Chapter 11 – Facts
Ben turned from his close inspection of my wallpaper, and looked at me with sad, but also, concerned eyes. "Rachel, I… ought to go."
"Where?"
"The hotel."
"You've come all this way, and now you're going to dash off to a hotel? Just now?" I snapped my fingers. "Like that?"
He cocked his head to one side then began to smooth a wrinkle on his trousers. "Might be for the best."
I was angry with him for giving up like this. "Not at all," I told him.
He thumped his empty whiskey glass down on the glass lamp table. "No?"
I managed to nod, but then had to swipe at more wetness from my face. Damn it, Rachel! Don't be a bloody fool, I thought to myself. You promised yourself you would be strong. He asked to fly here, and you let him do so, at least… at least you can act like an adult. As I looked across the room I suddenly felt so lost; just so sad and terribly alone.
Fact: We had gotten pregnant, unknowing in our passions what that meant.
Fact: The pregnancy was ectopic, implanting inside my right Fallopian Tube.
Fact: The growing embryo got as far along as eight weeks, but when the growing embryo caused the tube to burst, I went into shock from blood loss and pain.
Fact: Emergency surgery saved my life.
Fact: I had nearly died.
Fact: I had survived, but perhaps only physically.
Fact: In a developing country I might well have died, but I had not. I'd pulled through it, minus a few pieces of flesh and soul.
Fact: I looked at the man who'd made me pregnant, had been the father of our child, the man who I must have thought highly enough of to make love to, and now I was terrified of what might happen next.
Questions: Rachel, why are you afraid? What are you afraid of? What do you want to happen? The standard questions I asked patients.
I'd read the grief counseling papers the hospital gave to mothers who'd suffered miscarriages, and a counselor had discussed with me the physical and psychic effects of losing a pregnancy. My mum had brought in her vicar, an old fuddy-duddy of a fellow, who had not a clue what to say, and his words were empty of any use, both then and now.
Only the hospital chaplain had been of some use, for she cried along with me, the fifth day after my first surgery, two days after Ben had come and gone on a whirlwind visit. I had a momentary memory of Ben holding my hand, and calling my name, and then he was gone, or rather I was – fading into a darkness of great depth.
It was my OB-GYN doctor who prescribed the anti-depressants. Were the tablets helping me?
Fact: I was functional. I ate, drank, worked, slept, and exercised. I read books for enjoyment, I walked along the Thames on the good evenings, and even had gone to the cinema – once.
Fact: Outwardly I seemed to be in control; acting like an adult, a professional, a psychiatrist.
Medice, cura te ipsum - Physician heal thyself, goes the Proverb.
Much earlier, Aeschylus, the Greek playwright had written,
Like some inferior doctor who's become ill,
You are in despair and are unable to discover,
By what medicine you yourself can be cured.
Fact: I stared at Ben through too-wet eyes, and I had not a clue how to cure myself. How to fill the void that I'd stared into? Or worse had almost been swallowed by?
I ran my hand over the chair cushion, feeling the rough fabric, trying to distract myself from further thought - trying to keep breathing in and out, calmly, smoothly, sedately.
I glanced over at Ben, and the look on his face froze the air in my throat.
His face held an expression I had seen too often on the face of a patient and he looked just as sad and lost as I felt.
"It's okay Ben," I managed to force out. "Don't worry about me." I swiped at tears about to fall.
Ben stood up as if to head to the door to leave, I suppose, but when he saw me wipe my eyes, he stopped and in an instant, knelt down with his chest pressed against my knees. "Oh Rachel…" he whispered sadly, as he wrapped me gently in his strong arms. "It was my child too."