Abruption

by Riley Mackenzie

  At Britt’s appointment this morning she was bleeding yet again, and Quinn made the call for an emergent C-section. A fifth bleed and a non-reassuring fetal heart tracing sealed the deal.

  “They’re both lucky, just focus on that.”

  “Yeah.” I nodded in Quinn’s direction then touched my lips to Brittany’s clammy forehead. “Stay strong, wife. I love you, babe. Gonna go see our baby girl.”

  We were a family. I was a father.

  I blinked and the last three months blurred into a hazy memory. Much like these last thirteen years. But busting my ass was all going to pay off today. The last stop on a long road of acceptance letters, or in this case, an email, was minutes away. Unlike college and medical school acceptances that trickled in over weeks to months, residency and fellowship acceptances boiled down to a solitary day.

  Match Day.

  Verbal intentions were often exchanged, but the ultimate decision was based on a computer system matching your ranks to hospital program’s ranks. Most laypersons wouldn’t believe the process; it was as convoluted as it sounded. But everyone in medicine knew exactly when Match Day was.

  Life’s next stop was a stroke of the screen away. I picked up my iPhone and refreshed my mail for the hundredth time. Finally. Sitting at the top in bold.

  Welcome to Stanford

  Yes. We needed this. Working practically every waking hour was killing me. Moonlighting wasn’t allowed in my residency program due to all the strict medical education regulations. So on top of the fourteen-hour days at the hospital, I had to get creative to cover the cost of Britt not working and our baby nurse. Yes, I said baby nurse.

  Initially it made sense. Britt was recovering from her C-section and we were both on the inexperienced side when it came to newborns, or kids in general, for that matter. Maxine was so small and her five-day stint in the NICU had spooked us (or me) more than I cared to admit. But all in all, Quinn was right. We were lucky. RDS, or respiratory distress, was relatively common, especially with premature C-section babies. A few days with a little oxygen and our peanut was raring to get home.

  Ingrid was supposed to be a two-week investment to make our transition as a family easier, not the twelve weeks and counting that I was pretty confident I never agreed to. By the way, I was in the wrong business with the amount baby nurses charged. Not to mention my peanut, the little time I actually got to spend with her, was an angel baby and slept through anything. Biased? Oh, yeah.

  But I refused to debate “why we need Ingrid” with Britt again. Been there and done that at week three when she was still feeling a little “postpartum.” Besides, it was going to be a non-issue. It was already June and we’d be relocating in two months. My best bet was to ride it out. Stanford had a great daycare and there were great nursing opportunities for Brittany. What was a little more debt at this point? My girls were worth it.

  When I got home, I relieved Ingrid and enjoyed a little one-on-one couch snuggle time with my peanut. Brittany sauntered in an hour and a half later dropping her purse and a few shopping bags by the door.

  “Hey, you’re home early. I was just at the hospital actually—had my postpartum visit.”

  That was news to me.

  “You mean the appointment you were supposed to have six weeks ago?” I joked, but it came out harsher than I intended. The move couldn’t come soon enough. I was barely recognizing myself lately. She ignored me, picked up her bags and headed to our bedroom. “Sorry babe, I was just kidding. You should have told me, I would’ve gone with you.” I tucked my tail between my legs and followed behind her. I wasn’t the guy who snapped at his wife over something stupid—hell, I never imagined being the kind of guy to snap at his wife, period. Sleep deprivation was evil.

  Britt shed her cashmere sweater, leaving behind a sheer, long-sleeve, white T-shirt, then proceeded to neatly fold the garment and pile it on top of six matching ones in her closet before she re-engaged. Luckily, her ticked face was gone, replaced with a playful smirk. Hands on her hips—a position that, incidentally, thrust her breasts out slightly—she said, “Not exactly the view I wanted you to have of my vagina. Besides, it was a five-minute visit. She said I’m all good.”

  Even with my baby girl in my arms, my pants got a little tight. Couldn’t help myself, a C-section recovery didn’t stop my wife from slipping on her designer skinny jeans two weeks postpartum. How could I be annoyed? My eyes locked on hers for a couple of beats before I gripped her chin and kissed her hard. Sighing into her mouth, I finally felt like things were going to be okay. We were going to be okay. Our life was on track.

  “We did it, babe. First choice match,” I whispered against her lips. Britt blinked, her face full of confusion. She must have forgotten. My shoulders stretched wider with pride when I said, “Stanford. I matched Stanford.”

  But this time when she blinked all I saw was ... disappointment. Now I was confused.

  I wished I had more time to relish in the confusion.

  Confusion was uncomfortable uncertainty.

  Confusion was ignorance.

  Cliché or not, ignorance was fucking bliss.

  Britt popped my bubble and said in a rushed breath, “I’m pregnant.”

  White noise fried the synapses in my brain. What. The. Fuck. My face must have read it loud and clear because she backed away.

  “Shit” was probably a less than stellar reaction to finding out we were expecting again. Fortunately, I only said it aloud once; the six other times were in my head. When I finished my shit chant, I took a minute to come up with something, anything, else to say. I was so bewildered I couldn’t even begin to read Britt’s face. I knew I fucked myself. Royally. My tail no longer felt tucked, more like surgically secured. With mesh.

  “Listen, babe. I’m sorry. You caught me by surprise. That’s seriously the last thing I expected you to say.”

  Britt wasn’t at the same loss for words. “THING? Really, Guy? Our baby is not a thing. Sorry to stomp on your thunder, but California isn’t happening, not now at least. We need to be responsible and think about our children.”

  We need to be responsible...

  The white noise silenced and my synapses began triggering at warped speed.

  “Are you kidding me, responsible? What do you think I’ve been doing? I haven’t slept in months—taking as many night shifts as possible to teach PA classes during the day—all to pay for Ingrid, our rent, your credit card bills, and my school loans. I can probably count how many times I’ve fed my own daughter a bottle or changed her diaper, because I’m too busy being responsible!”

  “Lower your voice,” she demanded. The fire in her eyes matched my own, no doubt.

  I looked at my angel sleeping tucked in the nook of my arm and tried to lower my voice. Tried being the operative word. “You stand there and tell me Stanford is off the table, something we’ve talked about for the past year, something we’ve been so excited about, and what I’ve been working my ass off for my entire life, and you expect me to do a fucking happy dance quietly.”

  She crossed her arms under her tits and dug her heels in. She was not backing down. “Well, I’m obviously not going back to work. And based on the last pregnancy I’m going to need help.”

  “Damn it, Britt. All you needed was to remember to take a goddamn pill.” I totally regretted it before it left my mouth. It was a total dick move, but it was the truth. She had me write her the script, for fuck’s sake.

  One time. We had sex one damn time and I might have slept through it. I either had Hulk sperm or I was the unluckiest son of a bitch on the planet.

  “Nice, Guy. Real freaking nice. Blame me. It takes two to tango, sweetheart.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. It’s just a lot to take in.” I raked my fingers against my scalp and took a deep breath trying to relieve some of the tension, hoping a little extra oxygen would spark some rational thought. “Look, we don’t have to decide anything right this second. I get this wasn’t exactly our plan and t
he timing is far from ideal. Babe, I’m not even sure another pregnancy so soon after your C-section is even a good idea, but we’ll deal. Maxine was a surprise that I’d never change for the world. This baby will be amazing too. We just need a little time to process. This really shouldn’t affect my fellowship or our move to California. We’ll just have one more little one to love.” As soon as I said it, I knew I meant it. Wow, another Maxine.

  “Guy, listen to me. You try to cover and play it off, but I see how stressed you are just with Ingrid. If we move to California, I’ll not know anyone and we’ll be stuck getting a live-in to help me. I’ll be alone all day with you operating to all hours of the night. It just doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Look, I don’t want to argue with you, I love you. And you know I’d never let you be alone. I’m not going to lie—the whole Ingrid thing was an unexpected cost. But she’s great, you like her, she’s awesome with Maxie, so I’ve figured it out. We can see if she wants to come with us to California. Fellowship is only two more years, and my mother lives out there too. She’s chomping at the bit to help. And you not working, that’s only temporary. We’ll be fine.”

  “Your mother lives twenty minutes away from Stanford. And to be honest, I’d rather have my own mother helping me.”

  I had to be missing something; she was all over the place. Had to be the hormones.

  “Your mother lives in New York and she’s seen Maxine—what—twice since she’s born? She’s not exactly the doting grandma.”

  Britt smoothed her ponytail and looked me square in the eyes. “I want to move to New York.”

  “New York? Britt, there’s no way I’m getting a fellowship spot for July in New York. Those spots are all matched already. You know it doesn’t work like that.” Holy shit, my wife lost her mind. She had postpartum/I’m-pregnant-again psychosis, no other explanation.

  “True. But you’d have no problem getting a job.”

  I felt it below the belt, a direct blow. “Excuse me?”

  “I know you’d rather be a vascular surgeon, but you have a family now and fellowships are optional. In July you can be done. Residency will be over and you can start practicing as a general surgeon, making an attending’s salary. Two months from now, not two years from now.”

  Rather be a vascular surgeon...

  “Resort to lap choles and hernia repairs? Damn it, Britt ... I have spent years working toward this. Hell, do you even know me? It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

  When I said my angel baby could sleep through anything, I was wrong. World War Fucking Three didn’t count. Maxine’s wail filled the already confined air space in our room. My lame ass arm bounce did little to quiet her.

  “That’s your ego talking, not a responsible husband and father. You are still a surgeon!”

  She may have looked and sounded like my wife, but I had no fucking clue who this woman had morphed into. That tension I was struggling to restrain threatened to burst. Forget barely recognizing, I was a stranger to myself right now. I’d never cursed at my wife before, and I’d certainly never yelled at her before.

  “Just think, we can start making real money. Get a real apartment, real furniture. We can start our life. I grew up in New York. It’s an amazing city. Do you really want to live paycheck to paycheck for another two years? Because I sure don’t. And I’m tired of you always working. I miss you. Besides, if you really want to you can always go back for a fellowship in a few years, once we’re established. I love you more than anything. This will be perfect. Don’t you want us to be happy? Please, please think about it. For us, for our family.” Tears filled her eyes.

  Money. It was never about money. I was realizing maybe Brittany felt differently. She might have had to make a few temporary sacrifices, but I’d never let my girls want for anything. They were my world. I got things were a little bit tight now, but we were far from destitute. And I was so close I could taste it. My dream was within reach. Being a vascular surgeon was all I ever wanted. Until I fell in love with my beautiful wife who gave me my perfect daughter. Why was she doing this?

  I lifted my crying peanut up and kissed her sweet cheek. I met Britt’s glassy stare dead on and knew she wasn’t delusional; she had it all figured out. Her mind was made up. This was her dream, her plan. If I forced the issue and we ended up moving to California, I had a sick sense it would ruin us. She had no intention of going anywhere other than New York.

  My family or my career.

  One choice.

  One that took absolutely no thought.

  I just never dreamed my wife would make me choose.

  Present Day…

  My phone buzzed in my back scrub pocket, distracting me from the fact that I’d been waiting here for the past twenty minutes. What part of “I’ll meet you downstairs in five” was confusing? Heck, she was the one who offered. Choosing to ignore her passive aggressiveness, I pulled out my device.

  Sissy, can I borrow $400? xoxoxo

  I bit my tongue to avoid grunting out loud, thinking here she goes again. Without hesitation, my fingers got to work.

  Whatever it is, we’ll talk about it later. I’m at work :)

  No sooner did I push send, my little sister’s picture lit up my ringing phone. She was lucky I adored her.

  “Hey, honey. Everything okay?” I whispered as I stared straight ahead at the bold red sign on the wall. Cell Phone Use Prohibited In The Emergency Department. Way to set an example.

  “Totally! I just got out of economics. Can you believe the biatch gave me an A minus on my midterm? I totally deserved full credit. Think I’m going to go appeal to the dean.”

  “Mercedes, I love you, honey, but I’m at work. You know, that place where sick people come for help and not the place to hear their nurse chattering about test scores. Can we talk later? And do me a favor, hold off on saying anything just yet, to anyone.” My baby sister took the term reactionary to a whole new level. I cringed envisioning her going off half-cocked over a few points. To the dean of her college, no less. Ugh. At least I didn’t have to worry about her academically. It might have been the only aspect of her life she had together. “Come on over tonight, I’ll buy you dinner. Okay?”

  “Cool beans, sissy. And thanks for the money, I promise I’ll pay you back.”

  “Wait,” I said to a dead line. Crap, she hung up and we never addressed the money. What the hell did she want now? I was sure I didn’t want to know. Double ugh.

  Texting, Money for what?! I spotted Miss Passive-Aggressive crossing the bay with a steaming Starbucks cup in her hand. That explained her delay. Fabulous. Immaturity followed by immaturity. My morning was shaping up just great.

  “Main ER is through the double doors, trauma bays are to the left. Peds has twelve bays total, all circling the desk. These four computers are up for grabs, don’t touch those, the unit clerk will rip you a new one, and any and all forms you can think of will be in this bin.” Sharon’s flippant attitude and unappealing fake grin made it clear she’d rather be anywhere but here. Didn’t she realize jealousy was unflattering? It wasn’t my fault she was overlooked for the assistant nurse manager and they hired externally. It was time she let it go and got over herself. Four days in, my patience was waning. And that said a lot. I almost never lost patience, so few things in life warranted it.

  “Thanks for the tour, I’m sure I’ll figure it out. I bet they could really use your help back up on the floor.” Kill ‘em with kindness. Words my mama taught me to live by were coming in handy.

  “Guess I’ll see you upstairs then, if you’re going to handle the new admission.”

  Managers didn’t typically leave the unit to accept and transport new admissions, but I wanted to set the tone and let my nurses know I wouldn’t ask anything of them I wouldn’t do myself.

  “All good, I’ve got it.” I watched her saunter off, feeling only a second of guilt before reveling in her absence. I knew in time she’d warm up, she’d have to.

  Popping in fron
t of a young ER resident walking by, I asked, “Hey, could you point me in the direction of room four? I have a PICU admission.”

  The Disney scrub-clad doctor smiled with recognition and pointed me toward the far bay. “You’ve got Hunter Junior! He’s one of our favorites. Coolest little man, you’re going to eat him up.”

  This was one of the reasons I loved pediatrics. It wasn’t “you’ve got the chest pain” or “you’ve got the uncontrolled diabetic.” Never happened. It was always about the kids. As it should be.

  “I just have to drop off some labs and then I’ll meet you in there to give you sign out.” She held up the plastic specimen bag filled with neatly labeled blood vials and motioned me forward. “Dad’s with him, he can give you his history.”

  Parents. They were not one of the reasons I loved my field. But I got it. Trust me, I got it.

  Pediatrics was seventy-five percent little people, twenty-five percent parents. I knocked on the glass wall before entering, because even little people deserved respect. Children were way more perceptive than we gave them credit. They had an uncanny ability to read people, sense fear and pity, so I always made a point to swallow my reaction and bring my A-game.

  “Hey! I’m Jules,” I announced, sliding the blue curtain open and memorizing the scene before me.

  My Disney resident friend wasn’t exaggerating. The curly blond surfer dude sporting the cutest blue-rimmed glasses I’d ever seen stole my heart instantly. He was small and frail for his three years, wearing only an Aladdin gown and diaper. Propped on two oversized pillows, he was navigating his iPad like a pro. He was the epitome of cool.

  “Where’s Margaret or Jill?” A deep, raspy voice surprised me, stealing my attention.

  “Excuse me?” I stalled, distracted by the unwavering gaze of piercing eyes. Not my most professional response, but in my defense, I was not expecting Dad to be just a larger version of Surfer Dude, nor did I expect such an abrupt introduction. And oddly enough, he looked vaguely familiar.