Babyland (26 page)
Authors: Holly Chamberlin
Part Two
59
Revolt
T
here wasn't time to wait for an ambulance. I just knew. Biting my lip against the violence happening inside me, I made it down to the entrance hall of my building, step by excruciating step. There was no sound at all from Mr. Audrey's apartment or from Katie and Alma's. Everyone, it seemed, was asleep. It simply didn't occur to me to wake them.
here wasn't time to wait for an ambulance. I just knew. Biting my lip against the violence happening inside me, I made it down to the entrance hall of my building, step by excruciating step. There was no sound at all from Mr. Audrey's apartment or from Katie and Alma's. Everyone, it seemed, was asleep. It simply didn't occur to me to wake them.
Once outside, I hailed a cab. Inanely I thought, I'm having incredible luck with cabs these days. Carefully, I got into the backseat.
“Emergency room, Beth Israel. And please hurry.”
“Someone in an accident, lady?” the driver asked as he screeched off.
“Yes,” I said, in a remarkably calm voice. “There's been an accident.”
It didn't occur to me until I was standing just outside the doors to the ER that I should call Ross. Somehow I seemed to know that cell phones don't work in hospitals; I don't know why. The pain caused me to double over, but I managed to make the call on my cell phone before walking through those automatic doors.
Ross's recorded voice met my ears. “It's Anna,” I told it. “I'm at the ER, Beth Israel. It's about eleven thirty, I think. Something's wrong, Ross. Something's very wrong.”
60
Answers
L
ife is so much messier than art. At least in art there's a conscious creator, an identifiable author. And sometimes there's even a frame. But in life? Who knows? And even if there is an ultimate creator of life, a god or goddess or some non-anthropomorphic force, why should anyone assume that his or her or its motives and grand plan are transparent or at all knowable to mere humans?
ife is so much messier than art. At least in art there's a conscious creator, an identifiable author. And sometimes there's even a frame. But in life? Who knows? And even if there is an ultimate creator of life, a god or goddess or some non-anthropomorphic force, why should anyone assume that his or her or its motives and grand plan are transparent or at all knowable to mere humans?
Here's one of the things I like about art over life. You can sit down with a painter, face to face, and ask why she chose to paint a particular subject in a particular way, and you'll get an answer. The answer might be difficult to interpret, but it will be an answer. You'll hear it with your own ears.
But you can't sit down face to face with the master or mistress of the universe. Sure, you can send a question out into the air through prayer or chant or meditation, and maybe an answer will come whispering back, but how can you be sure the answer isn't your own attempt to fill the void? How can you ever be sure you're not playing God and hearing what you want to hear?
Give me art over life any day. I like things someone can explain.
61
Loss
T
here was no heartbeat. There was nothing.
here was no heartbeat. There was nothing.
62
Last Steps
R
oss drove me home. Unspoken agreement had led us to my apartment, not the loft. We sat for a moment in the front seat of his Jaguar, silently.
oss drove me home. Unspoken agreement had led us to my apartment, not the loft. We sat for a moment in the front seat of his Jaguar, silently.
“You go on up,” he said finally, his voice even. He didn't look at me when he spoke, just stared ahead through the windshield. “I'll find a place to park and be up in a minute.”
“That's okay,” I said quickly. “I mean, I'm okay. I just need to sleep. Why don't you go on home. I mean, it's so hard to find parking here, and you have a spot at the loft.”
Ross didn't spend much time thinking about his answer.
“All right. If you're sure ...”
“I'm sure. Thanks for the ride,” I said.
“No problem.”
I eased out of the car. As Ross drove off, I flashed back to those awkward first and only dates of high school. I remembered how I felt as the unhappy boy drove away, leaving me at the bottom of our driveway. Very alone. Terribly aware that the evening had been a huge mistake. Relieved to be home, where I belonged.
I climbed the long flights of stairs to my apartment, conscious at every step of the doctor's words of caution. But the only way home was to climb those stairs. Past Mr. Audrey's door, decorated with a stark grapevine wreath. No sound from within. Past Katie and Alma's door. From their apartment I heard distant strains of classical music. For half a second the idea of stopping there crossed my mind, but I kept on climbing.
I opened the door to my apartment, and for the first time it seemed like an awfully lonely place. I'd been coming home to an empty apartment for years, but somehow, it had never felt really empty until that moment.
Not all the baby gifts we'd been given were stored in the loft apartment. A sterling silver piggy bank, still in its box, sat on the coffee table. A Lamaze infant play mat was spread out on the floor beneath the table. The hideous handmade sweater Mrs. Davis had commissioned was in a heap on a dining room chair. I picked it up and took it with me into the bedroom.
Sun streamed through the window; it was only one o'clock in the afternoon. I slipped into bed in the clothes I was wearing and pulled the covers to my neck.
I'd never felt so tired, so flattened and boneless. Under the covers I bundled the lumpy sweater to my chest.
“Goodbye,” I whispered. “Goodbye.”
63
Poking the Wound
T
hus began the worst few weeks of my life. What do you call a person who courts misery? A person who is most content being sunk in depression or self-pity?
hus began the worst few weeks of my life. What do you call a person who courts misery? A person who is most content being sunk in depression or self-pity?
A misanthrope. A cynic. A defeatist.
I don't like misery. I'm not happy being unhappy.
I woke to find the bedroom already dark. I reached over and turned on the light; my watch said it was eight o' clock. Carefully, I got out of bed; the hideous sweater was on the floor in a heap. I checked voice mail; no one had called. Not even Ross. I wondered if he'd told anyone.
Slowly I made my way into the kitchen where I realized I hadn't eaten in almost twenty-four hours. And I was ravenous. I spread peanut butter and jelly on crackers; I wolfed down a banana.
And still the phone didn't ring.
I went into the living room and pulled my college copy of
Roget's Thesaurus
from the bookshelf. I looked up synonyms for the words
miscarry
and
miscarriage
. There were many.
Roget's Thesaurus
from the bookshelf. I looked up synonyms for the words
miscarry
and
miscarriage
. There were many.
For example: A miscarriage was a failure. It was a non-success.
A miscarriage was a fruitless endeavor.
By miscarrying I had missed my mark.
To miscarry was to botch the job.
And then there were the more colorful turns of phrase. A miscarriage could be described as a slip 'twixt cup and lip. To miscarry could be said to roll the stone of Sisyphus.
For a project to miscarry was for it to come to nothing.
I tossed the yellowing paperback aside.
My accidental pregnancy had come to nothing.
Listlessly, I reached for the remote and began to flip through the nine hundred channels. Nothing was of interest until I reached Lifetime. The station was airing a movie about a young, kind-hearted, wide-eyed woman fighting her older, evil, narrow-eyed ex-husband for custody of their seven-month-old baby. I wept through the entire two hours.
Maybe, I thought, I'm a defeatist after all.
64
Well-Meaning
S
pontaneous abortion. It's Nature's way of weeding out the imperfect.
pontaneous abortion. It's Nature's way of weeding out the imperfect.
Nature.
I was terrified. The world was full of risk; anything at all could happen at any time; this moment could be my last. My own body could rise up and rebel, destroy what it had created, and there was nothing I could do about it.
Nothing at all but recover.
And recovery was on everybody's mind. Everyone had ideas about how to move on. Everybody felt the need to express them.
Get pregnant again immediately, some said. At least, as soon as the doctor says it's okay.
Others said, Wait a year before trying again. Get married, go on the honeymoon, relax.
Put it all out of your mind, a nurse at my doctor's office told me. Miscarriage is common; millions of women have miscarriages; the fetus wasn't a baby yet, anyway. Not a real person. Me? I've had three, and you don't see me missing any sleep, do you?
Go to a therapist for counseling. Join a support group. Women grieving the loss of an unborn child. I'm sure the hospital can hook you up.
Get over it, go through it, ignore it, embrace it.
People I hardly knew sent me articles clipped from women's and parenting magazines. Ross's mother alerted me by phone to a weeklong segment on the evening news; it was devoted to, in her words, “women with hostile wombs.” My own mother sent me a standard issue inspirational greeting card that assured me God was watching over me every second of the day. The card only made me feel paranoid.
Kristen sent me a flowery card reminding me that she was my “Forever Friend.” Katie and Alma brought me homemade chicken soupâperfect, they swore, for soothing the wounded soul. Alexandra checked in with me every two hours on the dot, offering a delivery of groceries, wine, or magazines. Tracy came by with flowers and helped with my housekeeping.
No doubt everyone's intentions were good, but the clamor began to wear on my nerves. Why can't my grief belong to me, I wondered. How am I supposed to know how I feel if they all keep talking, yammering, shouting in my ear!
Everyone, I thought, should just shut up.
65
Don't Bring God Into It
“C
an I get anyone something to drink?” I offered listlessly. “I haven't been to the store since last week butâ”
an I get anyone something to drink?” I offered listlessly. “I haven't been to the store since last week butâ”
Four days since I'd lost the baby and I wasn't feeling any less miserable. I warned them I was a mess, but they came anyway.
“Quit trying to play hostess,” Alexandra commanded. “We can fend for ourselves.”
“Do you know what my mother said to me?” I asked. “She said, and I quote: God only gives us what we can handle. If He didn't think you could handle losing this baby, He wouldn't have allowed it to happen.”
“Since when did your mother get religion?” Alexandra snapped.
Tracy winced. “That's so wrong on so many levels.”
“And that nonsense is supposed to make me feel better!” I said. “I'm supposed to be able to handle this miscarriage and I'm not handling it, I'm not able to handle it, so I'm screwing that up, too? I can't be a good mother and I can't be a happy fiancé, and now I can't stop crying ...”
Kristen patted my shoulder gently. “A lot of that's hormones, you know,” she said. “It's not really you. It's the chemicals.”
I swiped tears from my cheeks. “Why is everything about the chemicals?”
No one had an answer.
“You need to stop blaming yourself.”
Alexandra, too? Where, where did people get these notions? From the
Clichés in Times of Trouble
catalogue?
Clichés in Times of Trouble
catalogue?
“I'm not blaming myself,” I protested. “At least, not entirely. I know these things just happen. It's not like I went horseback riding over rough terrain or went bungie jumping at Great Adventure. It's not like I tried to end the pregnancy.”
“Maybe what you need isâ”
I cut Kristen off. “What I really need is to go to sleep. For a long, long time. I'm just so tired. So awfully tired. And no,” I added, looking at each of my friends in turn, “I don't mean tired of living. My mother also reminded me that God helps those who help themselves. God, it seems, doesn't like losers.”
There was a moment of charged silence; Kristen broke it.
“I know I shouldn't say it, what with the kids in Sunday school and all, but, well, sometimes the notion of God does more harm than good.”
“That's the understatement of the century.” Tracy sighed. “I'd be happy if Godâor the idea of himâjust went away.”
“It's not God's fault the world is so horrid,” Alexandra said. “It's people who commit idiocy. God and guns are not to blame. Human beings, the creators of God and guns? Now they're the big culprits.”
Tracy nodded. “And there's no escaping our human nature.”
I moaned and fell back against the pillows. “Please, I'm depressed enough as it is.”
Kristen adjusted the shades and straightened the rumpled covers. “We'll let you sleep. Do you want anything before we go? A glass of milk?”
“Kristen,” I said, “I haven't had a glass of milk since I was twelve. Maybe a glass of water. But I can get it. Thanks.”
My friends gathered their bags. When they were at the door to my room I said, “Everyone?”
Alexandra, Kristen, and Tracy stopped and turned.
“Thank you.”
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