I want you to understand something about that room. I was nineteen hours into labor, three hours out of surgery, on magnesium and a morphine pump, and I had lost enough blood to kill a person. I could not hold my own hand up.
I heard four words instead of five.
And I screamed.
I don’t remember screaming. Grant remembers it, and a nurse named Bettina remembers it, and my mother, who came running from the family lounge, remembers it. Apparently I screamed until my throat gave out and then I made a sound that wasn’t screaming anymore.
And Grant held onto me and said, over and over, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”
Which is true. Every word of it is true. He was sorry.
He just wasn’t sorry for what I thought he was sorry for.
That is the entire story. Everything else is detail.
I was in that hospital five days. Grant handled everything.
He talked to the doctors in the hallway. He talked to my mother. He answered my phone. He told people. He took a stack of forms off the bed and said, don’t, I’ll do those, and I let him, because I could not sit up without help and because a thing had happened to my brain where I could not follow a sentence to the end of it.
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