CHAPTER 81
FOR ALL OF its notoriety, Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan made great efforts to put us at ease once we arrived at the emergency room. They weren’t fooling around with a pregnant woman who was experiencing extreme pain in her lower abdomen and a shortness of breath. The stress of the situation was starting to give me similar symptoms.
A young nurse held Mary Catherine’s hand for a moment and said, “We’re waiting to take you down for an ultrasound. I know it sounds crazy but try to relax. I think your shortness of breath is just anxiety.” He sounded pretty confident in his diagnosis.
Mary Catherine squeezed the young man’s hand. The nurse flinched. To his credit, he didn’t try to snatch his hand away from her. This was not his first rodeo.
We sat alone in the pleasant examination room. This didn’t seem like the kind of room where they brought gunshot victims. A padded chair sat in the corner. Instead of a hard examination table, there was a bed with a real mattress. Mary Catherine looked comfortable enough on the bed, which took up almost all the space in the room.
I tried to make small talk in an effort to keep Mary Catherine’s mind off things. Eventually, the conversation did come back to kids and family.
Mary Catherine said, “We’re going to be older parents, aren’t we?”
I laughed and said, “This is one of the few times the word ‘we’ doesn’t really apply. You’re quite a bit younger than me. I’m surprised no one has asked you if I’m your father.” That had the intended effect as Mary Catherine started to laugh.
I said, “I’m going to be one of the oldest fathers on the soccer field.”
“Oh, stop it. You know that’s not true.” She paused for a moment. “Mr. Dunkel down on the first floor is fifty with twin two-year-olds running around the house.”
“Okay, you got me. I just feel like I’m the oldest father.”
“You’re the best dad I’ve ever seen. I can’t wait to see you interact with our baby.”
“I can’t wait either.”
Then Mary Catherine burped. Not a dainty Irish-lass burp. More of a professional-wrestler-after-eating-a-steak-dinner burp. It was impressive. I tried not to smile, but the embarrassed look on Mary Catherine’s face was priceless.
Then she did it again. Before she could say anything, she broke wind. Twice.
I worked hard to stay next to her. It wasn’t the easiest thing I’d ever done.
Then she looked at me and said, “Oh, my God!”
“What? What is it?” Panic bubbled in my stomach.
Mary Catherine said, “I feel so much better.” She burped again. She looked at me with a serious expression. “You think all I was feeling was gas?”
“You have been eating a pretty bland diet and intentionally not moving much. Ricky’s dinner was superrich.”
We waited to have an ultrasound just in case, but everyone agreed, this was a case of acute Chicken Marsala gas. Everyone except Mary Catherine got a pretty good laugh out of it.
When we were back in the car, headed home, Mary Catherine said, “I need you to promise me not to tell anyone about this.”
I smiled. “That’s a promise I’d hate to keep.”
“I’ll tell the kids it was gas. But I’m not going to explain how we figured it out.”
“That’s the best part of the story!”
“And the last thing you will ever reveal. That is, if you want to live long enough to see our baby.”
That sounded like an offer I couldn’t refuse.