by Amy
Kathleen Ryan
I was on the subway. It was Sunday
evening, but the train was crowded. A family got on at Union Square. The woman
was tall and heavy, with an open face and thick russet hair. She had round
trusting eyes. She had her little boy sit in the empty seat next to me while
she sat across the aisle. Her little girl, in a stroller, she arranged in front
of her knees, while her portly husband stood over them all, in the center of the
aisle where he could see everyone. I made eye contact with the woman and asked
if she would like to switch seats with me so that she could sit next to her
little boy. She smiled and shook her head no, that wasn't necessary, thank you.
I felt trusted.
I rode a few stops with the family, and
I watched the little girl. She had her mother's round eyes and lovely pale tan
skin. I stole glances at the little boy. He was so small, and I felt quite
large sitting next to him. He was such a little person, complete unto himself.
Again, I made eye contact with the
mother and smiled at her. In New York, you do not smile at the children
themselves, you smile at the parents to give them the intended compliment. Your
children are beautiful. She smiled back at me. Thank you.
I had the impulse to tell her something
very personal. I wanted to tell her, "I lost my baby two months ago. It
died inside of me, and I'll never know why." Of course I said nothing.
The train stopped at Graham Avenue, and
I got off. I didn't look back at them.
It's a tired cliché, but it really does
feel like a miracle. Suddenly your body kicks into a state unlike any you've
known before. You're so tired, and your breasts get huge, and you're starving
all the time. Your hair gets thicker and your skin oilier. Sometimes you want
to be left alone, but sometimes you want your mate so much you can't wait to
tear his clothes off. You're angry one moment, crying the next, and by supper
you're laughing wildly at a Seinfeld episode you've seen five times
already.
Through
it all you're so happy. You surf the internet for baby names, and cribs, and
you learn new words like 'layette' and 'areola.' You know you shouldn't, but
you tell your father because he made you promise. And he's so happy when you
tell him, it becomes like a drug. You tell your mother, and her voice hits a
register you hadn't heard since you were a little girl. You need another fix so
you tell your best friend, and then your other best friend. Suddenly you're
walking up to other pregnant women and saying things like, "Do you ever
feel cramps in your lower abdomen?" and you point to the side, just near
your hip-bone, and they roll their eyes and they say, "Just wait. It gets
worse." And you both pretend to be tired of the nastier symptoms, but the
truth is every new ache makes you a little happier because every day you're
getting closer to your baby.
For
our first prenatal visit I was nervous. My doctor, a warm Italian woman with a
ready smile squinted at the monitor as she moved the wand over my stomach.
"This screen is so…" she muttered.
I
didn't watch the screen. I watched her face. If there was something wrong, I
knew her face would tell me, and then I wouldn't have to hear it out loud. I
looked at my husband, whose brown eyes were trained on the screen. He was
trying not to show how nervous he was, but I could feel his hand sweating as he
held mine. I tried to smile at him, but then my doctor said, "Ah! There it
is! Just what we want to see!"
She
pointed at a tiny moving dot on the screen. Just a tiny little fluttering
motion. The heart.
Rich
and I stared.
I'd
imagined this moment so many times. I thought we'd laugh, or cry, or both. But
we didn't. We didn't move; we just stared. We were perfectly quiet. We were in
awe.
I had a lot of rules.
Don't buy any clothes
for the baby until after the second prenatal appointment.
If you feel tired, just
lie down. It's not a race.
Only one small cup of
coffee a day.
Yogurt.
Don't care about the
acne. Just ignore it. It doesn't matter.
Don't buy any maternity
clothes until you absolutely need them.
Only buy unisex clothes
so the second baby can have hand-me-downs.
Work out four times a
week. Labor is like a marathon, after all.
Don't talk about baby
names with anyone.
Don't worry about
things you can't control.
Enjoy this.
I
imagined this child at different ages, all different ways.
If
I imagined a teenager, it was a girl. She had glossy brown hair and long legs.
She was rebellious, but I didn't worry too much because she had a good head on
her shoulders. She loved me, but she thought I was boring. If she only knew.
If
I imagined a toddler, it was always a boy. He and I played in the backyard of
the house we would buy. First, I'd roll the ball at him until he felt confident
enough, and then we'd toss the ball back and forth. When he fell down, he'd get
right back up. He was a solemn child, and thoughtful, but he was happy.
If
I imagined a baby, she was a girl again. I imagined how she'd feel in my arms,
soft and pliant, so warm. She'd lay her head on my breast as she slept, and I'd
curl my hand under her leg to make sure I didn't drop her. Her steady breathing
would be my favorite sound in the world.
I
finally understood the women who would say, "I loved being pregnant."
Before, I had always found this puzzling because the process seemed so
miserable. Stretch marks and flatulence, morning sickness, mood swings, weight
gain, exhaustion—what's to love?
Now
I know. What they love is the state of mind. Something happens to your
hormones, and suddenly life becomes simpler. After decades of insomnia, you
sleep like a rock. You have beautiful dreams about swimming with whales. You
don't worry, not even about the baby. You're suddenly the even keel, steady
person you've always wanted to be. And you're happy. Life takes on a new sheen,
and things make sense. It's a difficult world, and there's violence and
terrible problems, but life is beautiful. It really is.
We
went on a hike in Connecticut in a little state park that we enjoy. It's full
of trees and growing things. The air smells green and florid. I was very tired,
but I wanted to keep going. I wanted to get to the top. Rich and I would stop
every twenty feet or so while I caught my breath.
We
had decided we weren't going to talk about the baby. We didn't want to discuss
names anymore, or our plans to leave the city. We just wanted to enjoy the day.
But I couldn't help thinking that this was baby's first hike, and I wished we'd
brought the camera.
After
a grueling two hours, we finally made it to the top. We looked out over a large
green valley as we sat on top of a mossy rock eating bananas and granola bars.
In the sky were three hawks, all of them hovering over the trees, their beaks
pointed down as they looked for movement. One of them flew quite close to us,
and Rich yelled out. After a while they gave up and soared toward the pastures
at the bottom of the valley. I imagined what it would be like to be one of
them.
When
the sun hung low, we decided to head home. Though I'd been exhausted on the
climb up, I was positively bouncing down the hillside. I felt like a fawn
jumping from rock to rock. I felt young again, and I remember thinking that I
wasn't that old after all. Thirty-six, and we finally had proof that I was
still fertile. I'd begun to doubt after a year of trying, but it was all going
to be okay. I felt great, and we were only days away from the second prenatal
visit.
We
might even be able to learn the sex of the child.
It
was almost clear at first. I thought I was imagining things. It looked slightly
colored, that's all. There'd been plenty of fluid, it's quite normal. It was
probably nothing.
The
next day there was more. Brownish, though. They say you should only worry if
it's pink. I read about it in my big pregnancy book. It's called "old
blood". The uterus stretches, and old menstrual blood comes loose. It
happens in about forty percent of pregnancies.
The
next day there was quite a lot. I called my mother. "I'm spotting."
"That
can be normal."
"I've
been feeling these cramps."
"Oh, I felt cramps
all through my pregnancy."
"I'm scared."
"I'm scared."
"Then call your
doctor. But I'm sure it's nothing, honey."
My husband picked me up after work. We drove through Central Park on our way back to Brooklyn. I tried not to panic. He tried, too.
My husband picked me up after work. We drove through Central Park on our way back to Brooklyn. I tried not to panic. He tried, too.
At
home, I called the emergency number, and ten minutes later the on-call doctor
returned my call. My husband listened as I listed my symptoms. "I'm
spotting. The blood is brown. My breasts feel less tender." And then I
told her the symptom that had frightened me even more than the blood: "My
vulva is no longer swollen."
"Oh,
well. Your vulva shouldn't be swollen until the third trimester."
I
didn't know what to say to this.
"It
doesn't sound serious," she told me. She sounded so certain. "It's
probably old blood."
Old
blood. It sounded made up, like something you tell a child who has asked why
the sky is blue. Because blue is a prettier color than red, you might say. You
say that because you know they wouldn’t understand the real answer.
"Don't
worry,” the doctor told me. “You have your second prenatal appointment on
Monday. We'll take a look then."
I
hung up. I looked at my husband. He rubbed my leg, kissed my cheek. “Try not to
worry, honey.”
I
decided I was being paranoid.
I
should try to calm down.
The internet.
Chat rooms.
Dozens of miscarriage
stories.
Dozens
of stories from women with identical symptoms who were now proud parents.
It's old blood.
It
can be normal.
The worst thing you can do is worry.
The worst thing you can do is worry.
I
kept remembering that hike.
The
way I'd bounced down the hill.
"Are
you nervous?" I asked him.
He
was driving, and he didn't answer right away. The sunlight seemed particularly
bright. I don't know if I just remember it that way, or if it really was
unusually bright that day. It hurt my eyes.
"We're
late," he said. "I'm never going to find a parking space."
I
laughed at him. Trying to act normal.
I
went up while he parked the car. I filled out some papers. A woman came in. She
was pretty and hugely pregnant. She had a little boy with her. She asked the
nurse if she spoke French, and the nurse said no. I said I spoke a little, and
I tried to help her fill out the form. She got to the box that asked for the
father's name. I didn't know the word for husband. I said, "L'homme?"
She
shook her head at me, her lips pursed. She did not look at me.
The
nurse thanked me for my help.
I
hadn't been any help at all. I'd only embarrassed her.
The
next moment, my tall handsome husband breezed in and sat next to me. He kissed
me. Then Rich started flipping through a magazine, and I watched the woman's
little boy. He had black eyes, and very short black hair. He was beautiful, and
perfect. I imagined my son would be similar to him, cheerful and quiet, a
little shy.
I
smiled at his mother.
She
glared at me.
First
a technician looked. My eyes were fastened to the screen. Rich held my hand. We
watched while she moved the sensor over my abdomen, again and again.
On
the screen there was an empty black cone. "Is that my uterus?" I
asked.
"Yes,"
she said.
"That's
not normal, is it?"
"I'm
really not a doctor."
She
left.
I
remembered the hawks we'd seen in Connecticut. I remembered bouncing down the
hillside. Two days after seeing them the blood had started.
After
five minutes a doctor came back with the technician. Not my doctor. Someone I
didn't know. She looked for it too. She looked and looked. She turned off the
machine. She put her hand on my arm. "I have bad news," she said.
"I
know,” I said. I curled up. She left Rich and I
alone. “Chairs at Rest” by John Chavers
Old
blood.
Now
I know what bullshit that is.
Two days later, I was
teaching my writing class about a beautiful novel called Kira Kira by Cynthia
Kadohata in which a teenager dies, and I pointed out a brilliant scene that
depicts how the family members react to her death. They look for her hairs on
the bathroom floor. They search through the garbage for the newspaper that
would help them remember what happened on the day their beloved died. Suddenly
my students were talking about how they coped with their deepest, most painful
losses. One woman went to work the day after her son killed himself. Another
woman couldn't understand how her mother still cooked meals after her sister
was killed in a car crash.
I thought about how I'd
reacted to my loss.
I realized I didn't
remember anything after the appointment.
The whole day had
vanished.
Like my baby.
If
nothing happened in a week, I needed a procedure. Dilation and curettage. It's
just like an abortion, but the baby is already dead.
But
what if the baby wasn't dead? What if there'd been something wrong with the
ultrasound machine? I must call and ask that question before the day of the
surgery.
But
I didn't call.
I
couldn't make myself.
A
couple days before the surgery, the doctor’s office left a message on my
answering machine telling me where to go and what to do. Go to the fourth
floor, room M as in Mother. She actually said that. Don't eat or drink after
midnight. Bring your insurance card. Someone will have to accompany you home.
I
had questions, and I left some of them on the nurse's answering machine:
Will
you knock me out?
Will
it hurt too much for me to teach my classes?
Will
you do an ultrasound to check for the baby's heartbeat, one last time, just to
make sure?
I
had other questions I did not ask:
Is
it wrong that I don't think of my baby as a person?
Am
I terrible that I have begun to hate it?
This
death inside of me that I’m still carrying around. I can feel it.
I
have found a way to stop loving it, but my body can't let go.
Is that normal?
I
had a terrible headache. The nurse took my blood pressure, and I told her I was
dehydrated. I hadn't eaten or drunk anything since before midnight. I was
worried being dehydrated would affect me. I was worried I wouldn't wake up from
the anesthesia. I was worried I’d never be able to bear a child.
“Will
they give me a saline drip during the procedure,” I asked the nurse as I rubbed
my temple.
For
the first time she looked at my face. She stopped. She said, "You really
are in pain, aren't you?"
She
meant my headache.
Dressed
in a thin cotton nightgown and some borrowed socks, with a shower cap covering
my hair, I was made to sit in a hallway with half a dozen other strangers
dressed exactly the same way. It was absurd. Suddenly I had lost my identity, and
had joined a temporary society: the sick ones.
There
was no chit chat.
I
wished I could have some water. My head hurt terribly.
I
kept thinking of my husband. He was just on the other side of the door. Just
ten feet away from me.
The
nurse got me and led me into a large room full of hospital beds and sick
people, all in the same gowns, all in plain view. Even after the absurd
hallway, I was shocked at the lack of privacy. The nurse began to lead me to a
desk in the center of the room, but suddenly my doctor was there, and she said,
"Let's bring her in here." I was unbearably glad to see her, a
familiar face in this alien, terrifying place. She led me to a small room, and
she sat in front of me and said, "Do you have any questions?"
There
were two women standing off to the side. They were wearing scrubs. Trainees, I
could tell. I didn't care about them. "Are you going to knock me
out?"
"Yes."
"How
do you know—" I began, choked. "How do you know you aren't killing a
living baby?"
One
of the trainees gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. I did not look at
her, but I felt cared for. To this person, I was not routine.
My
doctor's voice softened. "Your baby stopped growing at eight weeks. There
was no heartbeat. Believe me, we're sure."
Eight
weeks.
My
baby had been dead for over a month.
My
baby was already dead the day we went hiking, the day I'd seen the hawks. The
day I'd bounced down the hillside so happily. Baby's first hike.
I
hadn't killed my baby after all.
They
left me alone for ten minutes while I cried.
My
doctor walked with me down a long hallway. "Why is it so cold?" I
asked her. "Is that to help the blood clot?"
"It's
to quell the spread of infection."
I
felt grateful that she was wearing scrubs and a shower cap over her hair.
Her
clothes were as humble as mine.
The
room was full of people. Six of them. I lay down on the table, and they
descended on me. Professional, I remember thinking.
The
anesthesiologist tapped my arm. Shot me full of something. I looked at him. He
could not have treated me more like a piece of steak.
"Is
that the anesthesia?" I asked him.
"Yes."
He seemed surprised I was taking an interest in what was happening to me.
The
operating table I lay on was shaped like a cross. As they spread my arms and
strapped them down, I thought how very much like Christ's position was my own.
I wanted to laugh.
My
doctor told me, "Go to sleep."
It
seemed like a good idea.
And
now someone is pulling on something in my mouth. "Open your mouth. Open
your mouth. Open your mouth,"
she yells.
Something
is pulled from between my teeth.
Two
hours have passed, to the rest of the world. To me, it was about five minutes.
“What
was in my mouth?” I ask the shape standing over me.
“It
was keeping your airway open,” she tells me.
I'm in one
of the beds in that large room I'd found so shocking before. I'm one of the
people lined against the wall. No privacy.
I don't
care about that anymore.
As I
waken, my middle slowly fills with a deep, horrible ache. Oh. It hurts. I
writhe. I cannot stop my legs from squirming, as if the movement could help me
avoid the pain. Do I tell the nurse it hurts? For some reason, I want to be
brave.
The nurse
comes over and says, "Do you want Ibuprofen or a Vicodin?"
"What
is that? Is it an opiate?" I ask to prove that she can use medical words
when she talks to me. I don't want her baby talk.
"I
don’t know if it’s an opiate," she tells me.
"I
doubt I need it," I say, though it hurts. It really hurts.
The nurse
looks at my writhing legs and says, "I'll get you the Vicodin."
I have to
wait. As the anesthesia wears off, the pain grows deeper and harder, but then
finally, oh thank god, the Vicodin kicks in. And it's amazing. The pain is
gone.
"My
husband," I say to the nurse.
"What
is his name?" she asks.
"Rich."
I sleep
until he comes, and he holds my hand and says, "See? It wasn't that bad,
right?"
He needs
to believe I’m okay, but I want to say, "Oh, fuck you." Instead I
say, "It wasn't so bad." I want to be brave.
He holds
my hand. He knows when to stop talking. He knows I just need him to be there.
The nurse
makes him leave after only five minutes.
After a
couple hours recovery time, they let me go home. We take a cab. We watch the
city go by. The view from the Williamsburg Bridge is so beautiful.
At home I
camp out in the recliner and watch The Third Man.
The worst
is over, I tell myself.
It’s
finally out of me.
Slowly the vanished day has come back
to me. The day we found out.
Calling my dad. That was the hardest.
He'd wailed in agony, yelled to my brother in the next room, "Mike, the
baby didn't make it."
My mother said things about God and
heaven.
I think I ate a peanut butter and
jelly sandwich.
But mostly Rich and I just lay in
bed. Rich held my head to his chest and he kept saying, "Don't worry.
We'll try again. Don't worry. It will be okay."
I was numb.
I wasn't in my body.
That's why I hardly remember it.
Months later,
I asked Rich: “Do you ever think about it?”
“The miscarriage? Not as much anymore,”
he says. But he says it sadly.
We are folding laundry and putting it
away. We are quiet for a while, but soon I realize that wasn’t really the
question.
“Do you ever think about the baby?”
“Well, I had that dream, remember? About
our son?”
“I remember.”
He’d dreamed that he and I were walking
down the sidewalk, holding the hands of a toddler who was stumbling along
between us.
He shrugged. “I used to be sad thinking
about it, but then I realized that dream wasn’t about the baby we lost. It was
about the baby we’re going to have.”
The leaves all fell off the trees. Then
winter, and then spring. It was a warm spring this year, and the trees were
full again so soon.
My due date came and went.
This morning I was walking to work, and
I smelled autumn—that wet leaf smell right after a rain. And I thought how
beautiful it is. It really is.
I can think about the baby again. The
baby I’d held in my dreams. The pliant, beautiful little creature that slept
against me, she trusted me so. I remember how soft she felt in my arms. I
remember how she smelled of shampoo and lotion and baby powder.
I remember sitting next to her crib, on
the floor, watching her sleep.
I remember my favorite sound in the
world: the sound of her breathing.
I
remember all the things I’d planned to tell her, about the world. About life. I'm sorry, I tell her now. I couldn’t hold
you. I had to let you go.
Something
in the way I can notice the birds singing helps me know: I am forgiven.
Amy Kathleen Ryan is the author of six young adult novels, most
notably The Sky Chasers series from
St. Martin's Press. She lives in Jackson, WY with her husband and three
beautiful daughters.
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