A/N = Oh my goodness you all are lovely! I never expected anyone to actually read my writing, let alone favorite and follow it! I feel so validated. Now I find myself wanting to write when I should be working. Sorry for the delay, the holidays got busy!
Thank you to "farewellblindgirl" and their fanfic titled "Dhvani" for the inspiration for this format. Drop comments and reviews to help my writing.
Based on some reviews and my own insecurity of my writing, this chapter needed some edits. Enjoy this better version.
Chapter 4
I've been struggling. It's so hard to say that. Well to write it really. I haven't sat down to journal in a really long time. Mom had me start as a teenager, a way to communicate our feelings so we didn't come at it with mother-daughter blow ups. I came back to it shortly after she died, tried to keep it up, but I can't always find the time. I haven't always stuck to it, but it has helped when I've needed it to. And right now, I need it to. Dr. Burke wasn't available. I called and so did Rick. I also messaged him privately. Filled him in on what had occurred in our loft just two weeks ago. The turmoil of the case. And the pregnancy. Whirlwind? Hurricane? Falling into the abyss? He suggested writing, at least until he could see me, sort it out. And I suppose I should document this. This little bundle of cells - only eight weeks old- is throwing everything out of whack, and might read it one day. Might be interested in our story. It will have Rick for that of course, filling the spaces of their imagination with joy and wonder. I guess I want a little claim too, a small part. If I make it out of this.
Struggling is the best term I can find right now. I hate this. Rick has come to call it a game, just to try to humor me. "Food or No Food?" he calls it. I can't tell if I'm sick because I have little to no immune system right now or because of morning sickness. The GI doctor and the OBGYN got together and sent me home with special diet instructions. Things easy to digest, apparently good for my stitched stomach and intestines. Easy for the liver too I guess, since it's pulling doubles now. But the food is awful, bland, mostly soup. Whole fruits and veggies. Lots of fiber and iron. Nutrient dense they called it. But I don't want it. Everything hurts too much. I haven't left our bedroom, plodding a path back and forth to the bathroom. Rick leaves me food on the end table, on the adorable little tray. But I'm not hungry. If I try to eat, as soon as it hits my stitched stomach, it wants to come back up again. Puking is incredibly painful, so I try to avoid it, desperately dumping only water into my system to push everything down. Water is the only thing that doesn't come back up again. Dry heaving is worse, the pulses of my abdominal muscles sending waves of pain through my body. I am weak, not in control of anything. No one should see me like this. Piecing together my shattered dignity while leaning against the toilet doesn't portray strength. I'm better than that.
I really thought this whole pregnancy thing would be great, wonderful, lovely. I assumed it would have its challenges, sure, but I never expected any of this. I have no energy. Zero. Running on fumes. I hate this.
I haven't been sleeping well and can never get comfortable. Rick set up this somewhat elaborate pillow nest system in our bed that is meant to simultaneously support my healing shoulder, my stabbing torso, and somehow simulate sleeping on my side. It's really lovely. But it's not working. I won't tell him that. He has leapt into my recovery like it's his only job. Like it can somehow save this rocky patch in our marriage. Like it can somehow fortify me. I can see that he is struggling too. He's trying to hide it, to be strong for me. But even from the darkness of our bedroom, I can hear his gritty inhales when he pushes his muscles in a position they don't want; the little movements that stress his frustration. He's been able to attend his physical therapy appointments these two weeks we've been home, and I can see improvements already.
The other day, Ryan, Esposito and Lanie stopped by, bearing a gift basket and comfort food. I could hear them attempting joviality, expressing concern. Kevin and Javi were apparently the first officers on the scene, helping to save our lives. So much I want to say to them. Not right now though. Rick didn't let them get past the living room. I am grateful for that. They don't need to see me like this. But they reminded me that I have a job to do. A precinct without a captain is a lost ship, and I, their captain, have been absent and distracted for far too long. I need to return. Last time he brought me food, I asked Rick to have them bring me my work laptop, so that I could return to working, even from home. He returned a look of deep sympathy.
"No Kate. I don't think you should do that." He was trying to be protective, a slight squeeze to his brow portrayed his own pain, as he reached to touch my forearm.
"Yes. I need to. I need to return to work." I struggled to prop myself up to a sitting position, insistent, determined, gritting to ignore my own pain, impersonate strength.
"No." He was persistent, shaking his head, his grip strong nearly pushing me back against the headrest.
We stared into each other's eyes, a silent battle of wits. My brow pressed into my characteristic intimidating determination. His face pained, sympathetic, sad. The sadness was new. I know I'm not doing great right now, but it can't be as bad as when I had been shot through the heart. I was in worse shape then. And I figured it out; I did it alone. I don't need his sadness. I don't want it. I'm not a damsel in distress, not a weak woman needing protection. Why is he not letting me do this? Why is he holding me back?
I didn't have the energy to fight him, so I conceded. I don't have the energy for anything lately. A month ago I bombed our marriage to protect him, keep him safe. But he insisted that if I was to go down, we went down together. And we did. My decisions hurt him. I hurt him. I can't have him hurting because of my struggles.
I've always hated assistance, feeling much more powerful in my independence when I could retreat to my dark hole and lick my own wounds. I did it successfully when I was shot before. Why should it be any different now? Last time, I headed straight to dad's cabin, pushed everyone else away. I didn't want nor need anyone else. And I don't want anyone else right now either. All I want to do right now is retreat. I keep asking Rick if he is interested, get out of the city for a while, rehab somewhere quiet. Alone. I keep bugging dad to drive me up, but he's blatantly ignoring my wishes. I've even thought of just going by myself. Escaping. But then I remember I can't drive right now. My right arm in a sling, practically useless. And this damn heart monitor Dr. Davidson sent me home with- for the anxiety attacks. I don't want any of this. I just want to be alone, unburdened.
At night, I act like I'm resting, as Rick settles in next to me. We attempt to cuddle for a while, both awkward and in pain, our chests and shoulders tight and hard to move. We end up just holding hands instead. Difference is he can take his pain meds and muscle relaxers. So he fades to sleep on his back. I can't take much more than the bare minimum dose of tylenol due to this stupid little bundle of cells that had to surprise us. I didn't expect this pregnancy. We had chatted about trying, that we might be ready. But we had left it at that. LokSat had then taken over everything about my life. In the ensuing chaos, I forgot about my birth control. But I had also bombed our marriage, moving out. So I wasn't that worried about it. I wasn't having sex with anyone. But then we reconciled, starting with dinner and ending with me moving back in. We weren't going to be intimate at first, still awkwardly piecing back together the stunning picture we had. But I couldn't help myself, nearly jumping him one night as he stepped out of the shower. His body was wet, dripping, and glowing. The little bundle of cells preventing me from taking any effective pain meds was the consequence of that wonderful trip of pure bliss.
Back in bed, once I hear Rick's pained wheezing calm, I count away the hours staring up at the ceiling, flat on my back, feeling the roll of the heartburn oozing up into my throat. Everything hurts, even the little adjustments and attempts to shift my weight to either side. Trying to prop up causes tension and pulling deep in my torso. Nowhere is comfortable. I get no rest. I want to blame Caleb Brown, he shot me. But he shot me because of my perseverance. My dogged determination to the truth. My white knuckle grip on justice. I'm to blame for my own pain. I did this to myself. A sleepy gasp escapes Rick's lips as his body unconsciously attempts a shuffle to a more comfortable position. I am to blame for his pain too.
During the day it isn't much better. The first day I managed to drag myself all the way to the living room couch, I hated what I saw. The kitchen counter was uncharacteristically cluttered, everything that was stored in the cupboards moved to a more accessible location. Rick can't lift his arms very high, being basically limited to lateral movements only. The phantom pain from my own past sternum wound drags across my chest. From my perch on the couch, I watched Rick grit his teeth in struggle, languidly chopping vegetables, each chop slow and determined. He was making me soup. Soup I was going to barely touch. He is trying so hard to be strong for me. I don't deserve that. I don't deserve him.
I tried napping on the couch, wedged upright in the corner between the armrest and the back, resting my head on pillows. I squeezed a little bit of energy out of that. But there was too much noise, too much bustle. Martha and Alexis, attempting to live their lives and tend to both of us, asking if I need or want anything. I ignored them, but my body forgot that it is hurt and I tried to roll over onto my side. My yelp startled everyone, Rick in a nearby chair dropping the book he was reading. More pain, pulling, wincing, heartburn. I'm struggling. I know that they can see it, but I'm too proud to tell them. I need help, but I don't want it. Not from people I've hurt.
I suppose I should be nicer to people helping me. Someone is always here with Rick and I. We haven't been truly alone since we left the hospital. I think it was about two and half weeks ago, but time is a bit of an illusion. Rick is glued to me, as much as possible. I snapped at him yesterday. I was trying to get up from bed in the middle of the night, a need to pee. I rolled to the side too quickly, caught my stitches with my left elbow. He said I yowled. He didn't say it woke him. He tried to comfort me, but I pushed him away, snapped at him.
I think it comes from how I was at the hospital. My body was in so much shock. He was discharged first. Instructions to do his breathing exercises, physical therapy to rebuild muscles around his sternum. A later appointment to remove the stitches. I remember that recovery from years ago. His injuries aren't as extensive as mine were. He's taking it like a champ though. He wears his pain on his face, in his stance. After being discharged, he didn't leave my side, parking himself next to me for the few days it took to convince the doctors I was okay to leave. It was mostly Dr. Davidson who was holding me there. My body kept experiencing these anxiety attacks, sudden drops in blood pressure, spikes in my heart rate. Dr. Davidson insisted on constant monitoring. Did he still care about me? Does he want me there to keep me safe? Keep me alive. He agreed to let me go, if I agreed to wear a portable heart monitor for the first week home. I'm not thrilled about it. The monitor itself is a bit clunky, like an old style flip phone. Belt clip and all. Two electrodes, embracing my old scar, a thin wire running along the right side of my body. To avoid the incisions on the left. Not great. I feel tethered. This wasn't protocol when I was literally shot in the chest, bullet grazing my heart. But I wasn't having sudden tachycardia then either. And I wasn't pregnant then. New protocol I guess.
Rick has been my shadow, despite my snappiness, constantly checking that the monitor is hooked up right, electrodes still attached. Asking how I feel. I just tell him I'm fine. I'm not. But I don't have the words to tell him how I actually feel.
I tried taking a shower the other day. Tried to be quick about it. Got as far as sitting naked on the edge of the bathtub, breathing through the painful pulling of my wounds, bending over to push my leggings off, snagging my shirt on my arm sling. I slashed the sling off, threw it across the bathroom in frustration. It was all too much, so I sat down on the tub to catch my breath, summon strength. Rick found me from the beeping of the stupid heart monitor that I've earned another week of wearing. Apparently I had curled onto the floor as I passed out. Again, why does my dignity seem to leave me when I'm in the bathroom?
The blood stains in our kitchen haunt me. Ryan and Espo got most of it cleaned up for us while we were at the hospital. At least the towels, gauze, clothing and detritus left behind. Remnants of the panic. And the crime scene tape. The footprints from EMT's and such were easy to scrub out. Ryan, Alexis, and Lanie came and did that the day Rick was discharged. But the main pools of blood soaked into the tile and wood. The streak along the supporting column near the wine fridge, where Caleb's body had slumped to the floor. And the pool of blood that accompanied it. The streak and pool where I apparently ended up. We tried and failed to hide that under the open legs of the bar stools, in a haphazard arrangement around the corners of the counter. The elongated streak from the stove to the fridge, Rick's attempt to see me, hold me as we both bled out. We have new tiles and wood floors ordered, but they will take a bit to arrive. I can see that the blood stains haunt Martha and Alexis too. Martha is doing her best acting, pretending they aren't there, pretending like the floor has always been dark red, black, splotchy. But I see her glancing down, holding back the tears in her eyes. Reliving the moments she almost lost both of us. Almost lost her son. Alexis walks around the stains like they are toxic. Refuses to acknowledge them, closing her emotions behind an iron wall. I recognize her resolve. I regret it. My actions have hurt them. I am to blame for this.
Richard Castle, three and half weeks since the shooting
She is trying so hard to be strong. I silently promise her and myself that I won't read what she has written in this journal. It was open on the counter, above where I found her. I haven't read anything, just found the next blank page.
This moment needs to be captured.
We had been home from the hospital for three and half weeks now. She has been improving, getting a bit more rest, moving around more, eating a bit more. Everyone was busy, so I requested a car to the pharmacy. Buy her more doctor approved meal shakes to supplement her soups and get some fresh air. She didn't want to come with me. She has been withdrawn since we have been home. I can tell she is incredibly uncomfortable, but she's too proud to say it. I wouldn't let her retreat physically, but I know she just wants to be alone. That's why I let her be today. Test to see how she handled it. I was gone for maybe an hour. I will never do that again.
When I got home, I found her on the floor in the kitchen, curled in a fetal position on top of the blood stains we were failing to hide, shivering and clammy, sobbing. Heart monitor beeping frantically. I didn't even bother asking her if she wanted help. I need her. Need her alive, and she clearly needed more help than I could provide. When the medics uncurled her, a thin line of blood was trailing down the inside of her leggings. I'm scared for her. For us.
I grabbed her journal off the counter on the way out so that I could write my own jumbled thoughts down somewhere. Find some redeeming plot line in this madness. Sort through my own panic as I wait. Wait for news. Wait for her. I love her. Always.