Through Grey Eyes: Fifty Shades of Fatherhood

Clocks

I watch the ticking hands of a clock that's hung crooked on a wall with a long crack leading to nowhere in particular. In fact, the crack just ends midway down the old paint. I'm not sure if the wall gave up on the crack or the crack gave up on the wall, but whatever the case, the clock keeps on ticking. I've never liked clocks. They promise you something that they just end up taking away in the end.

"I'm concerned..."

Dr. Greene is speaking and I'm not there. I am, physically. I'm sitting next to Ana's bed, holding her hand and stroking her fingers, moving her wedding rings with my thumb. My ears are there. My eyes are there. My ass is falling asleep in this hard chair, so I know it's there. But, I'm frozen. All I can comprehend is that Ana might not be okay. That the baby might not be okay. My greatest fear is that my dream is coming true and it's enough to paralyze me.

"Ana hasn't made significant progress,..." Dr. Greene says, her voice echoing as she talks to us from her place of power, standing at the bed's foot. "She could be at risk..." I gasp, trying to find air around me. But, I can't breathe if Ana isn't okay. I don't want to.

The clock continues to taunt me with its ticking hands. Time is marching on without me being able to stop it, or turn it back, or give me more.

"What does all this mean?" The words trip out of my throat.

"She's not dilating enough. The medications I've given her aren't working like I had hoped."

"Why the fuck not?" I ask, louder than intended.

"Christian!" Ana says, eyes pleading with me to shut the hell up.

"It's hard to say. The epidural could have something to do with it."

"I knew it! That fucking psychopath harmed her!"

"No, Mr. Grey. Epidurals have that effect sometimes."

"Then, why did we fucking do it?"

"If I recall, you told my nurses and me to, and I quote, 'Get the god damn epidural, you incompetent bastards and stop standing around scratching your asses, watching my wife suffer the way you're going to suffer if you don't get the god damn epidural.' She remembers a lot. No wonder she made it through medical school with top honors.

"Well, that was before I saw the fucking thing!" I have a flash of recall, like post traumatic stress, of that implement of cruel and unusual torture heading toward the marker drawn bullseye on Ana's back.

"Christian, sit down and breathe before you hyperventilate and pass out again," Ana says. "I can see your goose egg pulsating." I hadn't even realized I was standing. I touch my forehead. My goose egg does feel tender. I sit, for Ana, and for my throbbing egg.

"How is the baby?" Ana asks, as we both place a hand on her belly. "Is he okay?"

"The baby is stable. My real concern is your vitals, Ana. Mainly, your blood pressure. It's still too high."

"This is ridiculous," I say. "Let's do the fucking c-section!"

"No," Ana says. I want to have him naturally."

"Natural is overrated!"

"How do you figure?"

"Think of recycled toilet paper."

"What?" She shakes her head and her bangs swing like they do when she's exasperated with the track my thought train is traveling on.

"It's natural and it does the job, but who the hell wants to wipe their ass with it when they can have two-ply with quilting?"