Live, Laugh, Loathe

Chapter 19: Damon

I'm in awe of this woman.

Not fifteen minutes ago, she divulged the horror that was her entire childhood to me. And now? She's seated next to me in the doula's office, smiling, discussing what she wants to be included in her birth plan. So much pain, and yet, somehow, she still has hope for her future.

Fucking astounding.

I won't compare our childhood traumas. Mine was different but no less traumatic. But there's one difference that I find significant. Salient. My trauma and pain came from losing my loving parents, who did everything they could to raise me in a loving home. Drew's pain? Comes from parents who decided that because of her gender, she didn't get to live happily. The fact that she wants to be a mother at all is nothing short of amazing.

"Mr. Martinez?" I jerk in my seat, suddenly realizing I missed a lot of the conversation. Both Patricia and Drew are looking at me expectantly.

"I'm sorry, I kind of got lost in my own head just now. What was the question?" Drew shoots me an unreadable look. Is she guessing where my head is at and is unhappy? Or does she like that I'm still processing?

"How comfortable do you feel about cutting the cord after delivery?" Patricia repeats.

"Oh, at the moment, fairly comfortable. But I have to admit, I've never been in a room where a woman is giving birth, so who knows? I'm sure you've seen a father or two pass out." Patricia chuckles and recounts a time when a husband passed out so suddenly that he fell into the doctor and placenta, getting fluids and whatnot over him. When he woke up and realized what he was covered in, he passed out again.

"I can still hear his high-pitched shriek before passing out the second time. Any time I need a good laugh, I think about him." Patricia wipes at the corners of her eyes, still laughing.

"The only question I had was your opinion on delayed cord cutting? I've read what I could find, and it seems to make sense, but the lack of consensus makes me wonder how real current findings are. Is it something you recommend to birthing people?" Drew nods enthusiastically. We read about it last week and agreed it sounded worth discussing.

"I do my best to only give my parents complete information on different options and try not to interject my opinion. In this case, there is plenty of evidence to support why delaying is beneficial; what most studies disagree on is how long to wait. Most of my parents wait ten minutes before they clamp and cut, and I don't see any reason why you both couldn't do the same."

Our meeting lasts another thirty minutes, with Patricia sending us home with some homework. Drew is supposed to start perineal massages once she reaches her third trimester in just a few short weeks. And together, we're supposed to attend a few yoga classes and a new parent crash course. That should be fun.

---

At three, I'm suddenly gasping awake. Fear coursing through my veins, my pulse going so fast it hurts. Did I have a nightmare? If I did, I don't remember.

I feel antsy, so I check my phone. Not surprised to see a few texts from Drew. Maybe they're what woke me up? They were sent twenty minutes ago. Her calves are spasming again. Yawning and I get up and shuffle to her room. It looks like she fell back asleep already.

Instead of scooting her over and sitting next to her for the next half hour, I scoop her up.

"Wha? Damon, whass hapenin?" She sounds so cute when she's groggy.

"I'm solving a problem," I state, depositing her on my bed.

"Hmm?" She's so sleepy she can barely talk. I slide in next to her and pull her legs over to me, massaging the exhausted muscles. She sighs contentedly.

"Now, when you inevitably wake up needing my masseuse services, you can just whack me until I'm awake instead of texting me and hoping I'll hear it." She grumbles incoherently, but I can tell she's rapidly falling back to sleep. Once I feel her calf muscles relax along with the rest of her body, I pull her close and hold her. I'm sure she'll give me a hard time in the morning, but for now, I just relish the feeling of her warm body against mine, listening to her soft breaths that are absolutely not snores.

I haven't slept this good in months.

---

"Damon!" Uh oh. I look up from my book to find Drew in the study doorway, angry as hell.

"Yes?" Pregnancy is a funny thing. Your body is creating a new human being; almost all of its focus is on that one job and eating. So, occasionally, reactions to things outside the primary objective are disproportionate. But as the partner to said pregnant person, your job is to never, ever, under any circumstances, point that out.

Instead, you help find solutions. Or, shut up and listen. Depending on what exactly is going on.

It's been a full week since I told Drew to just sleep in bed with me. I thought she'd put up more of a fight, but surprisingly, all she said was 'makes sense' and left it at that. I was a little deflated, honestly, I had a whole slew of arguments primed. Didn't get to use any of them.

But back to now. Right now, she's looking at me like she wants to rip my head off.

"Where are all my clothes?" Her eyes are nearly bugged out of her skull, her chest is heaving, and I swear her belly is sticking out more aggressively. Like the baby is in there giving me the stink eye in support of mom.

"They're in your closet?" Stupid thing to say, because even though that is technically a correct answer, it's not the real one. What can I say, I love her crazy eyes and aggression; I can't stop from poking the bear occasionally.

I'm rewarded with nostril flaring. I have to bite my cheek to keep my face looking innocent.

"Damon Martinez, you damn well know that is not what I am asking! Where. Are. My. Clothes?"

Instead of waiting to get eviscerated, I get up and lead her into our room and open her closet. It's across the room from mine and has been empty since I moved in. I'm not exactly sure why, but I always felt the need to keep it empty. Because one day, someone special to me would need it.

And her name is Drew.

She's silent at first, eyeing the neatly hung and folded clothing. Along the far wall are stacked cubes holding all her shoes. There's also a dresser for PJs, athletic wear, and accessories. Matilda did a wonderful job organizing it all.

"I feel like I should be mad about this. But I don't think I've ever seen a closet of mine look so organized." She walks in fully, running her hands along the clothes.

"So... you're not mad?" She turns to me, a suspicious glint at the corner of her eyes. Tears are always a crapshoot. They could mean literally anything at this stage.

"I hate you." She whispers, clearly trying really hard to keep from crying.

With a sigh of relief, I take a step and pull her into my arms. "I hate you more," I whisper into her hair.

She huffs a snotty laugh, "I hate you the most."

"I hate you to infinity plus one." I squeeze her tight, knowing that it always makes her feel better.

We don't move for a long time.