Sacrifices in the Long Run

"Is Leah going to be okay?"

"I won't be dishonest, Mr. Marlin. It's touch and go right now. Your wife lost a lot of blood. We're transfusing her."

"When can I see her?" I begged.

"As soon as she's stable. Perhaps a few hours."

I never knew my father. The woman who'd raised me as a single mom passed away years before I met Leah. My wife's mother had killed herself with an overdose of methamphetamine when Leah was only eight years old. Neither of us had immediate family we could lean on for support.

Sure, Eric and Peggy Reiter were at least somewhat nearby, but they had lives they had to live and were busy with their own healthy child. My envy got the best of me, and I stopped communicating with them. Leah's foster parents and sister were the ones who stepped up to the plate.

The procedure Leah endured was so expedited and traumatic to our unborn baby there was nothing to bury. There was no funeral. No closure. It weighed on us. We simply couldn't shake the heavy blanket of grief.

"Why'd we pick a name?" she asked one night. "Why in the hell did we pick a name for our daughter?"

"I don't know, honey," I said, tearing up with her yet again.

"How do we get past this? I keep feeling our baby in my arms. She should have been a beautiful little girl snuggled to my chest, and now nothing . I don't know what to do!"

"I think we need help."

"You think ?" she said with a healthy dose of sarcasm lacing her voice.

"Professional help, Leah. We obviously aren't getting out of this by ourselves."

We met a therapist the following week, then joined a grief support group after that.

"It's sort of like this," one woman in the group spoke to us, the two newest members. "Imagine being shackled by your ankles to the bottom of a swimming pool. It's raining, and the water is rising. For you, where is the water right now?"

"Right at my chin," I answered.

"My lower lip," Leah countered. I nodded.

"Those are the answers I expected, and, emotionally, it's completely normal to feel exactly the way you are.

"The rain is going to continue, and you may think if you open your mouth to yell for help, you'll drown. The water continues to rise, and just as it gets to your nose, the shackles which have rusted from being underwater so long break and you're suddenly freed, but there's no ladder, and the walls are too high and too steep for you to climb out.

"You may even feel as though you have no choice but to surrender and let yourself slip silently below the surface.

"Then, you remember something akin to a survival instinct. You rest because you're exhausted, and all you do is take deep breaths, filling your lungs with air to stay afloat.

"Stronger storms come and go. Then, one day, you realize the water has risen to the point you can finally climb out of the pool of despair. The rain will follow you, but you see breaks in the clouds. They're where those close to you are waiting.

"They're the same people who peered over the edge who you curse under your breath. They're pouring water in to get you to safety more quickly, not understanding the stress it might cause.

"Does this make any sense?" the woman concluded with the question.

My wife and I stared at each other. We held each other's hands tightly and silently nodded.

"You will climb out of the pool. That much I can promise you. It might take months. It might take longer, but it will come faster when you don't resist your emotions. They're the storms. Let them come. The more rain, the better."

That night, Leah and I both bawled at home, letting the rain fall, but it was different. We felt for the first time in weeks that there might be a way out.

Christmas had come and gone.

"What do you think we should do with all this furniture? Send it back?" Leah cautiously asked as we stood in what would have been our baby girl's room.

"No. Not yet."

"It's not like we'll ever have a need for it," Leah whispered softly.

"Leah, come on. Stop talking like that," I said. "Please don't go there again."

"Where do you expect me to go? I'm an infertile husk!"

I sighed and stared into a corner.

"I give up. Do whatever you want with it."

I left the room.

"Where are you going?" she asked, following me as I walked to the front door.

"To the airport to restore my night currency."

It was a truth by itself but a lie of omission because my primary motivation was the need for space and some time to myself.

I stepped outside to check the conditions. It was, indeed, dark, but it was also foggy.

"Dammit ," I growled, observing the intense halos around the streetlights.

"You're not going to try to fly in this, are you?"

"Want to go with me? We'll call it an instrument proficiency check."

She laughed derisively. "I'm not a flight instructor like you are. Or, should I say were . You of all people should know I can't act as a safety pilot in IMC."

"Yeah." I sighed. "Right."

At that point, I was still addle-brained. To be honest, the foul weather was likely a saving grace, because I was probably too physically exhausted and emotionally drained to fly safely. Instead, I went alone to bed down on the couch in the home office.

Again.

The tears I silently shed weren't only in mourning for the child I'd never know, but because I realized for the first time that some of what I was feeling was ill will toward my wife.

Though I didn't dread it, I wasn't particularly thrilled that Mira Jennings had chosen to visit again. She was a kind and friendly woman, but I hadn't formed any sort of in-law bond, if that's even a thing, considering she was Leah's foster sister, and the official part of that relationship ended more than a decade before.

Leah welcomed her with open arms, which sort of gave me a bit of solace that at least she was being comforted by someone close to her. They sat on the same couch in the home office I'd slept on for a week or so. I tried to make myself scarce, that is, until I needed the nearby bathroom.

"I swear to god, Mira, I think we're headed for divorce," I heard as I walked down the hallway. The words came through the office door which was a few inches ajar.

"Why?"

"I think he believes all of this is my fault. And I can't blame him because⁠—"

"No, Leah, no⁠—" she argued briefly.

"Mira, I can't blame him. I thought I had his heart. I really did. But I know his history and … you know, who he is. Or was. Whatever."

"Oh, boy," I heard Mira gasp. "You're truly out of your mind."

"I know! But I can't think of any reason he'd want to stay with⁠—"

"You can't? Seriously ? You can't ?"

"No."

"Leah, why'd you marry him?"

"Because I adored him. And he loved me . He was the best thing that ever happened … well, maybe equal to what your family did for me."

The past-tense words she'd chosen confused⁠—no, they scared the shit out of me.

"You adored him? You no longer do?"

"I can't tell! The way he's treated me⁠—"

"Wait. The way he's treated you ? How have you treated him ?"

"What are you getting at?" Leah snapped.

"I could sense from the moment you answered the door when I got here that you …"

"That I what ?"

"Hold on." She paused. "Lance, I see you loitering out there! Get your butt in here right now," Mira said with elevated volume.

I juggled the options in my mind of whether to flee or comply. Something in my brain chose the latter. I cracked the door further open.

"See?" Mira spoke to her ersatz sister. "See ?"

"No! I don't !"

Mira shook her head as she stared at the floor. "Lance, sit down."

Again, I complied.

"Leah, listen to me. Open your ears and listen ."

"I am listening!"

"How long have you and I known each other?"

"What?"

"How long ?"

"Twenty-five years or so."

"Right. And in that whole time, I never told you about⁠—Leah, I think you're suffering from postpartum depression."

"No, I'm not⁠—"

"Yes, I believe you are, and Lance is, too."

"What the⁠—" I barked.

Mira took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.

"I never told you about my miscarriage. I think you were like seventeen at the time. Dylan and I had been married for four years, and our first pregnancy aborted itself at nineteen weeks⁠—"

"Why are you telling me now ?" Leah cried out in obvious shock.

"Because you need to know how absolutely devastated I was. Dylan was hit just as hard with depression if not harder. We went through the same things you and your goofball husband are going through now."

I didn't know whether I should yell at Mira or laugh at being called a goofball. Yeah, I was that confused.

"You both need to get medical help. The counseling you're attending is important, too, but I don't think it's enough. Postpartum depression is real , Leah, and I'm surprised your doctor hasn't followed up. You're needlessly suffering⁠—"

"But⁠—"

"No buts. I had no clue either until Mom noticed Dylan and me bickering and my shorter-than-hell temper. You need to be evaluated! Do it .

"Lance," Mira spoke directly to me, "do you love your wife?"

"Yes."

"Do you resent her for what happened? And don't lie to me. Bedding was still covering the sofa when we came in, so I know one of you has been sleeping in here."

"Maybe," I answered cautiously, knowing my answer was a half-truth.

"I knew it!" Leah yelped.

"No , Leah, stop.

"Dylan resented me, and I hated him for it, too. I'm not trying to go all gender stereotyping and all, but you and I are women. We are the female of the species. It is our role to grow babies in our bodies, and when we can't, it's gotta be a thing for the male to⁠—anyway. Forgive your husband. You have to if you're going to make it through this. If you believe me, you have to trust me.

"And Lance, I don't care who or what you are. I'll kick your ass all up and down the street out there if you don't cut Leah some slack. You need to consider how blessed you are that you still have her . There's no fault to be assigned to anyone. The placenta comes from the baby's cells. Both of your DNA, not just the mother's, so, if you want to assign blame? Well, for all you know, it could be yours ."

Mira's statement settled on me like a boulder. It'd adjusted my perception of reality.

"You two are pilots, so I'll put it in terms you might actually understand.

"Both of you are squawking 75, 76, and 7700 all at the same time. This absolutely horrible tragedy has hijacked your sense of worth, you've lost your ability to communicate with each other what's truly going on inside your hearts and minds, and the fact that you're both so obviously suffering severe depression without realizing it is an extreme emergency.

"I'm an air route specialist in some of the nation's busiest airspace, right? It's my job to anticipate the bad stuff that can happen if things don't go according to plan, long before pilots realize the gravity of the situation they might be unintentionally creating.

"And because Dylan and I have been right where you are … I see it, guys, and I sincerely hope you trust me and get the clinical help you need."

After several moments of silence, I was the first to speak. "Field in sight. Cancel IFR."

"Fair enough. Lecture complete. Cancellation received. Squawk VFR."

"No, don't," Leah whispered. "Maybe you can continue flight following?"

"Yeah. There's my fake little sister," Mira humorously said, bringing my wife into her arms.

"I have an important question to ask you," she continued after a few moments of compassionate contact.

"Okay."

"Has your doctor not been following up with you? Recently ?"

"Not since he gave me the all-clear to return to normal activity."

"So he didn't evaluate you for postpartum depression?"

"Not specifically, at least that I remember," Leah answered.

I only shrugged because I didn't know, either.

"Then you need to find another doctor. Seriously. I think yours dropped the ball."

"No, he didn't," I said.

"Huh?"

"Maybe we dropped the ball. We thought we were done."

"Then go back, or find another doctor. ASAP. Expedite. Whatever."

"Peggy, I need a favor," I said as soon as she answered her phone.

"Holy crap, Lance! Eric and I have been so worried about you guys. You've not called, haven't answered ours⁠—"

"I've been a dick, Peggy. I have no one to blame but myself. But I think part of the reason I have been is why I need your help."

"What is it?"

"Do you know anything about postpartum depression … Let me ask like this. Did your OB evaluate you for it after Meghan was born?"

"Not just afterward. He started two months before and evaluated both Eric and me using a standardized assay every six weeks until she was eighteen weeks old. I'm asking again. Why?"

"Because Dr. Davis never did. At least that either of us can recall."

"You're not answering my question, Lance. Is something going on?"

"Yeah. Mira Jennings thinks Leah⁠—Mira thinks we're severely depressed. I didn't even know there's such a thing as paternal postpartum until I started researching online."

"If you've been looking things up, I'm guessing you've come across the EPDS survey?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"Leah's score is sixteen and mine's twelve."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Hence the favor I want to ask."

"What can I do?"

"I know there's tons of physicians in the area, but we need someone we can trust. We're hoping maybe you can call in a favor so Leah can see your doctor. We've called his office, and they say he's not taking any new patients right now."

"Well, he is a pretty busy guy being the chief of⁠—forget it. I will do my absolute best to make it happen, Lance."

"Thank you. And … Peggy? … How is she? How's Meghan?"

I heard her sigh resignedly. "Lance, I don't want … I don't know how to answer withou⁠—"

"I admit it, Peggy. I admit I've been envious of you both. I'm sorry, and it stops now."

"I think I under⁠—I think Eric and I can understand that. She's doing well, and I sincerely thank you for asking."

"Is he around?" I asked tentatively. I knew he probably felt snubbed and deserved an apology.

"I wish he was. I know you both too well, and I know he misses you even though he doesn't talk about it."

"Oh, a manly man," I weakly joked.

"He hired a service, and he's up with Dalton in an R44 hunting feral hogs from the air."

"A real manly man," I said and chuckled. "Ask him to save me a few racks of ribs?"

"He always does. I'll be back in touch with you as soon as I can, okay?"

"Thanks, Peg."

Months passed during which Leah and I were treated medically. I think Leah was as astonished as I was by how much we began to feel. It wasn't only an emotional lift, but a physical one as well.

Her smiles and the sparkles in her eyes had reappeared. Once we'd been weaned off our medications, even our libidos made a smashing return. We'd also begun exploring the idea of adoption.

The most important facet was that hope returned.

"How are you feeling?" I asked the love of my life after a marshal guided us into a tie down spot on the ramp of the Wiley Post FBO.

"Even though it's hotter than Hades out here, it feels so good to fly again." Leah smiled broadly. "I do miss my first flight instructor, though. He was much hotter than Hades," she said before she gave me a tender kiss.

She made me laugh. I'd let my instructor privileges lapse after she'd earned her license, so we needed a different instructor to restore our currencies and complete our flight reviews to get legal again. At first, we'd grounded ourselves because we didn't believe we were mentally sharp enough to be safe. Then, we were medically disqualified because the antidepressants we were prescribed were on the FAA's list of prohibited drugs for active pilots.

We'd been flightless for at least eight months, so some retraining and refreshers were required. We'd completed it all only a few weeks earlier. Leah had been absent from the controls longer than I, so she was anxious to act as PIC for our flight to Oklahoma.

"Outstanding, but that's not what I mean. How are you feeling about the potential future?"

"Dr. Weissmuller's call sounded kinda urgent. Considering he didn't ask for another follow-up after he weaned me off my meds, it sort of makes me nervous."

"Other than that, you're still feeling okay?"

My wife swayed her hips sexily from side to side after we'd attached the three straps to the lugs at the wings and tail of the plane.

"Come here, Lance," she said with opened arms.

I embraced her.

"We beat the snot out of each other, and I know we both regret it. I'm much better, and I can tell you are, too. I don't know how it's possible, but every day seems so much sunnier. There's still an occasional storm or light showers, but the sunny days far outnumber the rainy ones.

"I love you, Lance, and the bruises are finally starting to heal."

"Not much black and blue left?"

"Maybe still some blue, but no more black or yellow."

"Ugh." I grimaced at her apropos visual.

"Our Lyft is waiting. You ready?"

"As much as I'll ever be."

Fifteen minutes later, we entered the professional building on the grounds of Children's Hospital of Oklahoma City and rode an elevator to the seventh floor where Dr. Weissmuller's clinic was located.

The admitting nurse showed us to his office.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said, about twenty minutes having passed when he came in.

He closed his door and scurried to his desk.

"How have y'all been?"

We spent a polite amount of time catching up.

"So," he continued, "I had an unusual conversation last week which got me thinking. I realized time is of the essence, which is why I asked you to come visit me on such short notice. I'll cut right to the chase. Have the two of you considered having a child via surrogacy?"

"No. No way . That⁠—"

"Let the man talk, Lance," Leah gently interrupted. "Please continue."

"The complications from your uterine rupture were severe enough to irreparably damage your left ovary, but you still have your right. Though you no longer menstruate, I'm sure you've by now noticed the other aspects of your monthly cycle have returned to a somewhat normal rhythm. Your remaining ovary continues to regulate your hormones naturally, and why replacement therapies aren't necessary."

"Yeah. PMS is definitely a thing even without the 'M.'" Leah chuckled ruefully.

"Because you have a healthy ovary, you also have your ova. There's a very good chance you and your husband could conceive your own flesh and blood offspring with the assistance of a gestational carrier."

Dr. Weissmuller described the process in some detail, and explained how the laws of Oklahoma and Texas, as he understood them, supported such endeavors.

"The whole idea of renting a uterus seems so bizarre to me," I said. "I mean, what happens when the surrogate mother winds up bonding with the child and doesn't want to part with it?"