Now that Georgia is here with me, I should feel closer to her. We are physically closer, but I still feel the massive gulf in our relationship even while I sing to my daughter as her mother slumbers peacefully. I look up at my wife and feel a wave of guilt. How is it possible to love someone so much, and still not feel completely connected to them?
I know Georgia has good reason not to trust me. We've tried to make it work and I just can't seem to give her what she needs. Years ago I thought it was enough to ask her to marry me. Show her and her disapproving parents I was serious about being a good partner. But being MIA for her performances, leaving her to fly solo at family dinners with her parents in Connecticut (I hate Connecticut), and numerous missed date nights, I'd never given Georgia much faith that I'd change anytime soon.
After a bad dad joke and a song were over, I reluctantly leave Luna in the care of her mother and start my day, hoping it will be considerably less eventful than yesterday.
As Dora sidles up to me in the hall to run down all my missed obligations, I see her. Dr. Sharpe in all her intense and beautiful glory, stalking after me like a principal towards a naughty child. I know I'm in for a scolding. I missed our appointment, but I kind of look forward to her not giving me an inch of leeway. To see all that fiery passion in her eyes directed at no one other than me, of course not for any reasons that are good, I can't help to enjoy it.
She looks at me sternly, her dark eyes full of warning. Why are we talking about apples? Is this some kind of metaphor? However, her parting words are like a gut punch.
Time. It's a concept that I can never seem to master. I hope that this is one of the occasions that my good intentions can help me bargain a little more of it.
It's lunchtime so I go to Georgia's room to drop off her tray. I know she hates green jello but it's part of my apology. She once told me it reminded her of a fruitcake-looking moulid her grandmother made her when she was six. She ate it and promptly threw up, vowing to never eat the green wiggly stuff on account of the lime-colored mess that she saw in reverse. Right now, I know I'm better than green jello, even if only just a bit.
I tell her that it's not going to be the same as it was last time. The Chinatown clinic had less leadership so it required me to be more hands-on, but I can be less involved here, I can be present. I had good people in charge of these departments.
Then she calls me out, rightly and much to my chagrin, that no matter where I'm working, even when I was physically present my mind was often somewhere else.
She dismisses me playfully to go tend to more important patients, but I know she's hurt. I don't have time for her, and she's accepted that. Most people would appreciate that their spouse is being so understanding, but I know it's because she's defeated and tired of fighting what she sees as a losing battle. I walk away feeling heavier than before, knowing that I have singlehandedly broken my wife's spirit.
No matter what I do I feel pulled into a knot by all the people demanding my attention or contrition and I need to get out. It's all too much. I escape towards the roof. I had the overwhelming urge to go to Dr. Sharpe's office and vent. But who does that to a new work colleague? Perhaps it's because she knows something no one else does. She'd understand better than most, that crushing feeling of helplessness that oncologists seem to have to endure more than any other specialty.
Then I hear her, in the last place I'd ever thought she'd be. She calls dibs on this hideout and I can't help but smile, there stands, solemn, yet gorgeous standing strikingly against the New York City skyline. I move in closer trying to balm her hurt with proximity. Her feelings were raw, much like my own. Kindred in our intent to make a difference and yet meeting headwinds at every turn. We are both trying to escape the messy pileup of patients, doctors, or in my case spouses that were unintendedly making us feel completely inadequate.
Her presence feels safe, and since she is the person I was supposed to be meeting with anyway, it only seems only fair that I unload my emotional baggage on her. She stares at me expectantly and I can't keep it under wraps any longer. Like an impromptu therapy session, I tell her how I almost broke up my marriage the last go-round, asked my wife to give up her dancing career, get pregnant, and then turned around and betrayed her.
But the words that resonate to the depths of my soul were "just because you betrayed her, doesn't mean you don't belong here". At that moment an ember of hope rekindles in my chest. Dr. Sharpe's words are so sincere, but I can see the lost look in her eyes. Like she knows there's an upside to our challenges but the path to get there wasn't clear. Unfortunately, there's a lot of that going around these days.
Then she reminds me that the changes I'm making are part of the reason she's back, trying to be a real doctor again and I feel that ember grow. Dr. Sharpe believes in me. Trusts me. It's a heavy feeling, but not unpleasant. Despite having no idea about my past, she somehow understands what I'm trying to do, sees the good in my intentions while not labeling it as selfish. Her words go right to my heart.
Dr. Sharpe's voice is firm and heartfelt trying to push me towards revealing the truth outside our two-person bubble. In effect letting Georgia in. While logically I can see why my wife needs to know, I just can't bring myself to do that to her. One more disappointment and then I'll abandon her for good this time. I will tell her. Just not yet, not until she's feeling better. Even I can admit to myself that it's a cowardly move, not the selfless one I'm trying to convince myself it is.
I stare out into the skyline and my chest feels heavy. What if this cancer catches me and takes me from all the plans I have for this hospital, leaves my child fatherless, lets Dr. Sharpe down, and widows my wife? The order in which I considered these things wasn't lost on me.
With a dash of courage gained from Dr. Sharpe's urging, I steel myself to tell Georgia the worst thing I could ever utter aloud. Then Georgia's OB solidifies my spinelessness. I know she has no idea the gravity of the earth-shattering news I need to impart. She probably thinks my whirlwind nature would upset Georgia. I haven't exactly garnered a lot of assurance that my presence doesn't cause my wife stress.
I walk in and I know my expression betrays my forced cheer. She can tell. She can always tell when I'm hiding something from her, and she reminds me that I promised that'd let her in. But I can't do this to her.
My truth is that I love her, but I can tell it's not enough of a reveal to make her feel like I love her. I hide my shame in the ever-growing belly that housed my future.
I'm failing as a husband more each day and I can't really blame the cancer for this one.