The Pioneer Woman (25 page)

F
IVE WEEKS
to the day after our wedding, we drove to my hometown to have dinner with my parents, who wanted to welcome us back from the honeymoon with a nice dinner at the country club. I hugged my mom and dad, and shuddered; the familiar tension between them was present and palpable. Clearly nothing had improved since I'd said good-bye to them at the wedding reception.

Somehow, during the course of the previous several weeks, amid the honeymoon and the settling in and the fizzy first days of matrimony, I'd allowed myself to assume that since I was no longer a daily witness to the unraveling of my parents' marriage, it must not actually be happening.

Thirty seconds in their presence blew that completely out of the water.

We ordered steak and baked potatoes and salads and desserts, but, strangely, by the second bite of steak, I knew I couldn't go on any longer. The thought of the piece of meat in front of me suddenly repelled me, and I was instantly transported to the nausea spell I'd experienced at the best restaurant in all of Sydney.
Oh no,
I thought.
It's back.
I didn't say anything, continuing to pick at the food in front of me as Marlboro Man and I shared the more pleasant aspects of our Australian honeymoon.

When we hugged good-bye and I watched my parents climb into their car—my mother immediately staring out the window as my father shifted
into drive and stared straight ahead—I knew in my heart things had gotten worse. The pit of my stomach ached in more ways than one.

As Marlboro Man and I walked to our car, his arm around my shoulders and my head resting on his chest, I held him tightly, promising myself I'd never let that coldness take root between us. I couldn't even bear the thought, couldn't even imagine it. I loved Marlboro Man so much. Had my parents ever felt that way? I know they had. I'd seen it. I clutched Marlboro Man even tighter as we continued our walk through the parking lot.

We drove home slowly, almost in utter silence. I knew Marlboro Man was preoccupied; the business of the ranch weighed heavily on his mind. As for me, all I could think about were my parents and my stupid inner ear disturbance, which had clearly chosen to pay me a visit that night. I was sick again, just like I'd been for most of our Australian honeymoon.

And then it really hit me.

“Stop the car,” I said suddenly, just before we crossed the county line. Before the pickup even came to a complete stop, I opened my door and hopped out, throwing up my dinner, completely splattering the shoulder of the highway.

On the growing list of Undignified Moments of My Life, it assumed a very high position.

 

T
HE NAUSEA
was so bad when I awoke the next morning, I could hardly get out of bed. Marlboro Man had already left the house; I hadn't even heard him get up. I lifted my head off the pillow and immediately plopped it back down. I felt as green as I imagined I looked, and I was so afraid of throwing up again after the side-of-the-road upchuck the night before that I simply curled into a fetal position and lay there for another hour. I wished I had a nurse button so someone could bring me Froot Loops.
It was, curiously, the only food on Earth that sounded remotely palatable.

I managed to work my way to a standing position by midmorning, shuffling my feet to the fridge in our tiny kitchen and sipping some cold orange juice. The blood sugar surge seemed to help immediately. I rifled through the cabinets for something, anything that would fill the gaping hole of nauseating hunger in my gut, but all options looked and sounded awful. I couldn't bear the thought of a ham sandwich. Imagining milk trickling down my esophagus almost sent me over the edge. Even the saltines might as well have been covered in hair. This was bad. Really, really bad. I had to somehow make it to the shower, then see about getting a doctor's appointment. I couldn't go on like this.

The shower turned out to be glorious once I adjusted the water to a cool enough temperature so as not to produce any steam. I washed my hair, noticing that my favorite shampoo suddenly smelled like Hades—as did my trusty facial scrub, which had so loyally saved my face from looking like the back of a lizard on the day of my wedding. Just as I was rinsing the last of the suds from my hair, Marlboro Man suddenly burst through the door of the bathroom and yelled,
“Hey!”

I screamed bloody murder from the startle, then screamed again because I was naked and feeling queasy and unattractive. Then I felt sick from the excitement.
“Hi,”
I managed, grabbing a towel from the rack and wrapping it around myself as quickly as I could.

“Gotcha,” he said, smiling the sexiest smile I'd ever seen while in such a sick state. Then he stopped and looked at me. “Are you okay?” He must have noticed the verdant glow of my skin.

“I'll be honest,” I said, making my way back to our bedroom. “It's pretty bad. I'm going to try to get in to the doctor today and see if there's anything he can do about it.” I fell backward onto the bed. “My ears must have been permanently damaged or something.”

Marlboro Man moved toward me, looking like the cat that had just eaten the canary. “Scared you, didn't I?” he chuckled as he wrapped his
arms around my towel-cloaked body. I breathed him in, wrapping my arms around him, too.

Then I shot up and raced back to the bathroom so I could throw up again.

 

M
ARLBORO MAN
went back to work—he and Tim were receiving a load of steers—and I drove over to my hometown to see the only doctor that could work me in on such short notice. I'd wanted to see an ear-nose-throat physician, since I already knew it was an inner ear issue, but they were all booked at least two weeks out. I couldn't bear the thought of throwing up that long. After a battery of questions, a few palpations of my lymph nodes, and a peek inside my ears, the doctor leaned back against the counter, crossed his arms, and said, “Any chance you might be pregnant?”

I knew that wasn't it. “Well, it wouldn't be impossible,” I humored him. “But I know that's not what it is. I got this same thing on our honeymoon, just as soon as we got to Australia. It's definitely some kind of vertigo/inner ear thing.” I swallowed hard, wishing I'd brought along some Froot Loops.

“When was your wedding?” he asked, looking at the calendar on the wall of the exam room.

“September twenty-first,” I answered. “But again…I know it's my ears.”

“Well, let's just rule it out,” the doctor said. “I'll send the nurse in here in a minute, okay?”

Waste of time,
I thought. “Okay, but…do you think there's anything we can do about my ears?” I really didn't want to feel this way anymore.

“Marcy will be in here in just a second,” he repeated. He wasn't acknowledging my self-diagnosis at all.
What kind of doctor is this?

Marcy soon entered the room with a plastic cup with a bright green
lid—the perfect reflection of my skin tone. “Do you think you can give us a urine sample, hon?” she asked.

I can give you a vomit sample,
I thought. “Sure,” I said, taking the cup and following Marcy to the restroom like a good little patient.
And don't call me hon,
I thought. I was cranky. I needed something to eat, and I felt like bursting into tears.

A minute later, I exited the bathroom and handed Marcy the sample cup, which I'd wiped clean with a paper towel.

“Okay, hon,” she said. “You can just head back to the room and I'll be back in a sec.”

Stop calling me hon.

I felt awful. Tingly and flushed and awful. If I moved my head too quickly in any direction, I'd gag. I suddenly felt a surge of sympathy for people who felt this way all the time, from chemotherapy treatments or gastrointestinal problems or other medical reasons. There's no way I could function in this state for any length of time. I just prayed an effective treatment existed. I couldn't predict what they'd need to do to my ears, but I was willing to try anything to achieve relief. I had things to do, after all. I needed to go be a wife.

My legs swung back and forth as I sat on the exam table and waited for Marcy or the doctor to return. A Wendy's Frosty suddenly sounded delicious.
At last,
I thought.
Something other than Froot Loops. Hurry up, Marcy! I've got to get to the drive-thru.

Moments later, Marcy and the doctor entered the room together. Marcy was smiling.

“You're pregnant, my dear,” the doctor said.

My stomach lurched. “What?” I exclaimed. “But that can't be why I'm sick…can it?”

After a series of uncomfortable questions from the doctor as to the various dates of this and that, Marcy giggled as the doctor walked me through—with his pencil—the dates on the wall calendar, dates that explained when I could
have gotten pregnant and why now, over five weeks after our wedding day, I was barfing my ever-loving guts out and craving Froot Loops and Frosties.

Pregnant.

Pregnant?

What should I do?

Should I tell Marlboro Man?

Should I go lie down and put my feet up on pillows?

What will this mean for my figure?

I suddenly had a lot of things to figure out.

 

D
RIVING BACK
to the ranch, sucking down the last of the most delicious Wendy's Frosty I'd ever ingested in my life, I instinctively clutched my abdomen, which felt flat as a pancake because of the lack of food I'd been able to eat over the previous forty-eight hours. Pregnant? Already? I knew it could happen. I knew it was possible. But I didn't think it would happen this quickly.

Then my mind began to race. What had I had to drink over the past few weeks? What medications had I taken? What food? What did this mean for Marlboro Man and me? Was he ready? He said he wanted children, but did he really mean it? What would it mean for my body? My soul? My heart? Could I share myself with a baby? Did labor hurt?

I pulled up at home and saw Marlboro Man's truck next to the house. When I walked in the door of our little white house, he was there, sitting on the bench, taking off his boots.

“Hey,” he said, leaning back against the wall. “How're you doing?”

“Better,” I replied. “I had a Frosty.”

He pulled off his left boot. “What'd you find out?”

“Well,” I started. My lip began to quiver.

Marlboro Man stood up. “What's wrong?” he said.

“I'm p…” My lip quivered even more, making it difficult to speak. “I'm pregnant!” I cried. The tears started rolling.

“What?” he exclaimed, moving toward me. “Really?”

All I could do was nod. The lump in my throat was too big for me to talk.

“Oh, wow.” He moved in, hugging me close. I guess he hadn't expected it either.

I just stood there and cried silently. For our past…for our future. For nausea and my fatigue. For receiving a diagnosis.

As for Marlboro Man, he just stood there and held me as he always had when I'd broken into unanticipated crying attacks, all the while trying his best not to explode with excitement over the fact that his baby was growing in my belly.

 

T
HAT NIGHT
, after having lived with the news for mere hours, Marlboro Man couldn't stand it anymore. He wanted to tell our families. Forget waiting until the end of the first trimester; forget sleeping on it a couple of nights. Something important had happened. He saw no need to keep it a secret.

“Hey,” he said when his mom answered the phone. I could hear her bright voice in the receiver. “Ree's pregnant,” he blurted out, as open as he'd been in the first weeks of our relationship.

“Yep,” he continued, answering his mom's questions. “We're pretty excited.” He and his mom continued chatting. I could hear her excitement, too.

When the call ended, he handed me the portable phone. “Do you want to call your folks?” he asked. He would have called the newspaper if it had been open.

More focused on my growing nausea than on making phone calls, I took the phone anyway and dialed my parents' house. After several rings, my dad finally answered. “Hello,” the voice said quietly.

“Hi, Dad,” I announced.

“Hi, sweetie,” my dad said. His voice sounded strange. Something was wrong.

“What's wrong, Dad?” I asked.

“Your mom…your mom left tonight,” he said. “She said she has an apartment and she's leaving. She's gone….” His voice trailed to a whisper.

My heart sank. I sat there on the sofa, unable to move.

 

I
TOLD MARLBORO
Man immediately—it was the second piece of stunning news we'd received that day—then headed back to my hometown by myself. I had to see my dad, to make sure he was okay, and I wanted to go by myself. I couldn't subject Marlboro Man to that level of in-law strife this early in the game, and I wasn't sure my dad would be comfortable talking freely in front of his new son-in-law.

“It won't be too late,” I told him. “I just want to make sure he's okay.”

“I'm sorry, honey,” Marlboro Man said, hugging me before I left.

Man. What a day.

I called my mom the second I got in my car.

“Mom,” I said. “What's going on?”

She was quiet for a moment. “Ree,” she said. “It's been coming for a long time.”

“What's been coming?” I countered. “Throwing away a thirty-year marriage?” My crankiness had returned.

She paused for a long time. I crossed the cattle guard as I made my way toward the main highway. “It's not that simple, Ree…,” she began. The line went quiet while we both tried to figure out something productive to
say. I held back. Nothing could be gained by blurting out angrily what I was thinking: that my mom was about to demolish our family. That it was all so preventable…so unnecessary. That she was pulling the rug out from under us all.