When I’m Thirty
When I’m Thirty
Patrick texts me that Katrina is due in two weeks and all signs are looking good. A healthy mom, a healthy heartbeat. The baby is a good size, facing down for delivery, and the ultrasound has passed all doctors’ inspections.
I order all the baby things and have them shipped off, knowing there will be no returns this time.
Then I hear that she’s scheduled for an induction a few days later because her blood pressure is iffy and she’s on bed rest and sleeping on her side, but otherwise, all is good.
To my surprise, I get a text from Katrina.
We’ve only before messaged about birthday stuff or whatever for Patrick. We have never had much of a relationship really, although I’ve always loved her for him.
And now I see that she loves me for him too.
Katrina: My family is so great, but they are too much. They don’t even know this is happening.
Katrina: I don’t want a crowd.
Katrina: Patrick needs you.
Katrina: If it’s okay, I might need you.
Katrina: I could use a girl not related to me who won’t freak me out.
I laugh.
Me: I can do that. I’m there!
Of course I go. After an easy flight and a hospital drop-off on the day of, I find an extremely calm Katrina in her hospital room.
She’s watching TV and laughing, and I brush past a surprised Patrick who is pacing the hall to snag a seat beside Katrina’s bed.
I wink as I slam the door behind me to let him know we need some alone time.
“How are you feeling?”
“Terrible. Beyond scared.” She looks at me for a spell. “I don’t know. But better now that you’re here maybe? Thank you for coming. I know this is weird. My husband did that kiss thing.”
I did not realize he’d told her about that, and my face must show it.
“Oh, I’m not upset about it. It actually sounded creepy.”
I laugh. “It really was.”
She falls against the hospital bed and raises the volume on the TV. “This is my favorite episode.”
Schitt’s Creek. Another thing we both love.
“When the best TV romance of all time starts? Yes. Did you ever say ciao to your Patrick?” I ask.
She smiles. “I did not. But maybe that’s how you get a Patrick. Shout out ciao when you meet him?” Katrina turns to call out and beckon her husband into the room. “Oh, hey. Did you want to say hello to your bestie? I brought her here for you.”
“Yes, please, and thank you, my love!” Patrick finally cannot contain himself and yanks me in for a hug. “The fuck are you doing here? But I’m so happy.”
In the hall later, my friend embraces me, but he’s less smiles than I’d have expected. He’s in fact shaking and visibly scared. “I don’t know how to do this. It’s all trauma from the last time …”
“Get back in that room and pull yourself together,” I command.
And he does.
When Katrina begins to wince, I flag down a nurse, and an OB shows up a minute later and scoots between her legs. “Ah, okay. I’m going to break your water, so you can get an epidural anytime you want.”
Katrina waves a hand and lies back. “I’ve been fine so far. I want to wait as long as possible.”
Fortunately, Patrick is right at her side. The second the doctor inserts some kind of freaky needle thing and punctures whatever baby-holding water sac situation is going on, Katrina crumples.
I circle the bed and meet her pleading eyes. She’s changed her mind, and she’s done with toughing this out on any level.
Patrick is all about rubbing her back and trying to talk her through this, as she had her goals, but I’m the only one who has the sense to yell, “Get the anesthesiologist in here. Now!”
It’s only seconds before they have her sitting up on the bed, and I’m then beside her when there’s a needle going into her spine.
“Give it a minute.”
And I now understand those silent screams you only hear about.
She regains her voice after a few minutes. “That’s where the term blinding pain comes from. I get it. Because my vision was fucked there for a bit there.”
Soon, Katrina is rolling back against the bed and asks if the anesthesiologist is single,
“Thank you,” she says as she goes back to the television to watch Schitt’s Creek.
Her calm and joy are everything.
Patrick drags me out of the room. His tears are happy. Mostly. “It’s so different this time, Diana. This labor?” He can hardly speak. “It’s different, right? Please tell me it’s different. Not like last time.”
“Of course it is different. You’re both going to be snuggling a healthy baby very soon.”
He chokes on his words. “She’s not going to suffer the way she did last time.”
Now I tear up too. “No, she’s not. And neither will you. It’s a beautiful night. Relish every second.”
His loud breath is audible.
“You sound like one of those whooshy things you use to blow air into a fireplace,” I say.
He laughs. “Let’s go back in.”
The OB shows up fifteen minutes later and smiles. “It’s time. You good?”
Katrina nods, but it’s a very weak smile. Patrick sits next to her, and I am about to sneak out, but Katrina whisper-calls, “Diana? Don’t leave.”
Thankfully, I hear her just as I’ve opened the door, so I stop.
“I need two people to grab my legs to get this baby out. I tried to read the good stuff for this time.”
I rush back and grab a spot on the edge of her bed. Patrick and I make eye contact, and I about melt. Now on either side of the bed, we each ease one of her legs up. This is a magical moment.
When we are all in place, the doctor tells her to push.
We wait, but Katrina just closes her eyes. “No. I can’t …”
“Sweetheart, push.” Patrick encourages her. “It’s time.”
But suddenly, the tone in the room changes. Katrina has frozen. She’s lost any sense of determination or joy that flooded the room just minutes ago. Her hands push against both of us, and she shakes her head and looks at me. Too calmly.
“No.” Her words are solid. Clear. “I can’t do it. I’m not pushing. I won’t. Not again. Don’t make me do this.”
Before any of us can speak, she devolves into tears, and it’s beyond heartbreaking.
For too long, she shakes her head and sobs as we try to console her. The doctor looks at me and then whispers her concerns about the heartbeat, showing the baby is on the verge of distress. It’s either Katrina pushes now or has a C-section.
I step up and get assertive. Gently, I place my hand on her cheek and turn her to face the monitor.
“See this? The baby has a heartbeat. A good one. A beautiful one.” With my hands on either side of her head, I physically make her look at me and smile calmly.
“But it’s time to bring this baby into this world.
Waiting any longer could be dangerous. Okay? Do you understand?”
She nods, and she reaches a hand to mine. Squeezing. “I do.” Her other hand moves to Patrick’s. “Let’s do this.”
“You’re going to fucking push now, okay? This is not like the last time. The only thing you’re going to live through is a life with a perfect child. So, fucking push. Bring this baby into the world.”
I scramble into the hospital bed and get behind her, sprawling my legs against hers, cradling her body against mine. I pull her leg up and motion Patrick to keep his hold.
“Push, Katrina,” I whisper. “Push.”
And she does.
Then I add, “I’m told you’re supposed to push like you’re pooping. So, push out of your butt. Like you’re taking a giant shit.”
“Fuck you,” she mutters. “That’s so gross. I swear to God, if I poop, I’ll kill you.”
Before she can rip me apart for that advice, the obstetrician heralds my words, and then Patrick’s eyes get crazy wide when she strains like mad.
“What’s wrong?” Katrina asks.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” As Patrick’s speechless, I answer for him with a huge smile. “They set up a mirror. I can see your baby’s head.”
Katrina perks up, and her voice is wonderfully joyful now. “A head?” She leans back against me, exhilarated, and I hug her in tightly, happy my advice helped.
Thank you, Google.
The OB smiles. “Keep pushing, Mom!”
But I can also feel how literally tired she is. Her body is spent, so I shake her and holler and cheer her on, This is it!
After Katrina pushes twice more, the doctor asks for Patrick to cut the umbilical cord. He moves in awe, and soon, we hear the perfect infant cry. Seconds later, she’s got a baby against her chest. He’s wet and kind of bloody and gross, but still so perfect.
“A boy? What just happened?” Katrina asks as she clutches her child and looks around. “It was supposed to be hours, wasn’t it? Labor is hours.”
“No reason. All labors are different. And you deserved a really easy one,” the OB says.
Patrick eases over to his wife’s side. “A baby boy? He’s so … cute. So everything.”
A nurse leans in. “Can I grab him for a minute? Weigh him and clean him up? Only if that’s okay with you.”
Katrina nods and watches, still nervous. “What’s his Apgar?”
Patrick makes a confused face, but before either of us can say anything. Katrina explains. “It’s a sort of score chart that measures newborn stuff. It stands for appearance, pulse, grimace, activity, and respiration.”
The OB does a few easy tests. “I don’t know. Probably a nine?” The OB shrugs, like she feels as though this isn’t a big deal. But this number is a major goddamn deal to moms. Especially moms who have been through terrorizing traumas.
I snap my fingers until I get her attention, then give her a severe eyes-to-eyes stare and mouth to her, It’s a fucking ten.
The doc finally gets me and looks at Katrina. “Your kiddo is a ten. And coming to you in a minute.”
“Warrior,” I declare. “Both of you.”
She tightens her hands against mine. “And warrior coach.”
Katrina collapses back into me. As I hug her, I feel her heartbeat. Rhythmic, absolute. Peaceful.
She stays on the bed as I maintain my spot while the OB massages her stomach and delivers some icky afterbirth, placenta stuff, which Patrick look at studiously. He is very glued in to it all and then seems taken aback when Katrina and I exchange faces.
“What?” he asks. “I wanted to see where he lived for nine months.”
Katrina and I are both so decidedly not interested and pretty grossed out.
After that’s over and he’s finished his weird investigation of the birthing things, Patrick is still trembling, but now also beaming.
I force him to take a seat in the dad lounge chair the hospital has provided, and Katrina gives me the okay to hand him their son once her husband is settled.
As anxious as he’s been, I think we’re both surprised to see how he immediately changes his body language, his demeanor, when his baby is actually in his arms. The calm is instant.
As though he’s been waiting for this all his life.
“We have a baby.” He’s in wonderous disbelief.
I whisper, “Do you guys have a name?”
“Maybe?” Patrick finally looks up and checks with Katrina. “We talked about it a bit. Thomas? Tommy?”
“Yes,” Katrina agrees. “A good ol’ Irish name.”
“Middle name Daniels?” he adds.
Katrina nods again.
It takes me a minute to reply, “To honor Daniella.”
After we’ve all sat silently for a bit, I can tell Katrina is getting a bit itchy, so I gently scoop baby Tommy from my friend and hand him over.
“Mommy has priority now. She’s been patient enough.”
My heart sinks after I’ve parked in the driveway and stepped inside Patrick and Katrina’s house.
I call RobBob. “I’m going to need some help.”
“Heya!” he says. “Little baby is all good, yes?”
“Little baby is perfect. A boy named Tommy.” My smile surely comes through the call. “Yeah, but the house is not good.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m standing in what is obviously meant to be the nursery, but it’s basically barren, save for a few unopened boxes.
No crib set up. No clothes, diapers. Hang on.
” I wander around the house and finally hit the jackpot in the garage.
Well, kind of a sad jackpot really. All of my packages are there, but I don’t see much more.
“I’ve found where they’ve kept gifts, shipments. But it’s just boxes everywhere.”
He gets it. “They were scared.”
“Yes. Terrified. That’s why Patrick gave me the keys.” I sigh. “RobBob, they didn’t even buy a crib.”
“I’ll get there ASAP.”
RobBob and I share a quick bear hug when he arrives, but we’re both on the move.
I do have to give him a wink because he’s as cute as ever with his wildly thick, wavy brown hair and T-shirt that sculpts over his jacked arms. I hand him Patrick’s car keys and send him off to get a crib, a mattress, sheets, and car seat, then to the police station to get the car seat securely installed.
Per my research, car seats need to be really smashed into the back seat—not just set in place and strapped in with a seat belt—and we’re not cutting corners with anything like this.
I send him links to what seems to be the best, and then I also send him a link to a furniture store that has a really sweet rocking chair.
While he’s gone, I rip open boxes, unpacking the stuff I sent. Like, the changing station with diapers and wipes, the way overpriced diaper-disposal thing, not to mention the pile of clothes that might get them through the next year. I set down the rug and wait, still a bit dizzy from the past day.
When RobBob returns with the haul of stuff, we spend hours making the nursery into the most cozy, cuddly, comforting space.
He collapses on the living room couch. “Not sure I ever want a kid now. This is too much work.” His smile tells otherwise.
I’m about to agree, but instead, I stumble into Tommy’s new room and sit in the rocking recliner. It’s a great way to fall asleep.
The next day, RobBob drives to the hospital to pick up the new trio, and we get to welcome them home.
Given Patrick and Katrina’s emotional reaction to the nursery setup, we did good. I love me some happy tears. Katrina sits in the rocking chair with Tommy, and her comfort is immediate.
After some time, I ask her, “Can we switch out? Just for a short moment?”
She nods.
So, before I leave, I am graced with rocking and snuggling this newborn as long as I want, and I spend a blissful hour with him. I love that newborns sleep for ages, and it’s only when I have to leave to catch my flight that I part with Tommy.
“Thank you,” I say to Katrina and to Patrick.
“We got through this because of you,” she says.
“You got through this because you’re a rock star,” I tell her.
Patrick takes me outside to my rideshare. “My best friend,” he states. “My forever friend.”
I wish.