12. Donna
My baby’s in the NICU, and I’m stuck in this hot, muggy room.
It’s not ideal, but they said I’ll likely be discharged sometime tomorrow, and then I can spend all my time in the NICU, keeping an eye on little Andrew.
“Are you sure about the name?” I’m filling out the form, but. . . “It’s not too late to name him after you.”
“He is named after me,” Will says. “Andrew William Earl.”
“We could make him a junior.”
“Aiden, Althea, and Andrew,” Will says. “They all start with a. I like it. We’ve talked about it.”
“I guess,” I say.
“And the more I thought about the junior thing, the more I felt like it might make Aiden feel bad.”
I blink.
“Think about it. If anyone ever asked, ‘why’s your second son the junior?’ we’d have to say, ‘well, Aiden’s not really my son.’ And how do you think that would make Aiden feel?”
His unassailable logic, even when making decisions about names, makes me cry again. It’s the hormones, I’m sure, but it’s also this man. He’s always putting everyone else in front of himself. He might want a junior, but he’d never admit it, not if it might make Aiden feel bad.
I feel sorry for some kids who have stepparents, but I never feel that way about Aiden. No one has a better dad than he does. And no one has a better husband than I do, either.
Some woman in black scrubs drops off a tray for me just as I’m finishing the paperwork. I’m nearly done with it, taking a break to poke at the dry and burned lasagna in a little foil pan with my fork, when Helen, David, and Abby walk into my room.
“How are you?” Abby’s face is full of concern, her eyes wide and scanning.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just fine.”
“You didn’t sound fine,” Helen mutters. “It sounded like they were amputating your leg.”
“Have you ever had an episiotomy?” I ask.
For some reason, that question makes her entire face blanch.
“It’s not fun,” I say. “And without an epidural, it’s uncomfortable.”
“I’ll remember that,” Helen says. “Epidurals good. Episiotomy bad.”
“Luckily, we won’t need to remember that,” David says with a chuckle.
“Right.” Helen’s nodding, but she still looks pale.
“I thought you might want some real food,” David says. “But if you just got dinner, we can wait outside and let you eat.”
I shove the tray to the side. “No way. Bring over the real food.”
“Our chef has been working on the menu by country,” David says. “He’s not very good with Mexican food, which is hardly surprising out here, but he’s mastered Italian and French.”
“I love spaghetti and meatballs,” Will says.
David cringes. “The thing is, he was working on Mexican today, and he said the tacos and enchiladas were both a bust, and he can’t sell them.” He sets the bags on the counter by the window. “I said we’d take it all—free food, right!”
I’d curl up my lip and snarl at him, but I can already smell the garlic and tomato sauce, so I know he’s kidding.
“Olé,” Helen says.
But when David opens the bags and starts passing containers around, I notice that Helen visibly shies away from several of them.
“Is there Mexican in there after all?” I joke.
“No.” David frowns. “Why?”
“No reason,” I say. “But pass me some of that fettuccine alfredo, would you?”
A few moments later, Amanda, Mandy, Maren, and Emery show up. They all grab some food as well, and it’s nice to know my friends care enough to drive all the way out here with no notice.
After we’ve all eaten, Mandy and Amanda grab some flowers from the gift shop, head to the NICU to take a peek through the glass, and head home. I sort of expect Helen to take Abby and David home double quick as well. Helen’s not much for extended hospital stays. In fact, the only time I’ve seen her spend more than five minutes inside a hospital room was when her sister was basically shackled to the bed. She bought an ultrasound machine so her sister could come home, for heaven’s sake.
“You guys can go,” I finally say. “You don’t have to stick around for me. Will’s here, and I’m fine.”
But they don’t leave. Eventually David kisses Helen on the cheek and takes off, but Abby and Helen stay.
“I mean it,” I say. “You don’t have to be here all night.”
“I need to leave soon to pump,” Abby says. “I’m trying to wean Nate, but it’s been harder than I thought it would be.”
“Ah, the joys,” I say. “I’m actually looking forward to it. It’s made me sad not to nurse Althea.”
I don’t confess that I plan to try once my milk comes in for Andrew. I have no idea whether she’ll latch after six months of using a bottle, but I can at least give it a shot. I might be holding out hope that it’ll make her love me.
Which is stupid, I know, but the feeling won’t quite go away. When they wheel in the pump, I assume Helen will finally leave.
“What’s that for?” she asks.
“It’s a pump,” I say. “I’m not cleared to move around much, so I’ve only been to see him in the NICU once so far.”
“And?” Helen’s eyeing the pump strangely, but she knows Abby uses one. Maybe it’s the hospital grade variety that’s throwing her off.
“I have to try and make sure my milk comes in alright without him to stimulate it.” I point. “So I have to pump every two hours until he can nurse.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widen. “I thought your milk hadn’t come in yet so. . .you could just wait. But maybe I should take Abby home.”
“Good plan.”
Abby looks terribly tired.
“Can I ask you something, though?” Helen’s still eyeing the pump.
“Sure.” I start assembling the pumping equipment, sticking the plastic flanges together and poking the little rubber gasket in place. There are just so many tubes.
“You have a six-month-old baby,” she says. “And now you have another one.”
I can’t help my smile. “Yes.”
“Do you worry that there won’t be enough love to go around?”
That makes me laugh. “No.”
“Really?”
I shake my head. “That’s the funny thing about families.” I sigh. “When I was growing up, there never seemed to be enough love to go around. But now that I’m with Will, and now that I’ve watched Abby and your family, I’ve learned better. With a family that works the right way, the more people in the family, the more love there is for everyone.”
A few hours later, they discharge me and I’m free to visit the NICU cubicle thing that Andrew’s in. I’m able to nurse him for the first time at seven a.m. It’s magical—he latches right away. It’s uncomfortable, but I’m still happy.
Around eight, Will’s mother brings Althea and Aiden to visit. I’m tired, so tired, but Aiden’s smiling face brightens me up immediately. And when Althea sees me, she lunges forward, her arms outstretched, her eyes wide.
“Ma-ma!”
She’s probably babbling, but I’m counting it for her first word.
Most babies’ first sound isn’t ‘ma.’ It’s harder to say than ‘da.’ But Althea’s first word, if you can call a repeating sound a word, is to call for me. I’m taking the win.
I pass Andrew off to Will and take my other baby in my arms. She snuggles up to my neck and sighs softly. It only lasts ten seconds, but it’s exactly what I need. I’m shaking just a bit when Althea and Andrew meet for the first time, and then Will’s sweetheart of a mother takes some photos of the five of us, together for the first time. Moments later, Althea’s wiggling again like an unhappy spaghetti noodle, but I had a brief interval of time, and it was enough.
This is not at all the family I thought I’d have a year ago, not with two babies under seven months old. It’s not the family I thought I’d have six months ago, either. My daughter’s growing into a real handful, and I struggle to parent her properly. Even so, it’s much more than I ever hoped for, mostly in the best ways.
And that’s enough.