adrienne for girls; Alexander and Aidan for boys; and if we somehow have one of each, you want to name the girl Addison Adrienne and the boy Alexander Aidan. I'm not sure where you came up with all 'A' names—after all, you did name our cat 'Audrey'—but I have no theme for what I have. Personally, I like Vanessa, Priscilla, Luke, and David myself. I think it's too early to decide, however.
When we get to the OB/GYN, you're still trying to sell me on the idea of naming our kids after the first letter of the alphabet. "You're too funny, Cat," I tell you.
"What if I dye my hair so often that we have little redheads?" you ask.
I shake my head at the absurdity of the idea. "You're a real comedian."
We make a compromise of using one of your 'A' names so long as we use one of mine as the middle name, but we're cut short in which name we'd use when the nurse—we've seen her countless times before, a petite blonde thing named Jenny who always seems to be more upset than we are when you miscarry—calls us back. "Hello, Shapiros," she says happily. I wonder if she's trying not to get too hopeful for us.
"Hi, Jenny!" you say happily. We've been here so many times that we're on a first name basis with the staff. We're still hoping that all goes according to plan and that in a few months, our twins will be here, happy and healthy in our arms.
"Hi, Cat," she greets back. "And how are our little ones doing?"
"Good," you tell her, a hand on your stomach tracing patterns. "They started to kick this morning, I've noticed."
"That's good," she says, leading us into a room. "Doctor Clarke will be here in a minute. Have a seat."
You settle yourself on the table, while I take a seat next to you, and we discuss names again. We have no idea what bombshell is coming next.
"What about Blobbie?" you ask.
"You can't be serious."
"It's gender neutral!" you argue.
"Catherina Valentine," I say, shaking my head.
"Shapiro," you say. "We're married, Robbie!"
We have a small argument—just a play argument, since I can never stay mad at you—until Doctor Clarke comes in. She smiles at the scene, congratulates us on the pregnancy (I can't help but note her apprehension during this), and says, "Well, let's get started, shall we? First things first, do you want to know the sexes?"
Before I have a chance to respond, you say, "No, I'm good."
"So this argument will last another five months?" I joke.
You roll your eyes. "Hush up."
Doctor Clarke laughs and the actual appointment begins. She shows us each twin's profile, and we even get to see each baby's fingers. We even hear, in a way, the babies' separate heartbeats. Everything seems fine at first, until...
"Hold on a sec," Doctor Clarke says, taking closer inspection at the screen. She's never given us the bad news like this before. My dreams are already quickly being crushed. But there's no possible way that anything is wrong, I try to tell myself. Didn't you just tell Jenny about how the babies were kicking this morning for the first time? How could things be so bad already if just a few hours earlier...
"What?" you ask, sounding frantic. I've heard this voice before, when we've gotten the news before. The first time, we had just found out we were having a daughter when tragedy set in. Now the crushing news is about to set in for what is probably the tenth time...
"Well, it might be nothing"—hope is momentarily restored—"but it seems like the image is...too clear, if you will. In fact, if you look here at 'baby two', you can see what looks like a fracture in the humerus." She points it out to us. "I don't think you've been doing too much strenuous activity, Mrs. Shapiro?"
"No," you answer fearfully.
I'm a bit calmer now—sure, it was horrible to hear that one of our children possibly has a broken bone, but I would take that over a miscarriage any day—but still a bit worried. You, on the other hand, seem to be taking this almost as an insult. It's almost as though she told us that our babies are approaching death, yet again.
"Hmm, interesting..." She continues to look and you grasp my hand suddenly. I give yours a gentle squeeze, looking still at Doctor Clarke and the screen, looking still at the twins and hoping beyond hope that everything is okay. "If you look at the other baby, there's a similar pattern in the ribs and leg..." She points that out to us as well, then turns to us, a grave expression on her face. "Mrs. Shapiro, you said that you haven't been doing strenuous activity, but this is a bit peculiar. I wonder..."
"What?" You're frantic now, sitting up slightly from fear. We obviously don't want anything bad to happen to them, but you're getting even me worked up.
"Well, I'd have to take it to a professional, I think, for proof, but I'd like to take a picture of the ultrasound to verify it."
"Verify what?" I ask, finally speaking up.
"Mr. Shapiro, I believe that your twins might have osteogenesis imperfecta." She recites this as though it is the most commonplace diagnosis in the world, but I don't think I've ever heard of it. It sounds horrible, whatever it is. I think about this, meditate on it even, as you just stare blankly at her.
"They might have what?"
"Osteogenesis imperfecta—brittle bone disease."
This you understand, but I'm still drawing a blank. "What is that, exactly?"
"Brittle bone disease—osteogenesis imperfecta, or OI for short—is a genetic bone disorder. People with OI have defective connective tissue in their bones, so they are fragile and break more easily. There's about five or six different kinds of it—one, unfortunately, is fatal..."
Why she would tell us that, I don't know. I want to scream and yell at her for even mentioning that fact, but I don't. I'm shocked, and you are, too. "I wouldn't worry—yet," she warns, obviously sensing the tension that's settled over us. "Other than the clarity and fractures, nothing seems too out of the ordinary. In fact, if it weren't for those two things, I would say that everything was perfect."
You're still nervous, though. "Say that they do have, uh...OI, right?" The doctor nods. "Will that have any affect on the quality of life?"
"Well, it depends on the severity of the disease. Some children show no symptoms and rarely break bones, so it's harder to diagnose. Others are obviously deformed by it. Depending on the type, the physical characteristics are different as well."
Either way, I think that it's the worst thing that's happened to us in the past few months, and I can't imagine our two angels being plagued with such a disease.
When we arrive home, you immediately waddle up the stairs without a word, while I go on the computer and do what any concerned parent would do: Searching the net for some information about the disease. I find pictures of people with oddly colored eyes—the whites are anything but—people with deformed limbs and triangular faces. I read horror stories of stillborn babies with the disease, of parents accused of child abuse when their children continually break bones. The realization sinks in that that could become you and I.
But the worst thing I find by far is a true story of a couple who had two daughters with the disease. They were twins as well. That family, too, found a problem with one twin having a fracture in their ultrasound, but for them, the break manifested in the collarbone of one of the twins. Afraid of worsening the injury, the parents opted to have a Cesarean birth. Unfortunately, the daughter with the broken collarbone had OI, and she had broken her neck in utero by the umbilical cord being wrapped around her neck. They named her Juliana.
Their other daughter seemed fine, but when she was young, she broke a few bones very easily, so doctors decided that she had the disorder as well, and they named her Melissa. However, her life seemed pretty normal besides being a few inches shorter than she should have been, having a triangular shaped face, and the whites of her eyes were discolored as well. Her parents wanted her to have as normal a life as possible, so they allowed her to do gymnastics and join her school dance team, despite better judgment. Unfortunately, life didn't stay normal for long. One day, her parents got a phone call telling them that their daughter was at the local skate park with too many broken bones for them to establish there. Someone had called an ambulance because she was convulsing.
As it turned out, Melissa broke a majority of the bones in both of her legs, her collarbone, wrist, and two ribs. She was put into many casts, and as soon as she healed, doctors did a surgery, putting metal rods in her legs to prevent them from breaking further, and her parents out of extreme worry bought her a wheelchair.
On the parents' website, I saw a picture of them and their daughter, with her in her wheelchair. Melissa was honestly just so beautiful, and just as they described her, with pale skin, curly brown hair, big brown eyes with a bluish tint to the sclerae—the medical term for the whites of the eyes. Her face was triangular in shape; she appeared short (it was hard to tell, though, with her in a wheelchair). But I was also struck by how normal she looked as well. Besides the pointed chin and discoloration of the eyes, she looked like any other teenage girl, with a small nose and a perfect smile and thin lips.
Melissa's parents manage to face the disease with smiles on their faces, and I know that you and I can, too, if that's what's going on with our twins. I'm ready to face you now, so I get out of my chair and climb the stairs of our elaborate home, finding you in the nursery with Audrey sitting in your lap. I come up behind you and kiss the top of your head. "Hey," I say.
You don't respond right away, but after a while, you say to me, "I know it's not the end of the world, and it's better than what's been happening to us the past few years, but I want them to be normal, you know?"
Quickly, I fill you in on the story of Melissa and her family, and you just look at me and listen. It doesn't outwardly seem to console you, but I know you'll be able to rest easier knowing that this isn't the worst thing that can happen to us.
But our lives are only going to become more chaotic from here.
I've had a bit of an issue uploading this story, you might know what it was. Basically, I had two documents on FF with almost exactly the same name. One was this story; one was an uncompleted oneshot about the Hunger Games. Guess which one I accidentally uploaded? *facepalm* Really embarrassed about that. So remember that story I was talking about at the end of All We Know is Falling? I'm late at writing this, but here you are. ^.^ This was the original idea I had that I told Moxxy and Raptor about, but I had a lot of fun with Catastrophe, too. Also, I want to do a little poll on the names I mentioned in this chapter, so in reviews tell me which names you like best (hopefully one of each). I already know the gender(s) of the babies, but I'm keeping it secret until next chapter ;) Also, the idea for this story came from two friends of mine with OI themselves. Melissa, the girl that I was talking about above, gave me permission to use her real life story in this. So that little tidbit about Melissa is real. Um that's it so please review? Also the names I want you to vote on:
Addison, Adrienne, Priscilla, Vanessa, Alexander, Aidan, Luke, David.
- Hatter of Madness