Читать книгу Teaming: Monica's Dream - Escritorial Press - Страница 6

The Mallorca sunlight streamed in every morning, intense at this time of year. Jil put on his white Hugo Boss suit with a matching shirt and tie, and proceeded to brew a strong, dark coffee. It was August, 1998, and his wife, Victoria, was seven months pregnant.

He opened the window of his large colonial apartment in the city center of Palma de Mallorca, Spain, and let the sea breezes flood the room. Living on a Mediterranean island had the charm of the sea being ever present in daily life, and that day was an important one in their lives. After the echo-sonogram, he and Victoria would know whether they would have a son or a daughter.

Together, Jil and Victoria took the elevator down, walked to their car, got in their FIAT coupé Turbo, and settled themselves in the comfortable gray leather seats. Jil was still young, in his early thirties, and had achieved great professional success. Having a child was, more than anything, the realization of all his dreams.

Looking in the rear-view mirror Jil Van Eyle could mentally trace the long way he had come to be where he was, successful, in control of his life. For him, it hadn’t been enough to be Marketing Director of Eurotunnel at 25. By the time he was 26, he had launched his own business in a new company: a fleet of brand new commuter buses that provided rapid transit between several European cities, non-stop, with attendants and a new marketing system. It was a sort of luxury Greyhound line. In less than three months, his company had surpassed all the projected bus ticket sales and, not knowing quite how it had happened, he had become a media personality, admired by everyone.

Jil kept his eyes on the road, but with a quick glance at his wife seated next to him, the awareness of this moment washed over him. Despite all his success, having a child was a last attempt at saving his marriage, as if that child could bring back the happiness they had at the beginning.

They crossed the city in a few minutes. At the doctor’s office, a young nurse, slightly bored, asked Vicky to get up on the examining table. Soon, the comforting figure of the obstetrician appeared, quiet, strong, and broad-shouldered, exuding confidence in his demeanor. He greeted them and began the procedure of spreading the cool gel over Vicky’s belly, waiting for the screen to show the image of their child moving inside her.

Almost immediately, Jil noticed the doctor’s hand moving quickly, in jerky motions, no longer looking at them like before. His pupils seemed trained on the screen, focusing again and again on something he did not seem able to find. What was supposed to be a routine visit was quickly becoming unsettling. Jil felt a sudden stab in the stomach trying to fathom the possibility that there may be a problem, but he quickly dismissed the idea from his mind.

Finally, attempting to regain his composure, the doctor turned his face towards them.

“I believe you have a girl…” he said, and then paused as if to take in some air. Jil suddenly understood what it’s like to feel silence stretching for a few seconds into what seemed like hours.

He became aware of a painting on the wall, of the color, of the ceiling, the room closing in. “And we have to run some tests.”

“But, what is it? Is something wrong?” Jil asked the questions, hoping to be told that it was nothing important.

“We don’t know for sure.”

“What’s happening?” Victoria asked, her voice shrinking to a whisper. Jil saw beads of perspiration on his wife’s forehead. Both of them craned their necks forward, trying to make sense of the image, dazed.

The doctor didn’t want to make a mistake, Jil supposed, or to say the wrong thing.

“If I’m correct,” the doctor began, and then he stopped. “I believe the baby has hydrocephalus- a serious condition. Babies born with this type of brain damage don’t normally live for more than two days.”

Now, the silence that arrived in the wake of his words was complete. Time did not stretch or run faster, it simply stopped.

“Hydrocephalus is a very rare illness,” the obstetrician added, “one that has an extremely low incidence.” With his face a somber mask, the doctor sent them to the Hospital Son Dureta, the most important medical center in Palma de Mallorca, to run further tests.

Suddenly the waiting had come to an end. There were no more memories of where they were, what things looked like or what color they were. Jil realized that the nurses at the office averted their gaze so they would not have to look at him in the eyes. Jil and his wife walked out into the street, distraught, not saying a word. Jil could not think about Victoria, about how she felt after getting the news, he could only ask himself over and over, Why? Why is this happening to me? What have I done to deserve this? What have I done wrong? Haven’t I suffered enough?

They returned home in complete silence. Neither of them wanted to allow the words they had just heard to become a reality. Outside, the city was alive, unaware of their pain, unconcerned, crowded with the German and British tourists that had arrived to enjoy the brilliant sun and the sea.

On October 8, 1998, defying every prediction and right before the ninth month, Mónica was born by cesarean section. The first time Jil saw his daughter she was lying in an incubator, wearing a tiny diaper. She weighed just over 6 lbs. Because of the hydrocephalus her bald head was almost as large as her body. She was trussed with cables and tubes, including the respirator that kept her alive. Her chest barely moved. On the glass beside the incubator they had put up a pink post-it that read, Mónica Van Eyle. Standing on the other side Jil could not pick her up and hold her or kiss her, and the tragedy he was living began to dawn on him. He burst into tears like a child.