Love Turns With Twisted Fates 2

I've read about pain like this in books, heard it in
countless songs. My heart clenches, wrapped in the clutches of this moment,
reducing anything and everything to what he says next. The idea that this
moment could be my ending stills my breath.

This can't be my reality.

When we committed to death do us part, I certainly didn't
expect for things to go like this. The walls are closing in. We are the Beauty
and the Saint…People would tell us, “They write stories about love like yours.”
Really? This doesn't seem very love story worthy. It’s hell. Yup, that's what
this is. Hell.

What the fuck happened?

I can't help it; our time together runs as a montage through
my mind.

Oh my god, it hurts.

The looping reel of memories is a gut punch, an excruciating
reminder that after all we've been through those moments may have to last me a
lifetime. Gaining control of myself mid-gag, I fight the urge to expel what I
haven't eaten.

Help me.
It’s a silent plea.

I thought we could survive anything.

Fuuuck. We had.

But then again, nothing could have prepared us for this. A
piece of us lost forever. We’re both so broken. Lost in the reality that single
twist of fate stuck us in. The music diminuendo, our song descending into the
darkness where absence of light and sound is commonplace, the norm. The walls continuing
to close in as song and sound fade.

He sucks in a breath, a momentary break in the impending
silence and then nothing.

In an instant, my world was void. In the next, the silence
deafening. His loss for words speaking volumes, screeching the noiseless
answers to my painful inquiries.

“I’m so sorry, Izzy,” the pain and regret hanging from his
words.

Those four words the confession I was desperately hoping
didn’t exist. The bottom of my world dropped out and the air filled with an ear-splitting
cry. The resonating pain in surround sound.

Left with the echo of the pain-filled howl, the soreness in
my throat shakes me back to the present, the here and now. Those were my cries.
That’s my pain playing a dreadful chord on repeat.

My face in the crook between my knees, hands over my ears
failing miserably to quiet the silent screams waging war on my sanity.

Time silences the cries in my head replacing the raging pain
with the inexplicable and irrational feeling of falling. I plaster myself cheek
to floor in an effort to ground my unstable mind and body. The cool hardwood of
our office has a temporary calming effect.

I’m not sure how much time passes, but my rapid sobs slow to
painful hiccups.

Of course, every part of this is gonna hurt. Why should
breathing be mutually exclusive?

Through the crack between the door and the floor, I can see
that night has taken over the light. Numb to the pain, I peel myself from the
floor. The sight that greets me in the mirror could be the public service
poster for heartache and heartbreak, hair a tangled mess of short waves, face
swollen from harsh tear-clearing swipes, and eyes battered from the incessant
crying. Splashing cool water does nothing for me. Even the temporary sense of
feeling refreshed this act normally brings is absent.

Resolved to my state of muss and disarray, I reluctantly
drag myself one heavy foot in front of the other to our bedroom.

Our. That hurts. Is it my?

I shake and shiver attempting to exorcise the thoughts from
my head.

I can’t go there again…so soon.

There’s a glow coming from Diego’s side of the bed. The
small light draws my attention to his bedside table; it casts an eerie hue over
the folded piece of paper with my name scratched on it. The sight falters all
movement.

When is a letter in a dimly lit, empty, room ever a
bearer of good news?

My curiosity gets the better of me. My legs are moving
towards the truths the note contains before my heart is on board with the
decision. There’s a disconnect between head and heart. With deliberate steps, I
make it to the note; my heart keeping my hands from picking it up.

Unable to resist any longer, there’s a frantic hesitation to
the way I unfold the paper; both hurried and purposely slow at the same time.

My Dearest Izzy…

Chapter One:
We’ve Only Just Begun

August 2006

My eyes are closed.

My eyelids feel like weighted blankets. It sounds like a
subway train rushing through my head. The noise brings flickers of passing
lights like from an express train speeding through the station not on the list
of scheduled stops. The flickering lights become a blinding spotlight. I can’t
resist the instinct to squeeze my already closed eyes tighter.

The sound of the train dissipates as I make out voices off
in the distance. The voices are becoming more familiar, their tones fill me
with involuntary panic when I can’t open my eyes. The broken link between mind
and body is a frustrating realization.

What the fuck happened?

“Izzy, Izzy,” it’s Diego, I can hear the desperation in the
pleas with each repetition of my name. “Grace,” he begs, “what’s wrong with
my
Izzy?” I can feel the squeeze—
I can feel!
I try to move my hand and
fail. I can’t tell if it’s the breakdown in communication between mind and body
or that my tiny hand is clutched in the grasps of my panicked husband. “Izzy—I
think she moved!”

“Give her some air, dear,” I register Mrs. Pettinger’s
voice.
That’s right. We were walking her out. Our house.

With a gasp, I’m brought back to the land of the conscious.
My eyes flash open, I’m thankful for the dim light being cast by the evening’s
setting sun. Squinting, it’s a slow process to bring into focus the frightened
faces of my husband and Mrs. Pettinger.

“What happened?” my voice comes out a hoarse whisper. My
head is pounding. Diego relaxes his grip on me and I attempt to shift. “Whoa,”
I exaggerate. The room instantly moving on a pivot, I shut my eyes to wade out
the tidal wave that the small movement set me on.

Confident that the room would no longer feel like I’m on a
slow motion whirlpool, I open my eyes another time. This time when I focus on
Diego’s face, he’s several shades lighter and beside himself with what I
presume is worry. A barely perceptible amount of relief washes over his face
just as I register the sirens of the approaching emergency services.

“Don’t move, Izzy,” he pleads. “They’re almost here.” The
pain in his voice breaks my heart. It’s a mixture of desperation and confusion.
His frustration is like a vice around my chest. I know what he’s thinking. He’s
thinking he’s useless. While I might be the one with control issues, Diego
hates feeling out of control where my aches, pains, and health are concerned.

I wish I could comfort him, but I’m beginning to freak out
myself. I’ve only passed out like that once before. I had just donated a pint of
blood at a local school’s blood drive. I don’t see how there would be any
similarities.

Panic beginning to set in, I start to take stock of my body;
giving myself a mental physical and searching for possible areas of pain, I’m
desperate to discover the cause of my body shutting down. Diego shifts under me
and slightly away, I’m looking for what would make him move away from me.

My eyes land on the emergency medical technician just at the
opposite side of Diego. He’s wrapping a blood pressure cuff around my bicep. My
focus switches to the other technician asking questions to Mrs. Pettinger and
Diego.

Diego’s gaze is intently focused on the cuff around my arm.
He’s oblivious to anyone else in the room. I will him to look at me. His
continuously cracking facade is unsettling. It stirs up images that I can’t
even put words to in my head. I need his rational way of thinking to chase away
thoughts of nevermores and happily never afters.

A sob escapes from my closed lips and Diego’s eyes are
instantly on me. He’s trying so hard to put on a brave face for me, but he’s
losing the battle in his brow.

They want to put me on the gurney. I can feel Diego’s
reluctance to let me go. My breaths have quickened and shallowed. I’m gasping
for air. He’s too far away. I frantically flail my hand around searching for
Diego.

I search the faces around me for his. When I find him, he’s
back and above my shoulder. I reach my hand up and in his direction. He takes it
and our gazes connect. My eyes plead with him to tell me I’m going to be okay
and then to make it true. The tears are a steady stream of panic and worry.
This is as controlled as this will get.

We’re moving out the front door. Once beyond the stairs, the
wheels on the gurney are down and they’re rolling me the rest of the way to the
ambulance. Diego is matching their pace step for step, making sure to keep a
hold of my head and my attention.

“She’s being taken to Chelsea and Westminster Hospital—”

“I’m going with her. I’m her husband. She’s my wife,”
Diego’s voice is all kinds of firm with a hint of desperation.

“Yes, sir, but if you wanted to let Mrs. Pettinger know,” he
points in her direction. I can’t see her from my position in the ambulance, but
I’m worried with the suddenly sad look on Diego’s face.

Unable, unwilling or both, Diego fails to remove himself
from my weak hold on his hand. He calls out to Mrs. Pettinger from his place on
the bench beside me, “Grace, they’re taking her to Chelsea and Westminster
Hospital.”

That’s right. Grace.

The doors are closed on the ambulance. Diego is stoic, his
face is less grief stricken and more pensive. This time when the emergency
medical technician begins to ask him questions, he’s able to focus on the
younger man’s inquiries.

When we arrive at the hospital, there is a team of doctors
and nurses. They’re rattling off questions for the technician. He’s answering
back just as hurriedly. Their exchange is a rapid fire of medical terms and
measurements. The rather foreign language sparks the panic waiting on the
fringes of my mind to pull me under. Diego’s reassuring squeeze of my hand
abates the impending labored breath and accelerated heart rate.

The team of nurses and technicians situate me in a room and
all but one leaves when the tasks are done. I’m still mesmerized by the flurry
of activity from when we arrived. I think the nurse is explaining some tests
they’ll be doing, something about the results taking a couple of hours.

“Mrs. Santo, do you think you could answer a few questions
for me?” the remaining nurse asks.

“I can certainly try. The nausea and dizziness are gone. Is
it possible to get some water?” I all but beg. My mouth feels like the Sahara
Desert.

“Why, of course,” she replies cordially and shuffles out of
the room.

Ha ha! Why is it nurses seem to shuffle?

She’s back faster than I’d think possible with a little
plastic pitcher filled with crushed ice and water and a foam cup with a bendy
straw in it. She fills the cup just past halfway and hands it to me.

The first sip is a balm of ice water to my chapped mouth. I
slurp the last drop before Nurse—I scan her uniform for her badge— Kitty is
finished sorting the monitoring devices on me. My cup is being pulled from my
hand as Diego refills it for me, his quick attentiveness indicative of his need
to feel useful—or more specifically, not useless.

“Okay, Mrs. Santo—” Nurse Kitty starts and stops.

“Please call me Izzy.”

“Okay, Izzy, how much do you weigh?” We continue through a
series of questions and answers about what could have caused the black out.
“When was your last menstrual cycle?”

Initially, her question is of no consequence, but as I sit
here and contemplate the answer to her question, I can feel my pulse begin to
race with the possibility.

“Could I be pregnant?” I squeak out.

I feel Diego’s eyes on me before I see them. The panic that
once occupied his face is replaced with hope. Where he was rigid and stiff as a
board, the man looks giddy, practically ready to jump out of his skin.

“Well, I suppose it’s a possibility. Do you know when your
last menstrual cycle was?”

“It was about four weeks ago,” I say slightly hopeful,
slightly terrified.

“Would you say you were fairly regular? Do you know your
cycle length?”

“Yes, I am. About thirty-two days is my cycle.”

“We’ll do a blood test.”

I can’t avoid the panic that grabs hold of my heart. “If I’m
pregnant, does that mean there’s something wrong with the baby?” I finish the
question before I realize I’ve asked it out loud.

The hope that was just highlighting Diego’s face is now masked
in fear. I hate that I’m the reason that mask is there. Unable to bear the
guilt I feel for putting the sullen back in his face, I shut my eyes expelling
the pools of tears building with my panic. The sob that breaks free is a
muffled gasp. I know it doesn’t go unnoticed by Diego; he’s swiping the stream
trailing down my cheek with a finger. “Now, Izzy don’t you work yourself up.
We’ll get you sorted out and you’ll be as right as rain.”

Nurse Kitty’s words of comfort fail to do what they were
meant to do. I’m still a ball of nerves so tightly bound that even with the
slightest bit of bad news and I will lose my shit. There’s no way to avoid it.
With each passing second in the proverbial dark, I feel my grip on reality
slipping.

Diego and Kitty have continued the discussion, but their
conversation is more a string of muffled noises rather than words to me. I can
feel the darkness of worry pulling me into the abyss of what-ifs and worst case
scenarios.

“Okay, that’s it my dear,” declares Nurse Kitty. So lost in
the unknown, I didn’t even realize she’d drawn my blood to run the necessary
tests. “Rest and leave the worrying for when there’s something to worry about.”
She pats my arm, giving me a knowing look.

It’s hours later when a doctor returns with information my
from the blood tests they ran. Mrs. Pettinger, Grace, is waiting in the waiting
area. Even at Diego’s insistence, she refused to leave until she heard my
prognosis.

“Mrs. Santo,” he says my name like Santa except with an ‘o’
at the end, “I’m Dr. Elliott Sledge. How are we feeling now?”

I shrug my answer, because physically I feel fine, but
emotionally, mentally, I’m falling apart.

“Well, the good news is you’re not dying,” he deadpans. My
eyes go big and my jaw drops. Diego squeezes my hand and I meet his eyes.
Breathe
,
he mouths. “You’re just pregnant.”

What the what?
Diego and I are now sporting matching
expressions of stunned silence. Sensing that we’re in a bit of shock, Dr.
Sledge continues. “Mrs. Santo—”

“Is the baby okay? Is it bad that I passed out?” before the
doctor could really continue, I unload a series of questions laced with the
concern of what happened and how it affects this new revelation.

“Mrs. Santo,” he says soothingly, “the baby would not be
affected by you fainting. In fact, it is likely because of the baby that you
fainted. Tell me, do you have a history of anemia?”

Nodding, I inform him that I did have a history with anemia,
but that I haven’t had an issue in over fifteen years.

“Our preliminary tests show that your hemoglobin levels are
low. This is normal in pregnancies, but you’ll need to see your regular doctor
to determine the cause of your anemia,” he’s jotting something down on his pad.
“In the meantime, grab yourself an iron supplement in addition to the necessary
prenatal pills.” He continues with some ideas for foods that I could eat to
help. The very mention of meat makes my stomach turn.

“If you’re feeling better,” Dr. Sledge breaks through my
thoughts, “you’re free to leave. I’ll leave your release papers at the nurse’s
station.”

“Are you sure, Dr. Sledge?” this time it’s Diego with the
concern in his voice.

“Yes, Mr. Santo,” he assures my husband. “It is not uncommon
for a pregnant woman to be anemic or faint as a result of the anemia.”

I can feel the relief the words give Diego as he relaxes his
vice grip on my hand.

“You take care now, Mrs. Santo.
Santo Feo
,” his use
of Diego’s on field nickname telling us he knows who Diego is, “I look forward
to seeing you on the pitch.” He’s out the door without another word.

“A baby?” we say simultaneously, the shock and glee evident
on both our faces.

“Well, I guess I had a surprise for you, too.”

We chuckle together. Diego’s eyes are glossy. I can only
assume the news is as overwhelming to his emotions as the news is to mine. The
fluorescent light catches in his eyes. They sparkle like chocolate diamonds. He
leans down and places a kiss on my forehead as he sits on the bed beside me. I
snuggle into his hovering shoulder unable to hold back the tears. Diego trails
kisses down my tear-streaked cheek, landing on my lips for a tight kiss melding
into one with increasing passion being strung between us. The way he holds my
cheek makes me feel like he wants to worship me—and my body.

“Izzy, you’re going to be the best mom ever. How could—”

“Izzy,” calls out Grace, “the nurse said you could have a
visitor now. My niece is on her way here to pick me up, but I wanted to make
sure you were feeling better.” She studies our flushed pallor and my
tear-stained cheeks. “You’re pregnant,” she declares.

Her astute observation makes our smiles grow wider. There’s
no hiding it now. Not right now, when the news has installed perma-grins on our
faces. “Such wonderful news!”

While I’m visiting with Grace in the hospital room, Diego
leaves for what I thought was a bathroom break. However, he has returned with
two books in tow and a teddy bear and I’m no longer sure of his reason for
leaving. He holds up the two books:
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
and
The Expectant Father: Tips and Advice for Dads-to-Be
. Grace, Nurse
Kitty, and I chuckle at his eagerness to be prepared.

“Okay, Izzy,” says Nurse Kitty entering the room, “the doc
has cleared you to go home.” She hands me some paperwork and I go through them,
autographing the necessary pages. Nurse Kitty is going on and on about my
pregnancy.

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