Shallow Breaths

     There is one absolute in life that can never be denied. Breathing is hard. Not in the abject sense of just inhaling and exhaling in a rhythmic fashion, any member in the living sense can do that. A majority of living beings do this without even noticing. I just mean breathing, using your breath to live for more then just one suspect moment in this particular life.

     For my wife, Molly, it was easy breathing at first. She went through the rhythmic breathing process like we all have. Each breath extended her life for those particular few seconds. The oxygen fed her lungs and brain for the necessary creation and sustainment of bodily functions. What she was not doing, however, was really breathing. She went through the routine, the motions, as they were, not seeing how endless and boring the process was to one not living.

     Molly is probably like most of the people in the world, breathing to survive, but never truly living. Molly comes from a very disciplined family. She has five brothers and sisters that she talks to daily, all breathing. Both her father and mother, two extremely religious people, are still alive and breathing quite normally. Molly, as always, is the exception to the rule.

     Like her family before her, my Molly wanted one thing, a family. Her background comes from the "Go forth and multiply" concept in Biblical rhetoric. Her family had always been large and constantly in the act of reproduction. Molly and I are only one half of the equation that she is used to. Unfortunately, we have no children at all. Not for a lack of trying, mind you, I think I have gone to sleep exhausted more times then most men can even conceive of, no pun intended.

     As far as we can tell, not having the money to afford experts in the field of infertility, the little guys below have no problem. Tests are inconclusive for Molly, which is why she has forgotten to breathe. She has been wrapped in the notion that no family is a family without children, lots of them. This notion of a failed family includes me.

     Its not easy living a life that your partner thinks is a lie, or half-truth I should say. The nights have been filled with more tears then laughs. That is the one thing I miss most, her laugh. She has a high pitched chuckle, one that you remember long after hearing it. I wish I could do more then just remember it. I have been making jokes to deal with this, I don't know any other way. It has its risks, the last time I made a joke I was almost castrated; she needs my boys too much to risk a little punishment.

     "Jason, do you still love me," she asks, tears welling up in her eyes. She is having another of her crying nights.

     "Honey, what are you talking about?" I never understood why she asks this question day in and day out. "Of course, I love you."

     "Even if we can't have any children."

     Her choking voice wretches my heart out. Ask most men what hurts them most, and their answer will probably be the tears of their spouse. That and the inability to take those fears away that caused them. You'll say anything to make it better.

     "Children are not that important to me, Molly." This, of course, was the worst thing to say. My mind reels after seeing the expression of horror on Molly's face. I took the one thing she wanted and crushed it with one sentence.

     "You don't want any children," she asks; her face implodes in on itself making a face that could be on most Halloween masks.

     Me, I am still trying to dig my way out of this disaster and not hurt her anymore than possible. "That is not what I meant, Molly. If we can't have children, we can't have them." I take her hands in mine, trying to make her understand. "You are all I need in my life to make me happy."

     "I need more."

     For once in my life, just once, I wish my mouth would make the right words. The thoughts are genuine, caring even. When these emotions translate into the movement of tongue and mouth, it gets jumbled. The words express the emotion as a stained glass window shows the world. The light is true, just distorted into colors that were not meant to be there.

     The last time I opened my mouth like that, we went to a therapist. He explained that her idea of a happy life was shattered. She had become depressed, needed medication. She never took pills, Molly thought that they were for desperate people. We went home with a bottle of happy pills for her and a new insight into the problem for me. The doctor said that in certain moods she could become paranoid, in extreme cases manic. Great.

     Twelve days later, the old argument starts up again during dinner.

     "Honey, why just we can't adopt?" I am pleading with her at this point. We have been up for six hours crying, talking, and now yelling. My meatloaf, yes I do cook, has grown extremely cold. The grease has congealed into that solid mass that reminds you what is clogging your veins.

     "Adopt," she screams. "I want my own child, Jason!"

     "There are hundreds of children in this state alone that need a home." Appeal to her humanity, I tell myself, that should help. "I have no problem with a child in our lives, I just think that if we can't have one, adopt one."

     "It's not my fault we can't have children," she replies, furiously. "It's yours."

     "The doctors said I was fine, Molly."

     "They lied, you paid them to lie." She has lost almost all of her composure.

     "How can you say that to me? I have never done anything like that at all."

     "I wouldn't put it past you, you are a terrible husband," she says coolly. "You aren't even man enough to get me pregnant."

     At this point, I need to explain something very simple. I love my wife, I always have. Like all people, I have my breaking point. A place where a person cannot take any more yelling and cussing, a place a person just breaks down. Remember what I said about my words earlier? This is the point where something comes out of my mouth that I regret, that will plaque me for the rest of my life.

     "Fine, you want a child, go get one. Call it your own, call it whatever the hell you want," I bellow. Somewhere, I hear a stained glass window shatter. "Just do me a fucking favor, just have the damned thing so I can get my wife back!"

     She turns to face me, her hands gripped around the plate. In her eyes is a sort of mad animal look, angry and scared all mixed into one. I knew at once; I had lost her. The next thing I see is a large, white object flying at me. In my mind all I can think is, "Meatloaf flies, who knew?"

     When I wake up, the one thing that becomes apparent is the pain. I lift my hand and see blood. A shattered plate is all around me, bits of leftovers cover my body and mix with my blood. Molly is not in the room. I rise like the dead, awkwardly. Staggering in the room, I realize that I have become one of those horrible movies you see at 4:00 A.M. The Husband Zombie.

     "Honey," I yell down the hall. "Molly, where are you."

     I start looking through the house. The bedroom, the hall, the living room. None of them hold the presence I am looking for. I take a quick glance out of the living room window; the car is still there. She hasn't driven off. I think through the options, when it all becomes apparent. The bathroom door was closed in the hallway, it always lie open. I run to the back of the house. The door lies before me. My hand reaches out to uncover the mystery. Locked. I put my shoulder to the door and in two blows the simple lock gives way. The door swings open with my blood staining its panels.

     Molly is lying on the floor. Her face, now calm and serene, has no color at all. Her left arm is twisted awkwardly behind her head; she looks like a twisted rag. Bottles of pills are scattered around the green tile that she loved when we remodeled. Flecks of gray touch the edges of the tiles, the blue and red pills make them seem garish. My mind wraps around these details for some odd reason. The colors of those pills don't match Molly's décor; she won't like that at all.

     "Jason," a soft, eerily quiet voice escapes from Molly's throat. "Jason."

     I carefully sit down beside her, placing her head in my lap. I start listening to her breathing.

     Inhale. Exhale.

     Her eyes close, her hands become cold.

     Inhale. Exhale.

     I look at the face that belonged to my wife. No words escape my mouth, no thoughts. Nothing matters but my wife. The woman who is my world.

     Inhale. Exhale.

     The rosiness on her cheeks are gone, replaced by a sickly gray.

     Inhale. Exhale.

     My mind finally grasps the obvious.

     Inhale.