Category Archives: pregnancy

Waiting

My mother waited more than 1,000 days for her organ transplant. She went from 39 to 40 to 41 while she waited. On her hip, she wore a black pager that would beep when her organs “were ready.” This was the expression she used, as if her organs were a steak sitting in the oven, not quite pink enough to eat. I realize that’s a gross image, but it’s what occurs to me when I remember the absurdity that was, at the time, so very normal for all of us.

Her organs were ready on June 6, 1994, the tail-end of my seventh grade year. That summer, I listened to Nirvana nonstop and wore a flannel that belonged to my best male friend. I wore the flannel as we drove to the hospital – no school for me that day! – and the chorus of “Heart-Shaped Box” rattled around inside my head. Hey! Wait!

I barely understood the song. What was the “broken hymen of your Highness?” But Hey! Wait! I got that. Those two words meant exactly what I felt as we raced toward Baltimore.

They meant a thing and its opposite could be true at the same time. Hey! Wait! And I was stuck between a thing I wanted, which was also the very thing I didn’t want.

Hey! I did want my mother to have an organ transplant because she’d die without one.

Wait! What if she died in surgery or right after?

I’d seen “Steel Magnolias.” I knew the organ rejection drill. My mother’s match wasn’t perfect. Anything could happen. I could have a mother in the morning and be motherless by nightfall. This knowledge was the one true fact of my girlhood.

Hey! Wait! Don’t feel bad for me. I don’t feel bad for me.

________

A few weeks ago, I drove past the hospital where my mother had (and survived) her organ transplant. Each time I drive past this hospital, I go back to June 6, 1994, to Nirvana, to the flannel scented with Polo cologne, to the wild ambivalence of those moments.

Ambivalence. I used that word incorrectly for years. I used to think ambivalence meant not caring enough. Do you know most people use ambivalence incorrectly?

But “ambivalence” comes from two Latin words. The first, ambi, means “both or on both sides.” The second, valentia, means “strength.”

Put those words together and you have ambivalence. It means caring too much on either side of an issue, and being unable to choose because feelings are equal on both sides. You want and don’t want the same thing.

That’s where I was on the day of my mother’s organ transplant. That’s where I am now, nearly a year after my miscarriage and seven months into antibiotic treatment for late-stage Lyme disease.

If you asked me last summer whether I wanted a baby, I’d have screamed YES. I was so ready, so certain, so sure by the time I got pregnant, incidentally the first time I tried. At 36.

What great luck I had! How dumb my doctors had been! So glad I’d used birth control pills and insisted on condoms all those years! Phew.

The gynecologist who did my first ultrasound raved about my uterus. She used the word luscious. I did everything I could in that moment not to laugh until I peed the pants I was not wearing. But I also took pride in her comment. Despite how mysteriously ill I had been, despite the sudden autoimmune thyroid disease that depleted my once boundless energy, my body could do something right.

Until it couldn’t.

________

I did three things when I realized I was miscarrying. I apologized profusely to my husband, who was asleep because it was 1:19 a.m. He did not think I had anything to apologize for and did his best to console me in his half-sleep, half-shock state.

But my body had failed in the worst way it could fail. And I was guilty, because it was my uncontrollable body that had rejected a pregnancy we both wanted. So I said I’m sorry over and over again, until I finally went downstairs and did the second thing. I made myself a cup of peppermint tea because that was all I could do to keep myself from screaming.

The third thing I did was call my mother-in-law once the sun came up. I told her my miscarriage made me realize how very much I wanted to be a mother. No more second guessing. No more doubt.

Why wouldn’t I want a child? I had an incredible mother who mothered me in lasting ways that allow me to be generous and patient and kind. My students even tell me I’d be a great mother. I know I should hear that comment as sexist, but I take it as a compliment. Because they’re right. I have all the qualities needed for masterful mothering. Anyone can see it.

And yet, there’s another side of the choice.

There’s the body that doesn’t seem to work the way it used to.

There’s seven months of antibiotics and no end in sight and arthritis in my hands.

There’s relapse.

There’s the 30 pills I take per day.

There’s my thirty-seventh birthday that passed in February.

There’s thirty-eight on the horizon.

There’s the choice to wait.

The thing about waiting is that it’s the closest thing we have to purgatory on earth. Torture, and not quite torture. When we’re waiting, we want the waiting to be over, and we focus our attention on an end. We believe the end will be better than the waiting. But after an end is reached, another waiting will come, and the next waiting after that. And on and on.

Our lives are thousands of days of waitings.

And yet, I’ve chosen to wait. I’ve chosen to be ambivalent. I’ve chosen to say the word I now understand at the core of my heart: ambivalence.

I take the word the apart.  Let it enter me. Leave me.

________

I’ve told all my doctors not to discuss pregnancy with me, and I’ve found an endocrinologist who will treat me during pregnancy with the medications I need, but that no other endocrinologist will prescribe in pregnancy. Incidentally, he is the endocrinologist who treated my mother and recommended her for an organ transplant.

The day I sat across from him at his desk, I was all grown up. A college professor. A woman with health insurance and a home of her own. He didn’t remember me as the little girl who used to wait in his lobby or run down the hallways.

He remembered my mother. Of course he did. How could anyone forget her? I saw him on June 6, 2018, a detail that was coincidence but felt like magic.

I am happy as a childless woman just as I could be happy as a mother. How fortunate I am that happiness awaits me on either side of my most difficult choice. Hey! Wait!  Two opposite things ring true. Like on the day of my mother’s organ transplant. Like right this minute.

 

A Genealogy of Loss

1. My grandmother’s first child was born in August 1942. He died in January 1943. The word baby appears at the top his tombstone. The age 4 ½ months appears on the bottom.

2. He died in the same hospital where he was born. He died in the hospital where my mother was born eleven years later.

3. He died in the hospital where my sister gave birth to her first child. A boy, born in August.

4. All of my grandmother’s granddaughters have given birth except for me. Their first children have been boys.

5. Eleven months after she lost her son, my grandmother gave birth to a girl. She named her daughter for her lost son. Beverly. Bernard.

6. Beverly and Bernard had blonde hair, blue-green eyes. Seven letters in each of their names.

7. Family systems psychologists believe patterns repeat in families. Behaviors duplicate. Addictions multiply. We choose our partners based on our parents, our siblings, our grandparents. We echo their patterns, or repeat them, or break them. Lately, I have been wondering about those patterns. I have been wondering if we inherit misfortune, the way we inherit eye color, hair color, left handedness.

8. How else to explain the patterns of misfortune that cycle through families, a genealogy of loss? Or specifically, how else to explain the patterns of misfortune that cycle through my family, all the sad coincidences?

9. Some researchers believe anxiety travels in our genes. Others says it doesn’t. Who can really know?

10. In college, when I was overwhelmed, my mother told me to make lists.

11. She said, “Once it’s down on paper, you can make sense of anything.”

12. So here’s what I know:

13. When Bernard started to cry, my grandmother called the doctor. She told him her son kept pulling on his ear. She did not believe the doctor’s over-the-phone diagnosis of an ear infection. The doctor did not listen to her persistent pleas. I am afraid the doctor perceived her as a complainer. I am afraid he was a man who did not perceive a woman as credible.

14. When I was pregnant, I started writing about Bernard.

15. I do not know why. Maybe I was afraid I was going to miscarry. Maybe I already knew I would. (Intuition runs in the family.) Maybe I wanted to understand my grandmother in a new way –– mother-to-mother.

16. When I was pregnant, I requested Bernard’s death certificate.

17. A few days later, I started to bleed.

18. My husband tells me correlation does not necessitate causation. He is an ENTJ on the Myers Briggs. I am an INFJ, the most intuitive personality type.

19. A midwife examined me on a Friday afternoon. She told me I’d have to wait until Monday to receive my lab test results. She would not tell me I was having a miscarriage because she did not want to “be wrong and look stupid.”

20. Her doubt fed mine.

21. Even after I peed on a pregnancy test stick and received a negative result, I doubted the intuition that ripped through me.

22. When Monday came, I called to complain about the midwife. I asked for a written apology. My family tragedy was not about her self-perception or lack of confidence or whatever she had going on in her head that day.

23. I am still waiting. I have, however, received a bill for the trans vaginal ultrasound she performed, a procedure that women identify as traumatic. I had two trans vaginal ultrasounds in one week.

24. Bernard died on January 4, 1943. A Monday.

25. Beverly’s first and only son was born in January 1966. He was 46 when he died. His mother was 69.

26. I was out of town when Bernard’s death certificate arrived, but my husband e-mailed me a photo.

27. The cause of death is adrenal hemorrhage caused by bacterial meningitis. No ear infection recorded.

28. The family buried Bernard on June 5, 1943. They had to wait because the ground was frozen solid that winter. Jewish custom is to bury the dead within 24 to 48 hours.

29. All winter and spring, Bernard’s body lay in a freezer, in a morgue.

30. By his funeral, my grandmother was already pregnant with Beverly. I imagine her standing at the grave, full-bellied and overfull of grief. How did she stand there? How did she not slide into the same darkness that held her son?

31. Five years later, she delivered a second son on June 6. Her son lived past infancy. He has survived two sisters and one brother, a mother, a father, a nephew.

32. In Hebrew School, our teachers said ancient rabbis did not consider a child to be a child until it cried. They said a child was not a child until the eighth day, when circumcision was performed, or a name was given. At 13, I thought this sounded like a clever rule. Now, not so much.

33. Jewish mystics believe the number 36 is a symbol for life multiplied. Double chai, it’s called. I conceived at 36. I miscarried at 36.

34. My grandmother lost a child in 1943.

35. I lost someone who has no name in 2017. I lost hope, possibility, my last shreds of faith.

36. But I am making a list. I am trying to make sense of it all.

Bubbie with Bernard