A Farewell to Arms

I got creakily to my feet, raised her to her up and placed her arms around my neck and said, "Thank you for this gift. It is one more proof of how much you love me. And this little child will signify our love for each other."

I still wasn't able to sweep her up in my arms Fabio style. But I COULD ease her over to the bed. She plopped down on it still sniveling. I lay down next to her and propped myself on one elbow.

I looked into her eyes. They were miles deep with love and devotion. I gave myself one more savage kick in the ass for my ever doubting her.

I said, "I don't know how, or even why, you chose me. But the gift of your sweet love is my most precisions possession."

Then I added in my most sincere tones, "But I am actually a little hurt that you would think that I was so shallow that I wouldn't treasure you and our child. When I said the "for-better-or-worse" part I meant it. I promise that we will work together to make this baby the most well-loved child ever hatched."

She looked at me with wonder. And then a fierce wave of sheer lust flashed across the surface of those huge expressive eyes and she grabbed me by the neck in a way that would be more appropriate to the UFC.

She smashed her mouth on mine and gave me one of her patented "all-there" kisses. Her mouth was wide open and boiling hot. It was like all of the pent-up anxiety of the last month was being burned out of her.

She moaned loudly and began to fumble frantically with my belt. I was going to tell her to slow down and we could do it right. But I sensed her out of control need for reassurance and just went with it.

She was determinedly tugging my pants down as she was also maneuvering me between her widely spread legs. Her robe was wide open at that point. So I had easy access.

For a long while after we got to St-Jean we could only do it with her on top. You should imagine trying to make love without using your knees for traction and you'll get the idea why. But lately we had started to do it with me on top of her. She told me that she likes it better that way.

I outweigh her by 120 pounds and even though I try hard to not completely smother her I can't imagine how all of that weight would be pleasurable. But she says that it makes her feel "possessed" when I am fucking her.

That is another puzzle since Catherine has the fieriest and most independent spirit of any person I know - male or female. Why should she want to feel dominated? But the female mind is as mysterious as the moons of Pluto. And so I take what she says at face value.

Nonetheless, having me on top of her makes her wilder than a bag full of angry bobcats. And today she was even more out of control given the emotional scene we had just experienced.

She grabbed the back of her knees and pulled herself into a perfect bow with her pussy in ideal position to be penetrated. As Old Lucifer slid into boiling hot lava I was thinking, "She really IS hot."

She let out a groan that could probably have been heard by ships at sea. She released her knees and wrapped her long lissome legs around my waste. She extended her arms up so she had a death grip on the bars of our headboard. And as I began pounding her she started fucking back even harder.

She was also just yelling, ""GOD YES!! Give it to me baby!! Pound me!! Faster!! Faster!! I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABY!!"

The heat, the smell and the friction were about to make me go off. But she beat me to it. When Catherine cums big-time, it feels like a deep, fundamental tightening in her entire body. It is almost like the entire mechanism locks up. You can literally feel her insides clench.

That level had only been reached once before, on our first night in Cap-Ferrat. But when it DOES happen she feels like she is made out of pure Carrera Marble, rather than red-hot girl flesh. Her mouth is wide open in a soundless shriek and she usually stops breathing long enough that she passes out.

The last time that occurred I was so busy taking care of my own business that I didn't really notice much about it. But this time I was perhaps more cognizant. Because it scared me to death.

I couldn't move because it took me a moment to stop cumming myself. And she came around as I was just getting my own rationality back on line sufficient to act.

But she lay there for a couple of seconds looking distressed before she opened her eyes and said, "I only THOUGHT I loved you before. You have made me so happy that I NOW understand what true love really means."

Then she grabbed my face between those two exquisite little hands and said determinedly, like she was giving an order, "You will never doubt me. And I would die rather than let you down."

I should have said something in return. I had a feeling that she had guessed what I was really thinking before the big announcement. But our conversation was interrupted by a long moan of yearning as I shrank out of her.

I said, "It is inexplicable to me that a woman like you would love me like you do. It is one of the many things that you do far better than any female I have ever known. But I learned a long time ago not to question my good fortune. And I pledge that every ounce of what I give to you I will give the same amount to our child."

She looked at me and said, "I'm sorry I didn't trust you."

I thought to myself, "I'm even sorrier that I didn't trust YOU my dear." But instead I just said, "Let's sleep on it and we can make plans for the next phase of our life tomorrow."

She kissed me, turned in my arms and snuggled those full muscular buns against me. Of course, that made Old Lucifer want to go exploring. She whacked me on the arm and said laughingly, "ENOUGH but it's nice to know you care."

~

We had seven months to get ready for the arrival, based on Catherine and the doctor's best estimate. I love the Cote d'Azur when it comes to fun in the sun. But the only place I would trust with my wife and baby's health was England and the NHS.

So we moved back to the UK. We chose a perfect little place in the Babbacombe district of Torquay, in South Devon. It cost 400,000 quid but the terms were good and it was a big place, and move-in ready.

More important it was in a section of England where they have palm trees thanks to the Gulf Stream. Of course Devon and Cornwall are also the part of the Country that sticks straight out into the North Atlantic and so the area has its moments weather-wise.

We were mainly there because Rinaldi had recommended Torbay Hospital as the best place in England to have a baby, And I trusted Rinaldi.

The hospital was only two miles up the road from our comfortable house and with all of the advantages of climate and culture I couldn't think of a better place to live. It was July now and little Britannia was a mere five months away. We already knew that she was a going to be a girl. And as far as I was concerned, the spoiling would commence the instant that precious little package arrived.

Catherine was beginning to show. THAT only made her sexier. There is nothing like the glow a beautiful pregnant woman to keep a man constantly horny. And I think it was some kind of atavistic hormone thing with women. But Catherine couldn't get enough of it.

So we probably fucked more frequently during the period from July to mid-October then we did on our honeymoon.

Of course we had to be a little more creative about how we went about doing it. So it was mainly from the back and side now. Nonetheless, the sight of those round muscular buns rippling as I pounded her was stimulating to say the least.

And if the orgasms were to be believed, she seemed to enjoy it like she always did. Like every other guy in the world I know absolutely nothing about female technology - and I certainly wasn't going to ask. But it was thought-provoking that so much could be going on down there at the same time; both sex AND baby construction.

Nonetheless, it was an energizing sight to fuck her while watching her beautiful little breasts pillowed out underneath; as she tried to rip the sheet in half. We were living very well on my disability pay and her trust and if there was ever a time in my life when I was perfectly happy it was that period.

By the time November rolled around my lithe and sensual wife was beginning to resemble a duck. She was still in magnificent shape, not in the least bit fat. But she waddled around like she had an elephant parked on her bladder. And she told me that she had a hard time with all of her bodily functions.

I didn't know what she was talking about and I was hoping she would never fill me in.

We were working on the baby's room; which Catherine supervised like Michelangelo overseeing the Sistine Chapel. It was absolutely charming to see my lovely wife carefully painting with a drip of pink paint on her exquisite Irish nose.

She was still very vigorous in the first week in November. And so I thought I would take one last opportunity to drive the hour and a half up to Bristol to strategize with my solicitor.

The NSA had been hassling me about my contract and we were trying to work out an amicable resolution. I knew that I was going to be hors d 'combat for the last three weeks prior to the baby's arrival and for some time afterward. So I didn't want any distractions.

I kissed my now very rotund little wife goodbye. I said I'll be back by sunset, I promise." She gave me one of her patented very hot kisses and said, "No need to hurry dear. I will just be lying in bed with the catalogues trying to figure out creative ways to spend your money on the baby."

I laughed and said, "You're both worth it, goodbye love." And I backed the Mercedes out of the garage in the lowering light of a November afternoon in Devon.

Of course, the moment I got on the M-5 the first winter storm of the year decided to blow in. The Mercedes is a very stable car. But the wind was rocking it like it was a toy. I was just northeast of where the A361 meets the M-5 when I got the call.

Every detail of that moment has been permanently burned into my brain. The sky had darkened to almost night, even though it was closer to 3PM. The headlights and wipers were on full blast. But it was still hard to see the road.

The wind was blowing in powerful gusts. The temperature had started to drop and the M-5 was beginning to get slick. It was well above freezing but the driving was still hazardous, even with the all-wheel drive engaged.

So I decided to turn around. Getting killed on my way to talk to a lawyer about ways to avoid getting killed just seemed too hopelessly paradoxical.

The rain had been pretty intense but there was no actual storm yet. Then a huge flash of lightning and the roar of thunder announced the arrival of the real shit.

I was creeping along the M5 at 45 miles an hour when my phone rang. The Mercedes's hands-free system picked up and I said, "Hello." An official sounding voice said, "Mr, Frederic Henry?" I cautiously said, "Yes???"

He said, "This is Police Constable Ben Jones and we need you to come to Torbay Hospital immediately!!"

I could guess it was about Catherine. I said with ill-disguised panic, "Why???!! Is she all-right???!!"

The PC just said, "Please get here as quickly as possible. We will explain when you arrive."

It was a death-defying act. But I pushed the accelerator down and I was whipping down the M-5 like Michael Schumacher in the Monaco Grand Prix. I didn't slow down, even after I got on the more residential A 380 near Newton Abbot. Fortunately, the storm was keeping most people off the road. But I still had to weave through the truck traffic.

I was trying to figure out what could have happened. I hadn't been gone two hours and Catherine was in perfect condition. It took an excruciating half hour to wind my way through the local streets of Torquay.

I had built up such a head of frustration that I just screeched to a halt in the ambulance plaza next to the main entrance and left the car there. I dived out into a sheet of rain. And I was soaked by the time I made the 25 yards to the door itself.

I was in a panicked haze as I arrived at the reception desk. I was standing there looking around wild-eyed. I was such a bedraggled sight that two Constables immediately got up and walked toward me.

The big one said, "Mr. Henry." I said, "Yes! Are you the person who called?" The other Constable was a woman. They both did their Warrant Card thing.

He said, "I did. Can we talk in this room?" And they both steered me to a side room that looked suspiciously like a chapel. I was in a frenzy at that point. I said, "WHAT HAPPENED TO MY WIFE?"

The woman Constable said, "Sit down Mr. Henry and I will get the doctor." She left. Then the big Constable said, "Your wife was involved in a minor traffic accident. It appears that she was walking down to the Cliffside?"

Catherine is slightly more Romantic than the chick from Wuthering Heights. And I knew that she liked to walk the four blocks from our house down to the overlook at Babbacombe Beach every time major weather rolled in off the Channel. She said that she liked to "feel the power of the tempest." So she frequently stood on the cliff and watched the oncoming storm until she got soaked. It was her version of a spiritual experience.

I said puzzled, "She does that all the time. What happened?"

The big guy said, "She was on the Beach Road where it bends around down by the Babbacombe Cliff Railway. A tourist came around the corner on the wrong side of the road and struck her from behind.

That actually happened a lot in Torquay. Tourism is the economic lifeblood of the place. That's been the case since the Napoleonic Wars. And the weather in Devon is relatively mild compared to up north; even at that time of the year. So there are always herds of tourists milling about.

Many of them are from countries that drive on the wrong side of the road. In fact, the Brits have to paint warnings on their crosswalks reminding the tourists to "look right" - or there would be a bloodbath every year. And since the tourists also drive on the wrong side of the road there are inevitably a lot of fender benders.

The Constable said, "It was a slow speed collision. The car was moving perhaps 25 miles-per-hour and she had almost managed to step out of the way. But she didn't quite make it. And the force knocked her down."

He looked grim and added, "The witnesses thought that she would be shaken-up perhaps. But she didn't get up. And when they got to her she was bleeding profusely down there. That was when they called the ambulance, which brought her here. And that was when we called you.

He paused and looked sympathetic. He said, "Constable Whitely is bringing the doctor and he can take it from there," We sat silently together for several minutes and then the lady PC walked in with a young guy in a white doctor's coat.

During all of that time My brain was in mortal lock. The entire situation was so totally unforeseen and implausible that I couldn't process it. So I just sat there like a turnip with crushing waves of fear and guilt churning in my gut.

I kept thinking, "How could I have left her alone!!??? It would have never happened if I had been home."

I knew that was total irrational bullshit. Catherine has a mind of her own. She would have gone no-matter what I said. And there was no predicting the accident. What had happened would have occurred whether I had been at home, or in Afghanistan.

The police got up and left when the doctor arrived.

The doctor looked like he was a Resident. And he was a number of years younger than me. But he had that exhausted sense of gravitas that all Emergency Room docs have, no matter their age.

He sat down opposite me and seemed to be thinking through what he was going to say.

Finally, he said in measured tones, "Your wife was struck from behind in a low speed automobile collision. There was no structural damage. She would have just been very sore in the morning, if she had not been so advanced in her pregnancy."

Then he paused like he didn't want to proceed and said, "The car hit her on her side and back. That enormous torsion twisted her body drastically. Which was very unfortunate, because the traumatic wrenching caused a total placental abruption. In simple terms it separated the fetus from her uterus."

He was the dispassionate man of medicine at that point. And so, his narration started to get more clinically precise.

He said, "The outcome of that separation was massive bleeding. We immediately tried a Caesarean as a means of delivering the baby. But either the initial impact, or the enormous blood loss prevented the fetus from becoming viable."

It was like a bomb exploded. We had NAMED her. She was a PERSON. And now she was DEAD without ever drawing a breath. The agony was as excruciating as it would have been if she had died after I had actually had the chance to hold her. I couldn't bear it.

The doctor added in precise measured tones, "We have done a total hysterectomy on your wife. We did it in order to try to control her bleeding. And we are giving her mass transfusions. But the damage is overwhelming and it appears that she is starting to go into acute renal failure from shock and blood loss."

It was a great clinical summary. He had seen a lot of death. And it had habituated him to it. But he had no concept of the impact his words had on me.

My mind was unable to grasp anything. I had no idea what he was telling me. I looked at him without any form of intelligent awareness. And my utter perplexity seemed to bring out his human side.

He said gently, "The next 6 hours are critical. I have sent for the Priest and he will be here to comfort you. Then whenever you are ready, you can see her if you would like. She is resting in the Critical Care ICU."

At that, he rose and put his hand on my quaking shoulder. He said, "I'm sorry Mr. Henry. It was a perfect storm of malicious events. And we are doing all we can. But the prognosis is not good."

My mind shattered. And nothing but the primordial void remained.

I finally understood the truth. There was no grand plan. There was no mercy. There was just ravening nature; red in tooth and claw. And I was a helpless bug under the heel of a cruel and vicious fate.

But I knew the one person I absolutely DIDN'T want to talk to. THAT was the priest. I was afraid that I would tell him what I thought about his God. And I didn't want to risk any potential confrontations with any putative divinities. They had already proven to me how thoroughly I would get my ass kicked.

I said, "Wait, I want to go to her now."

He said, "Don't you need comforting?"

I said with my anger unmistakable, "Not by HIM!!"

We walked to the hospital's Advanced Trauma Life Support Unit. The Doctor used his security card to get us to the central monitoring desk.

The room was divided into eight pie shaped bays all centering on the monitoring facility. Only three beds were occupied. Catherine was in the bed directly in front of me as we entered.

The doctor instructed the nurse that I should be allowed to be with my wife throughout. There was very little attempt to hide the implication that he was really telling the nurse that I could sit with Catherine while she died.

My lovely, vital wife was laying in the bed with her gorgeous copper hair spread out on the pillow. She looked like she was sleeping. Her normally silky white skin was almost ivory pale. That made her freckles stand out more distinctly.

Except for her wan color she looked as gorgeous as ever, with her perfectly proportioned face radiating the soul and essence of Celtic beauty. The machines around her were beeping and churning and there were two IV bags dripping into her. One was clearly blood and the other contained some kind of clear fluid, perhaps a saline solution.