The Spencer Letters

Letter 55.

Dear Spencer,

I swear life is a freaking movie! Each of our lives is a movie on its own, and the ups and downs, the twists, the drama, the heartache, the love, the joy, it's all a thousand times more intense and complex than actual movie plots.

My life in particular feels like a saga, with prequels and sequels and comebacks and remakes. And however is writing it is one sick motherfucker! And the director? A fucking genius! I never see what's coming, they keep me gasping at every turn, afraid, excited, expectant... they deserve all the Oscars that can possibly be given!

On this installment of the saga, the most unexpected thing happened. But instant gratification is for people who hate movies and read the end of books first. So I'm going to do you a favor and delay it a little bit.

On the night before I left Bridgewater, I had a nightmare. I woke up screaming and on a puddle of my own sweat. I dreamt that I was giving birth and during labor everyone left me to attend to an emergency on the other side of the hospital: you. I remember feeling like I couldn't move. My whole body hurt, but I couldn't push, I couldn't speak, I couldn't cry. I could only think that new life couldn't begin if yours was ending. Life can't move on without you.

I had never been so scared before in my entire life.

The doctor and nurses yelled at me to push, but I was still not moving. Inexplicably, I could hear the sound of your heart monitor from the room I was in, even though we were on opposite wings of the building. But it was that sound that broke me out of the paralyzing spell I was under and gave me the strength to finally start pushing.

I would inhale and exhale to the sound of the "beep, beep, beep" from the machine that was telling me you were still alive. I was alone, everyone had run to your room. When given a choice, our family and friends decided that they'd have time to meet my son, but they wouldn't have another chance to say goodbye to you. I didn't have that choice, though. The baby was coming no matter what.

The doctor then told me that we were almost there, that Ryan's head was almost out and once that happened the rest would be over pretty quickly. So I pushed, and finally had a voice to scream, and strength to fight, and tears to cry. But instead of my tears being of joy for the birth of my son, they were for you. I was crying because I couldn't run to you like everyone else had done, I couldn't say goodbye to you.

The more I pushed, the faster the "beep, beep" would get. And when I finally felt the relief of my baby completely leaving my body, the sound in the background became one continuous "beep".

You were gone.

At the same time that my baby was entering this world, you were exiting it. I wanted to be happy about holding my son in my arms for the first time, but I couldn't. My brother had died, and I wasn't there. That's all I could think about.

That's when I woke up.

My wails alerted my parents down the hallway, and probably all the neighbors. I was inconsolable. No matter how long my mom held me and shushed me to calm me down, I wouldn't. I was in unmeasurable pain. It took me perhaps a whole hour to be able to talk and tell my parents about the dream. The whole thing felt so real, even being awake I had to make them swear you were okay and had to put my hands around my belly to confirm that it was still there.

My mom says that it's normal, that with everything that's happened and all the things I've been through since your accident, it's only natural to fear the worst now that I'm getting closer to the due date. She thinks that the joy of my pregnancy has been overshadowed by the tragedy of your condition, and I unconsciously worry that the same will happen for the birth.