Chrysanthos turned to his wife and relayed what the doctor had said in English.
Tia made a small, choked sound. “How bad—is she—”
“We do everything we can,” the doctor said in English, which was no answer at all.
The gurney pushed through a set of double doors. I tried to follow, but a nurse stepped into my path.
“Take these, sir.” She extended a package of folded blue scrubs. “You’ll need to wear them if you’re entering the operating room.”
I reached out, but my fingers were unable to grasp the package. My brain seemed disconnected from my body. I was shaking uncontrollably. I couldn’t do this. Not again.
“Father,” Chrysanthos said in Greek, his voice low and urgent. He gripped my arm. “Father, look at me.”
I tried. Failed.
“I’ll go in,” Tia said suddenly, her voice breaking. “I can—someone needs to be with Mom.”
The words cut through the fog. “No.” I snatched the scrubs from the nurse’s hands. “I go with her. I am her husband.”
Relief flooded Tia’s face.
“This way, sir,” the nurse said, gesturing to a side room. “You’ll need to change and wash your hands before entering the OR.
I followed her into the small room, my fingers still trembling as I unfolded the scrubs. Chrysanthos appeared in the doorway, steadying my arm as I nearly dropped the shirt.
“Allow me to help you,” he said quietly in Greek.
I stripped off my jacket and shirt, my hands fumbling with the buttons. Chrysanthos reached out, his steady fingers taking over when mine wouldn’t cooperate. He helped me pull the scrub top over my head, then held the pants while I stepped into them.
“Wash thoroughly. Two minutes minimum.”
The hot water scalded my hands as I scrubbed, giving me something to focus on besides the fear clawing at my chest. Soap. Water. Rinse. Again.
Through the small window in the door, I could see Tia pacing in the hallway, her arms wrapped around herself. Chrysanthos had returned to her side, speaking softly.
“It’s time,” the nurse said.
I dried my hands, pulled on the mask, and turned toward the operating room doors.
My children needed me to be strong. My wife needed me by her side.
I wouldn’t fail them.
The operating room was brilliantly lit, sterile, and crowded with people in blue scrubs. Dede lay on the table with a blue drape already positioned across her abdomen.
Her eyes found mine immediately.
“Aris,” she breathed, and extended her hand.
I crossed to her side in three strides. Her fingers encircled mine. “We’ll be fine,” she whispered.
Words failed me. I could only nod.
I positioned myself near her head, well clear of the surgical team, whispering encouragements I couldn’t entirely believe while stroking her hair. “You’re doing well, my love. It will soon be over, and our babies will be in your arms.”
The obstetric surgeon and team worked efficiently. I registered every gesture, glance, beep, instruction, and silence.
“It’s a boy,” a voice announced.
