A shower was a place of refuge for Tim, his private sanctuary only for as long as he was behind the frosted, sliding glass doors. Tim was not a shower-singer, he was a shower-meditator, and his mind was so practiced in this meditative art, virtually as soon as he reached for the forest green wash cloth and bar of almond coloured soap, his mind actively played through an out of body experience or some fantastical journey.
Tim finally heard Ronnie call “Timmmm” on what was her third try, the number only recalled after his mind registered and recognised this outside intrusion. “I cannot hear what you are saying, Ronnie” Tim offered as a delaying tactic, squeezing out 30 more seconds of soothing, hot, and misty spray.
Tim knew Ronnie was approaching the bath, and so he disengaged from his mental meditation and moved to complete the physical ritual: ending his shower with the water turned to full cold. The frosty blast of cold sent his skin from very warm to ice cold, his mind moved to full-awake status. Shifting his body such that the cold water struck all of his being, with one quick pivot, Tim lifted each foot in turn for the water to strike the soles of his feet, the final step in having his entire body feel the cold. Satisfied, Tim reached out and turned the shower control to off.
Sliding open the slightly wobbling and warbling door, Tim reached for his matching forest green bath towel precisely as Ronnie entered the bath. She talked calmly, in full control. “My water just broke.” was her short and to the point statement, which carried a whole lot of other ramifications, notably the immediate need to call work and advise Sara Beth he would not be in on this day.
Moving out of the bath and into the adjacent master bedroom, Tim finished drying, and then tossed the towel in its usual place of repose – the floor. Now prowling the master bath with no clothing, Tim quickly moved to pull out underwear, socks, a rust coloured tee shirt naturally stained and brought home from Hawaii for Tim, and faded but bereft of holes Levis. He finished his bodily coverage by sliding his feet into a neat but slightly dirty pair of New Balance tennies.
Now able to turn his attention to other matters, Tim drifted down the old-fashioned rustic wooden stairs, turned almost 180° to his left, and continued into the kitchen. Ronnie stood at the dual sinks, rinsing out dishes and loading them into the newly installed dishwasher, their second since building the home 5 years before.
“Do you wish to head out?” Tim asked, knowing this was Ronnie’s call.
“Yes, just let me get these last few glasses” Ronnie retorted. Just Tim and Ronnie remained in the home, for their daughter Addison, now eight, left for school twenty minutes previous.
Addison. Tim quickly remembered how they wished for Addie to be with them on this day. “Shall we stop at the school first for Addie?” he asked Ronnie.
“I think it is best to drive to Dr. Smalley’s office and see what he has to say first,” Ronnie replied, her quiet and matter of fact response nonetheless carrying the actual course they would take. “You can go back for Addie after if need be.”
Neither of them even bothered, at least yet, to mention how what was unfolding was not at all the plan established weeks before. Addie had been born by c-section, and their newest addition was to enter the world through a similar shortcut. The c-section, originally scheduled for the following week, was 3 weeks early. This child was setting her own course, tossing all the best laid plans right out the window for dispersal by the wind, coming earlier than planned.
The drive to the obstetrician’s office was a short one, a scant ten minutes away. Adjacent to the hospital in which Ronnie would settle in and continue with labour, Dr. Smalley’s office was located on the second floor, smack dab in the middle of the suite of offices that lined the floor.
Dr. Smalley was behind the service desk, his waiting room was empty. “Hi Ronnie! He called out, adding…oh, hi Tim” as Tim followed Ronnie through the door and closed it behind him. Dr. Smalley was not a typical obstetrician or physician. He was full of humour, and always sported a baseball cap with visor to the rear. His features completed the image, looking fully a third less than his actual 47 years.
He listened attentively as Ronnie relayed the morning events. Jon Smalley was no run in the mill obstetrician; he was head of the department of obstetrics at Van Naes Memorial. He was well acquainted with Ronnie, having seen her regularly – seen both she and Tim regularly – over the preceding months.
He ushered her into an examination room, while Tim remained in the waiting area. They returned ten minutes later. “Drive Ronnie over to the main entrance of the hospital,” Dr Smalley kindly instructed, with Ronnie picking up from where he left off adding “After you drop me off, drive to the school and get Addie.”
In his supporting role, Tim did not relish being away from Ronnie, but he did relish the prospect of taking Addie out of school and having her present for the birth of their child, the birth of her sister. She was going to be one very excited eight year old.
