by Kat T. Masen
Keeping our conversation going, and purposely derailing the topic of moving to Australia, which I’m certain will come back up, I raise the one thing that comes to mind. “You know, we haven’t really discussed baby names…”
“I have a few,” she responds with a quaky voice. “For a boy, I like Noah.”
My face tightens. This isn’t the time to get jealous, but I have no issues pointing out the obvious.
“Noah. As in the guy you slept with, Noah?”
“Oh… I forgot about that. I hate that you have a good memory,” she complains.
“Answer is no,” I state, rudely. “How about Hannah for a girl?”
“I once knew a Hannah in school. She was a bitch. Probably because people called her Hannah Banana.”
“Okay… I’ll take that as a no.” I know this conversation will frustrate the hell out of me. “Aurora, I had a lovely patient with that name.”
“Sounds like a brand of toilet paper. Oh, what about naming them after a place, like London?”
“We’re simple people, Zoey. We don’t do crazy things like name our kids London or Pineapple.”
“Gwyneth Paltrow named her daughter, Apple. Pineapple wouldn’t be so far-fetched.”
The bright lights of the city ease my nerves. The hospital is only a few miles away, and this conversation is going nowhere. We barely agree on anything so finding two baby names is proving impossible.
A moment later, I realize she’s trailing off.
“Zo,” I call out. “Zo, are you okay?”
My gaze fixates on the mirror as she nods her head, unable to speak with her eyes glazed over. The radio switches songs, playing one of her all-time classics.
“You love this song,” I remind her, the clock ticking over prompting her timely contraction.
“All the girls might be having fun, but I’m not. Remind me never to become pregnant again. I’m done. This is it. Two in one go. Even numbers. You take one, and I’ll take the other. You should probably get the snip tomorrow. You’ve got perks in that hospital, just walk in and say cut my dick off,” she growls.
A part of me—the part wanting to shut down any activity about cutting my dick off—warns me to shut up. I can’t be any more grateful to the man up above for getting us here in one piece as we pull into the entrance and stop at the main door. Frantically, I turn the engine off and race to her side of the car to help her out.
“I love you. I’m sorry,” she apologizes mid-cry, twisting her arm backward to alleviate the pressure on her back as she begins to walk. “Don’t cut your dick off.”
“I won’t,” I reassure her, happy to be here.
Walking through the automatic doors, I spot a colleague who often works the main desk. Knowing I can rely on her, I pass Zoey to her while I quickly move the car so it won’t block emergency vehicles.
Catching up, we make our way to the delivery ward. Trying my best to remain calm, I allow the nurses to get Zoey settled before Dr. Wheeler walks into the room. She isn’t our usual obstetrician, she’s young and new to the hospital. C’mon Drew… don’t judge her on her age. Been there, experienced that.
“Let’s get you checked out and see how far these babies are,” Dr. Wheeler says, placing her gloves on and spreading Zoey’s knees apart.
“Zoey, you’re in your active labor phase. You’ve already dilated six centimeters so not long to go before we meet your beautiful babies.”
I reach out grabbing Zoey’s hand allowing her to squeeze it tight.
“But, but…” The panic rattles her, words barely able to come out of her mouth. “We can’t be in active labor. We’re supposed to do the classes. I tried to book them in, but Drew’s schedule was too hectic. I don’t know how to push, and what about swaddling? I didn’t get a chance to practice swaddling.”
I plant a kiss on her forehead, willing her to relax and just breathe. “Deep breaths, in and out. And I’m sure we can learn to swaddle together. Doesn’t look that hard.”
“For you,” she cries, grabbing the ice in the cup beside her and chewing it with force. “You’re perfect at everything you do. You’re a goddamn heart surgeon. I can’t even fold a fitted sheet!”
“If it’s any consolation, the fitted sheet is one of the trickiest household items to manage. I read this guide on how to fold and store them. Quite handy if…” I pause, noticing her tight jaw and irritable gaze. “Sorry, let’s not talk about that anymore.”
Zoey might think that I’m perfect at everything I do, but I’m far from it. I am not the perfect husband. I shouldn’t have dropped the bomb about Australia when I did. It was an insensitive move, and if we didn’t get into that fight her water might not have broken.
And let’s be honest—I have a jealous streak. I thought it would disappear once we married, but I think it’s gotten worse. She recently told me this story about how one of the professors teaching her course gave her some inside tips on the best restaurants in town. Perhaps, in her eyes, he is innocent.
My mind thinks differently.
She’s hot, married, and extremely intelligent—the whole fucking package.
He wants to fuck her.
End of story.
I continue to watch that situation like a hawk.
“I’ve got one.” I smile, staring at her beautiful green eyes. “Every time we go to weddings and you make me do the Nutbush, I screw it up.”
She laughs, resting her head back against the pillow. “The trick to the Nutbush is to follow the confident dancer. If you follow the person in front of you, and they’re doing it wrong, it sets you up for failure.”
Her expression shifts, the contractions on the monitor increasing as the pain ricochets through her and into a loud moan. I feel so helpless, praying to the Lord these babies come out safe, and the pain subsides.
“I need something for the pain,” she cries, loudly, “Please, take it away.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” a male nurse, Josiah, tells her while scribbling down her vitals.
“You’ll see what you can do?” Zoey shouts, the shrill in her voice echoing through the room. “Of course, you don’t care. You don’t have a vagina you need to push these babies through!”
“Zo.” I squeeze her hand trying to divert her attention to me. “Deep breaths.”
It didn’t take long for the anesthesiologist to be called by a terrified Josiah. The poor guy needs to harden the fuck up if he plans to make a living in this field. Within minutes, they prop Zoey up, requesting she arch her back and remain perfectly still. I know this position is vital for preventing problems and increasing the epidural effectiveness.
Dr. Malik, anesthesiologist, uses an antiseptic solution wiping Zoey’s waistline to mid-back area to minimize the chance of infection. He remains focused on a small area on her back, and with both her hands clutched in mine, he inserts the needle into the numbed area surrounding the spinal cord in the lower back.
“Are they done?” Zoey whispers, head down and eyes closed.
“The worst is over,” I reassure her.
Dr. Malik threads a catheter through the needle into the epidural space. The needle is then carefully removed, leaving the catheter in place to provide medication through periodic injections or by continuous infusion depending on the progress of the labor. Zoey’s breathing slows, the pain subsiding instantly. The final step is taping the catheter to her back to prevent it from slipping out.
“All done,” he announces. “Feeling better?”
Zoey nods. “Yes, thank you.”
“Good luck, Dr. Baldwin. I’ll be back shortly to make sure everything’s working okay.”
I thank him for his time. With Zoey’s lower body numb, I help her get settled into a comfortable position willing her to rest. It only takes a few minutes for Zoey’s eyes to droop and fall into a much-needed sleep.
My thoughts drift as Zoey sleeps. I want to capture this moment, this image of her because the fear of losing my wife is overshadowing what should b
e a life-changing moment. The surgeon in me knows that fatality during labor is extremely rare unless there’s a pre-existing condition. The husband in me fears the worst.
I recall the beach, the moment I thought I was losing her.
“She got caught in a riptide. I got scared, and I didn’t know what to do,” Rob stutters in a rush, pacing beside me with his hands frantically running through his hair.
Three, two, one.
Nothing.
“C’mon, Zo. I was lying about the carrot sticks. Wake up please,” I beg softly.
My heart is racing a million miles a minute. I’m thinking about how if anything happened to her, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. Get your shit together. Follow the CPR steps again.
I place my lips onto hers, blowing into her mouth, desperately trying to resuscitate her, all the while praying she can hear my thoughts. Fucking wake up, Zo. I wouldn’t know what to do without you. I need you.
Everything I’ve ever complained about, I want back—her annoying quirks like singing Madonna off-key in the shower, dropping crumbs on the sofa, her loud snoring, her hairpins scattered all over the apartment, and the way she lies in my bed talking to me for hours about her day or some random television show she landed on while channel surfing. Oh, and her obsession with fictional characters.
I want it all back, every bit of her back.
I can’t fucking lose her!
Pressing my lips against hers once again, I beg the Lord above to bring her back to me. They feel warm, full of blood. They’re soft, they have life. I pull away slowly and see the green orbs staring back at me. The second they do, my heart falls back into place.
“Drew,” she mouths, barely above a whisper.
“I’m here, Zo.”
I’m used to running on no sleep, and at just shy of two in the morning, Dr. Wheeler pops her head in to check on Zoey’s progress. Zoey begins to stir, her eyes barely opening.
“What time is it?”
“Just after two.”
She mumbles something about a dream she had involving a lion and monkey until Dr. Wheeler’s expression shifts, her brows drawing together, and her eyes fixated on the monitor. Using the Doppler transducer, she removes it quickly and calls Josiah back in.
“What’s wrong,” I ask, concerned.
Dr. Wheeler doesn’t respond straight away, jotting something down which only irritates me more. “One of the babies’ heart rate is dropping.”
Fuck. I know what that means. The babies need to come out now, and if Zoey hasn’t dilated enough, they will perform an emergency C-section. I stand up moving to the other side so I can see the monitor properly, grabbing the Doppler transducer and listening with my own ears. The normal range for a full-term baby’s heart rate during labor is between one hundred and ten to one hundred sixty beats per minute. One of the babies is decelerating which may be a sign that the baby is in distress and can relate to the baby’s supply of oxygen being compromised in some way.
“Dr. Baldwin, you understand we need to get these babies out now.”
The nurses scurry, and while they begin prepping a barely awake Zoey, I hold her hand and explain calmly what’s happening.
“I’m scared,” she cries, her eyes now wide-open with fear as her lips begin to tremble. “This isn’t supposed to happen. I’m supposed to give birth naturally, push these babies out. I’ve never had an operation…”
I wipe the tear that has run down her cheek struggling to compose my own emotions.
Be strong for her.
You must be strong for her.
“I promise you, it’ll be all right. Soon those babies will be in our arms.”
Fighting my own tears back, I suck in a big breath and focus. I know what my role is in our relationship, and as if something clicks I straighten my shoulders, hold onto my wife’s hand tight as they wheel her into the operating room, and silently pray for the Lord to watch over the three most important people in my life.
In just a few short minutes I will become a father.
And my life as I know it will forever be changed.
Chapter Nine
Zoey
This isn’t at all how I planned it.
Expectation—fall pregnant after a year of marriage, carry baby, and give birth vaginally.
Reality—falls pregnant after two months, expects twins, and now lying here on an operating table being sliced open because my stupid body can’t do anything right.
I stare at the ceiling, the bright lights blurring my vision the more I try to focus. I’m surrounded by a team of nurses, doctors, and other people who introduce themselves during my confused and exhausted state.
There’s a lot of talking, but I’m not listening. Even though I’m numb from the waist down, I can feel them tugging on my stomach. It’s not painful, just a lot of pressure, and it’s odd—an out-of-body experience.
Beside me, Drew is fixating on what’s going on behind the curtain. This scenario isn’t out of the ordinary for him. He’s in his element. But despite all that, he is biting his bottom lip, sweat building up on his forehead. I’m absolutely freezing in this room. The more I begin to think about how cold it is, the realization sets in that my body is shivering uncontrollably.
A nurse lays a blanket on top of me, covering my shoulders and tucking it in nicely. I barely manage to smile or thank her, relishing in the warmth. My body relaxes, and just as I’m about to close my eyes, I hear it—a staggering cry.
“It’s a boy!”
They lift him above the curtain, and all I see is this beautiful baby boy covered in something slimy with a slight cone head. He’s screaming his lungs out and so tiny for such a loud voice.
“A b-boy,” I stutter, shocked at this surreal moment and disappointed when they pull him down from above the curtain. “And the other baby?”
“A boy. I have a son,” Drew whispers, kissing my forehead with a proud grin. He raises his head, eyes meeting mine with a loving gaze. “It’s coming, okay?”
Reassuring me that everything is okay, he anxiously resumes his post focusing on the activity behind the curtain. No one says a word, only adding to my worry. My throat is dry, and although my head is begging to ask who took our son, I can’t seem to communicate it loud enough.
Time is of the essence but feels like it’s dragging on. I brace myself for the bad news and wait the longest three minutes of my life until another raspy cry graces the room, and a loud cheer erupts from everyone behind the curtain.
“Another boy!”
Drew squeezes my hand, a tear falling down his cheek. “Two sons. We have… two sons.”
It’s over.
The babies are out.
They’re safe.
They lift son number two above the curtain, and just like son number one, he looks exactly the same—this beautiful little baby with a full set of lungs.
The nurse hands one of the babies to Drew while the other is left behind under the incubator. Drew brings him over to me, placing his soft little face against my cheek. I begin to cry, tears of joy and shock.
This little tiny baby is my son.
“Don’t forget this little guy,” the nurse calls, walking over to us and handing son number two to Drew. He does the same, lowering him so our faces can meet. He smells just like the other baby, and in the space of five minutes, I never could have ever imagined the love I feel for our children. Nothing, no textbooks or advice from anyone can prepare me for this.
And as for Drew, his paternal instincts have already kicked in. Watching your husband hold your babies for the first time is a moment I will always cherish. My heart is so full that I’m afraid it’ll burst with happiness.
“We need names,” Drew reminds me, rocking them slowly. “How about Oliver? I’ve always loved that name.”
“Oliver,” I repeat, barely able to keep my eyes open, the exhaustion becoming a battle. “And Henry…”
“Henry.” Drew beams, staring proudly at his sons. “Oliver an
d Henry Baldwin. I think it’s perfect.”
“Perfect…”
The sounds of the voices become faint, further in the distance, and the struggle to keep my eyes open is too much.
“Zoey… Zoey,” someone yells.
“She’s hemorrhaging!”
The room begins to spin, everything becomes a blur, and I don’t know where I am.
I’m lost.
It’s pitch black.
And all I hear is dead silence.
Chapter Ten
Drew
Twenty tiny fingers
Twenty tiny toes.
Two heartbeats.
Two sons.
The day I lost my dad, I thought my world had ended. I wept silently in the confines of my own space and nothing, absolutely nothing at all, could have prepared me for the enormous amount of grief that followed.
This man—a man who had been a role model to me—raised me solely. And I wasn’t given a chance to say goodbye. He was taken away from me too soon.
I couldn’t recall a single moment in my life where he wasn’t present. He did it, though. He battled his own demons and still managed to raise a son on his own. He often told me that it wasn’t hard, I was a good kid, and he loved me. I could do no wrong in his eyes.
Dad will always be dad, and Zoey will always be my soulmate.
But these boys, they are my heart.
I often hear people say that the moment you stare at your child for the first time, your heart beats crazily and your primal instincts kick in. You realize your only mission now is to protect this child for life.
Henry came out just in time. His low BPM was due to the umbilical cord being wrapped around his neck. After the nurses cleaned him up and checked all his vitals, he was free to join his brother in my arms.
And then—the unthinkable happens.
Zoey’s hemorrhaging.
Her uterus is failing to contract following the delivery of the placenta.
Zoey’s lost a lot of blood, and the surgeons are desperately trying to repair the damage. I’m going out of my mind, torn between trying to hold my babies and being there for her. Finally, the nurses request I leave given my emotions.