by Julia Kent
At the word “mom,” Amanda's head pulls back slightly.
Mom.
My wife is about to be a mom.
“Get the damn epidural,” the woman advises. “Don't be a hero. Besides, you probably won't have a choice.”
“What do you mean?” Amanda asks her.
Pointing to Amanda's belly, the woman's eyebrows go up. “Twins are a crapshoot. I've never had them, but my friends with twins had to have c-sections. The worst were the ones who labored all the way through vaginal deliveries and at the last minute, a baby turned and bam–they needed a c-section, too. Nothing like recovering from an episiotomy and abdominal surgery at the same time!”
Amanda squirms and hisses, “I need to pee so bad.”
“How about peeing on her to shut her up?” I mutter back.
“Karen?” a medical assistant calls out. The pregnant mom stands, her husband shuffling after her like a whipped dog.
“Good luck!” Karen chirps.
“She's like a pregnancy dementor,” Amanda grouses, moving to one side, one hip up, the other stretched at a funny angle as she lengthens her left leg as much as possible.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Flattening my bladder.”
“Flattening it?”
“Lengthening it. Making it stretch. Pick a term. I've got nine gallons of water in a five-gallon container and I'm ready to blow.”
Just then, the radio starts a new song. TLC's “Waterfalls.”
“COME ON!” Amanda shouts, staring at the speaker. “Are you kidding me?”
I start singing along to the first two lines and immediately regret it when she elbows my crotch.
“HEY!” I choke out. “If you want more kids, cut it out!”
“Elbow doesn't do enough damage anyhow,” says a pleasant woman's voice from behind us. We turn to find Dr. Rohrlian, a friendly woman we've met once before. Short brown hair, a smile like Mary Lou Retton, and keen eyes taking us in.
I leap up. Amanda moves slowly, but eventually stands.
“Let's get you in for the ultrasound before that bladder bursts. I'm so sorry we haven't found a better way to do this yet, Amanda, but we do our best with the technology we have.” She shakes my hand. “Good to see you again, Andrew.”
Her clasp is strong, hands dry and smooth. I wonder how many babies she's caught–or cut–out of mothers.
“Good to see you, too, Dr. Rohrlian.”
Amanda gives her a wan smile. “In case I pee on your shoes, please accept my apology in advance.”
“Wouldn't be the worst thing to land on these workhorses,” she answers, flexing a foot, showing off black Crocs. “That's why I wear shoes I can hose down.”
We walk down a long hallway. This practice is one of the biggest in Boston. When Amanda learned she was carrying twins, her options immediately narrowed. We agreed we wanted the best, of course, and everyone’s health was our priority. Amanda's the one whose body is experiencing everything, so I let her decide.
And fortunately, she decided on this ob-gyn practice with ten doctors, two certified nurse-midwives, and plenty of experience with multiples.
“Normally, one of the medical assistants does this,” I say to the doctor, a bit puzzled. “Doesn't Amanda need to weigh herself and do the urine test?”
“Not for this,” she answers evenly as she opens the door to a dark room with an exam bed and monitors all over the wall. “Ultrasounds are different. But you're right – normally the tech would come out to see you in, but I happened to be walking by and wanted to say hi again.”
I help Amanda up on the exam table as the ultrasound tech walks in. A bright smile greets us, the light from the hallway glinting on braces as she closes the door.
“Amanda? I'm Tanley,” she says, giving Amanda her hand. We take care of the pleasantries, the hum of machinery that's about to let me see our children a warm backdrop.
“You won't see me next time,” the doctor says as she starts to slip out, “so good luck to you both.”
“Why won't I see you next time?” Amanda asks, turning to the doctor with a perplexed look, an edge of panic in her eyes. Aha. This one's her favorite so far.
I knew she'd become attached.
“We try to rotate you through appointments with everyone on the team, and there are twelve of us. That way, whoever is on call when you deliver is someone you've met,” Dr. Rohrlian explains.
“We don't get to choose the doctor?” I ask, surprised.
“You can try. And if you do a scheduled c-section, you often can decide. But short of that, no,” she patiently explains, looking at both of us, careful to establish eye contact. “We rotate being on duty. If you have a favorite doctor or CNM, just try to time labor for when that person's on duty.”
“You can do that?” I ask.
A loud, infectious laugh fills the room. “If pregnant women could decide when to go into labor, our practice would be much easier to run, Andrew,” she says, grabbing my arm with affection.
Amanda laughs, then winces.
Instantly, the doctor gets serious, giving Tanley an arched brow. “Let's see those babies. Mama needs to pee.”
“Please don't say the word pee.”
Laughing at Amanda's please, the doctor slips out and Tanley takes over.
Excitement and dread blend in my blood, coursing through me with a glittering electricity as I look at the monitor. The black, white, and gray imaging is so old-fashioned; later, we know, we can see the baby in 3-D. For now, it looks like the old Commodore 64 machine my older brother, Terry, used to play with.
I'm about to see my babies.
My babies.
Children I'll soon raise, be responsible for, whose entire existence now rests in Amanda's hands. How she cares for her body completely holds them at her mercy.
The crushing weight of that hits me between the shoulder blades as the tech pulls the waistband of Amanda’s loose skirt down around her hips, gently moving her shirt up.
A rush of emotion makes the next few minutes pass in a series of images. The tech squirting gel on Amanda's belly. Holding a wand. Pressing it to her skin. Amanda's groan. Talk about Kegels and complaints about ultrasound technology. Eternity yawns before me as I see myself as a piece of something so much greater than just my own life.
I'm passing on new life to other beings.
There will be a time when they are alive and I am not.
A loud groan, this time from Amanda's stomach, fills the room.
“Sorry,” she says, sheepish. “I couldn't eat this morning, but I'm starving now.”
“How's the morning sickness?” Tanley asks politely.
“Better, but not gone.”
“With twins, everything's stronger. You'll probably have it a little longer than someone carrying a singleton, but it should fade.”
“Thanks. It already is.”
Buh-DUM! Buh-DUM! Buh-DUM! Buh-DUM! Buh-DUM!
The sound of horses galloping fills the air.
“There we go. Found twin number one, here on the left. Let's see if we can find the other.”
Twin number one.
“Lefty!” Amanda jokes.
“That's the heartbeat,” I say, as if speaking the words makes it more real.
“One of them. Aha! Here we go.” Tanley points to the screen. “Twin number two on the right. Both strong.”
“Righty!” Amanda calls out, squeezing my hand with emotion, her grip communicating so much.
Tanley watches the display, then looks at us. “You saw the babies earlier, yes?”
We both nod.
“Then you know they're identical.”
“One sperm, two humans,” I reply.
“Efficient,” is her gratifying answer. Amanda, on the other hand, lets out a sound that makes it clear my swimmers don't impress her at all. “One placenta, as well. But it has to work extra hard.” She pats Amanda's shoulder in comfort.
“What are they?” I ask.
“Humans,” the tech deadpans.
“No–I mean, boys? Girls?”
“It's pretty early to tell, but we do have some new techniques. You're only at twenty weeks, Amanda, but I can estimate...”
For the next minute, we're silent, Tanley taking pictures, analyzing, doing everything with efficiency. I watch the various shades of gray, white, and black on the screen and fixate on those hearts pounding blood as hard as possible.
My children.
“Um, I really don't think I can hold it much longer,” Amanda chokes out, her hand going limp in mine. She's sweating now, and a look of pain lingers on her face even when the tech removes the ultrasound wand.
“I'm sorry.” Tanley mops up the gel on her belly. “Go ahead to the bathroom.”
“But are they boys? Girls?” Amanda asks as I offer her a hand to sit up, which makes her mouth stretch in a miserable grimace.
“I'm not one hundred percent certain, but I'll tell you if you promise not to sue me if I'm wrong.”
“You want it in writing? I can get my assistant to draw up a contract right now–”
She cuts me off. “That was a joke, Andrew. Congratulations.” She smiles. “You have two boys in there.”
Boys.
Sons.
Two sons.
“Oh, my God,” Amanda gasps.
“YES!” I shout, arm going up in victory before I can stop it, fist punching the air with satisfaction.
“You clearly have a preference,” the tech says to me dryly.
“No. It's just–” I start to explain.
“He's beating his brother at the baby game,” Amanda says, sarcasm dripping from her voice. “Now he’s knocked me up with two babies from a single supersperm, and he’s delivering the first grandsons to his father, who is a sexist jerk who finds that important.”
I look at my wife.
Who then lifts her hand up and high-fives me.
“We beat Shannon and Declan,” she crows.
“I thought you didn't care about that?”
“I do when I'm a bloated whale floating on an endless sea of pee and I turn angry.”
“Let's find you a bathroom.”
“A potted plant will do at this point.”
“Right next door,” the tech says, pointing. Amanda rushes in and the lock clicks.
“I'd be happy with whatever,” I assure Tanley. “Boy, girl, nonbinary, unicorn, or baby android, as long as they’re both healthy.”
“But...”
“But this is going to really make my brother's teeth grind.”
“I thought the only grind he was into was coffee.”
My turn for eyebrows to shoot up. “You're a Grind It Fresh! patron?”
“I am. Next time you see your brother, thank him for me. His new roasted cacao latte has made many pregnant patients happy. Not as much caffeine as coffee, and all the good vibes from the theobromine make for happy moms.”
“I will let him know.” I clear my throat. “Right after I tell him I won.”
Did she just roll her eyes like Amanda does?
Speaking of my wife... she’s taking a while. Tanley hands me a long strip of photos of the babies, then extends her hand. “Good to see you. Marci at the front desk will make sure your next appointment is a rotation with one of the other doctors or a CNM. Good luck!” She guides me to the hallway then knocks lightly on an exam room door, entering with a greeting. The sound of the door closing leaves me in a daze.
Ultrasound paper is like old-fashioned fax machine paper, with a coated finish, and the fluorescent ceiling light's reflection on the image catches my eye. One big sac, split in the middle by the placenta, babies floating next to each other, stares back at me and whisper, “Daddy.”
“Hey, there,” I say to them, looking around furtively. No one heard me.
Good.
A chair is against the wall opposite the bathroom where Amanda's taken up residence, so I have a seat. You can admire a grayscale photo of your womb babies for only so long; after a while, I check messages on my phone, answering a few from Gina.
And then:
Help. I can't pee.
Gina can be a little too TMI for my taste sometimes, as her boss, but this one takes the cake.
Hold up.
That text isn't from Gina.
It's Amanda.
What? I reply.
I CAN'T PEE.
“You don't need to shout,” I say aloud.
I can hear you through the door, she answers.
I look up sharply, half expecting her eyes to laser holes through the thick wood.
Do you need help?
What do they do to help you pee? This is ridiculous, now I can't. I can't pee.
One of Amanda's best qualities is her ability to fix things, but when she's the one who needs help, she can be slow to ask for assistance. That's where I come in.
I'll get a doctor, I type, standing up.
NO!
NO!
NO!
The three panicked texts make me halt in my tracks.
Come over to the door, she quickly adds. Put your mouth near the crack.
“That's what she said,” I mutter out of the side of my mouth.
ARE YOU MAKING THAT STUPID JOKE WHEN I AM IN CRISIS? she texts.
“No. Of course not,” I whisper into what I assume is the crack she's talking about.
“I need you to help me,” she hisses through the door.
“I can't pee for you, honey. No matter how hard we try, it's impossible.”
“A good husband would find a way,” she snaps.
Oh, boy. This has escalated instantly to Defcon 5.
“A doctor can help.”
“I'll be humiliated! And this is the best practice in the city.”
“Have you tried running the faucet? The sound of water could help.”
“I tried. No luck.”
“Relax. Think about sex from last week.”
This is how bad things have gotten. I'm referring to sex in terms of weeks.
Not days. Or hours.
“Why would thinking about sex help me pee?” she shouts through the door.
Just then, a medical assistant walks by. She doesn't make eye contact, but she bites her lips as if trying not to laugh. I give her my most charming smile and shrug.
She continues down the hall.
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don't know!” she wails.
Then the door clicks and opens half an inch.
“What are you doing?”
“Get in here!” My upper arm is grabbed with surprising strength and in less than a second, I'm in the bathroom with her, back against the door, wondering if I can text Gina to help me figure out how to make my wife pee.
That's a really bad idea, isn't it? She already gets hazard pay for working for me. I don't need to up it.
Amanda is like a caged animal, walking back and forth, her panties in a wad on top of her purse, her skirt swishing around her knees. If she weren't in so much distress, I'd consider this the prelude to an awesome quickie experience in public, but if I suggest that, I believe she will extract her full bladder from her body using only her fingernails and beat me to death with it.
Then empty it, slowly, on my cooling corpse.
“I can't pee, Andrew! I can't! It's like my body clamped down hard to make sure I didn't embarrass myself in the ultrasound room and now it just refuses! My bladder has selective mutism, except instead of being quiet, it's not releasing.”
“Do you want me to massage it?”
“Huh?”
“Or... I don't know! I've never been in this situation before. I just want you to feel better.”
Her eyes drop to my hand. “What's that?”
“Pictures of the babies.”
She bursts into tears. “I can't even enjoy my own babies' first images because I have a bladder that's turned into a prison gate! AAAAUUUUUGGGGHHHH!” she screams.
Immediately, someone's banging on the door.
“Hello? Can I help you?” The doorknob jiggles.
“We're fine!” I call out, regretting the words instantly.
“Uh, who's in there?” A different voice, lower and commanding.
And male.
“It's me, Amanda McCormick,” Amanda says, moving closer to the door. “My husband's in here. Don't worry. We're not being weird or having sex or oh, God,” she mutters at the end. “I'm just having a problem.”
“Can we help?” Back to the female voice.
“I can't–I can't pee!” Amanda gasps. “I came in for an ultrasound and–”
“It's okay,” the woman says. “It happens. Did you try running the sink water?”
“Yes!”
“Are you open to essential oils?”
“What?” Amanda says to the door, incredulous. “Are you one of those MLM people, pushing your product on me now?”
Laughter, muted but genuine, pours through the door. “No, no. Peppermint oil helps women pee after labor and delivery. It sounds crazy, but it's worth a try. If you open the door a crack, I can give you a small bottle to try.”
Amanda looks at me. I hold up my palms in surrender. When I gotta go, I just whip it out, point, and go. I am not an expert on her predicament.
Bzzz
My phone.
At the same time, Amanda opens the door, grabs an amber bottle from an unknown person, and shuts the door quickly.
“Ten drops in the toilet water. Turn on the faucet, too. And tell your husband not to watch.”
I make a face at the door and turn my back to Amanda.
“Gina just texted me. I'll go out in the hall and–”
“NO! You need to stay.”
“I do? Why?”
She bursts into tears.
That is the universal explanation that requires nothing more. When my wife cries, I do whatever she asks.
“I'll stay. Of course.”
“But don't look at me! I'm so mortified.”
I turn away again, staring into the corner like one of the teens in The Blair Witch Project, waiting for my fate.
And I read my texts.
From Gina: Don't forget the Myers meeting at 11.
I check the time. 10:53.
“Is this going to take much longer?” I ask Amanda as the room fills with a thick peppermint scent.
“ARE YOU RUSHING ME?”
Gonna be late, I text Gina.
