Chapter 9 Phylogeny and Biology
PHYLOGENY AND BIOLOGY
*Samantha*
The next three hours were a blur of semiconscious parenting.
I found the nurses’ station and begged for diapers.
By late afternoon, the hospital waiting room had cycled through several generations of stricken families.
There was the toddler with a golf-ball-sized head wound; a woman who sounded seconds away from coughing up both lungs; a set of college-aged kids, who looked related in color-matched sweats, trading turns between the vending machine and the bathroom; and a businessman with a loosened tie pacing back and forth in front of the swinging double doors, visibly negotiating the stages of grief over the course of four hours.
All the while, Martin and I hunkered in the corner, taking turns with Joey and using the three rations of hospital diapers only when absolutely necessary.
I spoke to my grandfather, since Friday afternoons were our designated weekly phone call times, but just briefly.
He’d offered to fly out and help. I told him that wasn’t necessary, but I did thank him profusely.
I also might’ve teared up. It had meant a lot to know he was willing, and that I still had family out there wanting to be involved in my life, even when it felt like things were falling apart.
Like Martin, I couldn’t imagine my life without Kaitlyn.
Tara slowly circled the room, scanning the inhabitants, drifting in and out of my periphery. Every so often, she’d catch my gaze and lift her chin, the international sign for “You good?” To which my answer, every single time, was a single dazed nod, even if the real answer was, “Not even a little.”
If I’d been in my right mind, I would’ve called and had diapers brought via delivery app.
Or asked Nakita to drop off some baby essentials.
Or called Kaitlyn’s close friend, musical collaborator, and maybe the hottest guy on the planet, Abram Fletcher.
So what if he was a famous rock star? Smokin’ hot musicians are capable of running errands.
He could’ve stopped by Kaitlyn’s place to pick up supplies, and then delivered baby food, diapers, butt paste, and burp cloths.
And a pacifier. And . . . other things I couldn’t remember right now.
But I wasn’t in my right mind, so none of this occurred to me, and I didn’t call anyone except Kaitlyn’s parents to give them the news.
However, sometime around noon, just as we were down to our last diaper provided by the hospital and Joey was trying to eat my shirt, Tara materialized at my side carrying a new diaper bag still with tags.
She set it down on the chair, unzipped it, and produced a full array of baby gear: diapers (correct size, brand, and count), wipes, butt cream, three bottles of pumped breast milk (cold, in a mini cooler; whose, I had no idea at present, but never look a gift titty in the mouth), two baby spoons, six jars of age-appropriate baby food, three bananas, two clean onesies, a muslin swaddle, a baby sling, a teething giraffe, a plush octopus, several rattles and toys, disinfecting hand and surface wipes, and—this was the kicker—an exact replica of Joey’s favorite pacifier, the one he’d chewed to death two days earlier.
Once she finished revealing the inventory, she zipped it half closed, likely so the bounty wouldn’t spill out on to the dirty floor, turned, and began her circuit of the room again, as though she hadn’t just summoned a complete baby-care kit out of the ether.
I blinked at the bag, then at Martin, who stared at it like its appearance was a religious miracle.
“How did she . . . ?” he whispered.
“No idea,” I said. “Let’s not ask questions.”
Not fifteen minutes later, just as Martin finished feeding Joey his second jar of sweet potatoes, the doctor finally came out.
The man introduced himself as “Dr. Tomasetti, neurology,” but his accent was pure Long Island, and he looked about twenty-seven. He asked if we’d like to do the consult in private.
I said, “No, here is fine,” because I felt certain that neither Martin nor I could handle waiting another minute. “Go ahead, Dr. Tomasetti,” I said, a little too brightly as I pulled out my cell phone to call Kaitlyn’s dad. “We’re all ears.”
He frowned at the phone with plain confusion, then addressed Martin. “Your wife is stable. She suffered a moderate concussion. The scans look completely clean—no swelling, no intracranial bleeding.”
We both exhaled mutual relief then Martin asked, “So, is she up? Did she wake up?”
Kaitlyn’s father answered his phone and I put him on speaker, whispering, “The doctor is here. Listen please.”
Dr. Tomasetti went on as though he hadn’t been interrupted. “She’ll be monitored overnight for the concussion, but that’s not the main concern right now.” He peered at us, waiting for the words to sink in.
I glanced at Martin. He stared at the doctor expectantly and I could see his patience was wearing thin. “Then what’s the main concern?” he ground out, and I got the sense he was three seconds from committing assault and battery.
Martin Sandeke had never been known for his cool temper.
“Yes, what is the main concern?” I asked more tranquilly.
Dr. Tomasetti’s lips pressed into a line. “She hasn’t woken up yet, and she has an infection. We’re still trying to pinpoint the source, but it appears to be antibiotic resistant. That’s probably why she lost consciousness—high fever, low blood pressure, systemic stress.”
Martin’s hands tensed around the empty jar of baby food he still held like he wanted to throttle it. “She’s been sick for months,” he said, voice fierce and frayed. “First mastitis, over and over. Then another infection, then this UTI. She just finished a round of antibiotics.”
The doctor nodded. “It’s likely this is a secondary infection—maybe related, maybe not.
We need to do more tests. But I have to warn you, if the usual antibiotics aren’t working, our next options are .
. . less ideal.” He checked our faces. “Some of the stronger drugs have risks. In particular, it would mean she can’t keep breastfeeding your son. ”
Martin blinked once. Very hard. Like he couldn’t believe his ears, or he doubted what he’d just heard. I recognized the look. He was about to lose his shit.
I opened my mouth to intercede.
Before I could, Martin shouted, “I don’t give a fuck about that. Fuck your ‘ideal options.’ Save my wife! Now. Whatever it fucking takes!”
The doctor recoiled slightly. However, I saw the faintest hint of relief flicker across his face, as though he might’ve been glad this was Martin’s reaction and decision.
“Understood, sir. I just have to make sure you’re aware of all the factors.” His gaze darted between us, then to the phone, as if to ask if anyone else wanted to shout at him.
Kaitlyn’s dad, via speaker, said, “Fully agree with my son-in-law. Do what you have to do. Kaitlyn’s health comes first.”
Perhaps detecting the air of authority from Kaitlyn’s dad, the doctor nodded at the phone, and then excused himself.
“I’ll call you back when there’s more to report.” I spoke to the phone.
“We might be on the plane by then,” Kaitlyn’s dad responded. “But keep us updated via text. Love you both.” Then, he hung up.
Martin let out a noise somewhere between a strangled scream and a laugh, then collapsed into the plastic chair, face buried in both hands. Joey, who must have been taking notes from his father, shouted discontentedly. As though he, too, wished to give the medical establishment a piece of his mind.
I got the baby calmed in under two minutes, which was my new personal best. Joey had always liked me, but I think today he recognized me as a fellow traveler on the emotional shitstorm express. And we clung to each other like two survivors waiting for the next aftershock.
Eventually, Martin lifted his head and glanced around the waiting room. His eyes settled on me and Joey. Then, unexpectedly, he reached for my hand and squeezed it. “I’m sorry I lost my temper. Thank you for all your help. Thank you for being here.”
I squeezed back, not trusting myself to speak, not sure what to say. Martin’s whole body radiated guilt and exhaustion.
He shook his head and added, “But what the fuck do I care whether Kaitlyn can keep breastfeeding? She’s unconscious because she has an antibiotic-resistant infection.
She’s been sick for six fucking months. Joey is perfectly fine.
These fucking people are crazy if they think I’m going to risk sacrificing my wife—my wife—and choose a more ‘ideal option’ for fucking breast milk.
There are breast milk banks, for Christ’s sake. What the fuck is wrong with people.”
I patted his hand, finding the right words somewhere below my sternum. “I know the doctor was just doing his job. But if it makes you feel better, I think you made Kaitlyn’s father very proud.”
* * *
We made it through the next phase of waiting with considerably less difficulty now that Joey’s needs were being met and we’d met with the doctor once. Still, we were both on edge, and I imagined we would be until Kaitlyn was out of the woods.
At some point, I realized I hadn’t eaten since my oatmeal and coffee at 6:30 AM, and my blood sugar was on a one-way drop.
I stood and stretched, planning to rustle up some food, when Tara approached again, this time with two bags of takeout and a twelve-pack of LaCroix.
The food was from the barbeque place where Kendra worked—Smokin Greens—and the order seemed so specifically tailored to my preferences (buffalo cauliflower, arugula salad, and lentil chili) that for a moment I wondered if Tara had access to my former roommates’ group chat.
Martin barely touched his food, but I ate like I was prepping for the end times. I tried to push some calories on him, but he just shook his head and stared at the wall, the way you do when you’re expecting inescapable bad news.