He’s not wrong. Losing a child is often not survivable, even for those with the strongest relationship.
I wish I had a closer connection to Katrina because maybe I could help. But I really don’t know her that well. I only know and adore her mostly through Patrick’s love for her. The way he’s touted her kindness, her gentle soul. Quiet and never outspoken. Modest and introverted. She’s the opposite of him in so many ways and the ideal complement to him.
“It was fucking awful,” he says. “I couldn’t have imagined anything more painful. Watching her have to go through labor, push, deliver?Seeing someone you love in that kind of anguish isn’t something I’d wish on anyone. And I was helpless because there was nothing I could do to make it any easier.”
“But you were there. You stayed through it with her. And it was a goddamn nightmare for you too.”
“I’m not sure we’ll ever recover.”
When I awake the next morning to the smell of coffee, it’s all sorts of heaven, as RobBob has clearly been up for a while, and not only has he brewed good coffee, but he has chopped veggies, cheeses, and meats.
“I’m your omelet king!” He’s got two omelet pans at the ready.
“You are! I’m down for a Western with sausage.”
I scoop sugar into my coffee, add some creamer, and stir.
“This is all very nice, but you’re as worried as I am, right?”
“Maybe.” He fusses over the veggies, which are cut precisely. “Oh, I can add in your beloved pepperoncini, yes?”
“Of course.” I touch my hand to his. “Thank you.”
“Always.” He nods.
I know his heart is breaking, as is mine, but he’s just not one to talk about it. He does, however, lift up a packet of Knorr hollandaise. “Look, I’m not going to make it from scratch, but hollandaise on omelets is yummy as fuck, right?”
I laugh. “It is yummy as fuck.”
Moments later, Patrick lumbers into the kitchen. He looks so tired and drained.
“And for you, Sir Patrick? Omelet-wise?” RobBob asks as he does a ceremonious and fun bow. “I’m guessing all the meats and cheeses? No veggies?”
Patrick nods and smiles weakly. “Sure. That sounds nice. Thank you.”
“Stuff in a bunch of veggies,” I order in a whisper. “With cheese? He’ll never know.”
RobBob frowns and whispers, “I’m not sure what we have.”
“Find something,” I whisper-shout. “There’s a ton of stuff in the fridge. You guys just don’t like to see healthy things.”
Even though we move only feet away to the living room, the wild sounds from the kitchen are a lot. Banging and such.
Our mutual friend is an omelet genius because I see diced zucchini, wilted spinach, asparagus, and tomatoes mixed in with Patrick’s meaty omelet. My boy needs protein and nutrients of any kind, whether he likes it or not. Dousing any meal in hollandaise, homemade or not, always makes it easy to swallow, and I’m pleased to see Patrick eating another full meal.
He takes off with his coffee to settle on the deck. I watch as the wind blows his hair back while he casts his gaze over the ocean. I know he’s trying to forget, but also not wanting to forget. There’s got to be a torturous struggle, in which you hold on to a child and yet also need to let them go. Not forever, just let them go for now maybe? Hope like hell that you’ll see them later?
Fuck, I don’t know.
RobBob shakes his head. “He’s not okay. I get it, but I don’t know what to do. I’ve known him since we were ten years old, and it’s a nightmare to see him like this. I’ve tried to talk to him. I know nothing about losing a child. A baby. Especially not in the horrific way they did.”
He suddenly hurls the omelet pan into the sink, shattering the few dishes in there, and I startle at the unexpected noise, taken aback, as RobBob is always so composed.
After we both stand still for a time, gathering our bearings, I tap his arm. “I think we simply have to be okay with sitting with him in his pain. And our pain, as his friends. Our hurt doesn’t compare, but we get to feel really sad too.”
“I guess there’s no other alternative.” RobBob grabs a dish towel.
“No. There’s not,” I agree.
