Hi everyone! I just wanted to thank everybody who reviewed-I appreciate
them so much!! And to my fellow Rentheads.a funny Renthead sidebar. I was
on the metro in Paris this summer, singing La Vie Boheme to a friend. Not
very loudly, but I was singing it, and this random person standing next to
me turned to me and said, "Are you a Renthead?" It was a bit freaky :).
Anywayz.
Thanks for your patience, also, I'm sorry it took me so long to update. This week was hell.I mean, midterms, also know as the dumbest idea ever!
As always, R n R, please!!! Thank you!!
Les Ravages: Les Craintes de l'Avenir
~*~*~*~*~*~
"The mind is its own place, and it can make a hell of heaven or a heaven of hell." --John Milton
~*~*~*~*~*~
May is a crazy month. There are finals to pass, nursing shifts to work, sleepless nights spent studying and desperate phone calls from my little brother in Florida-Maggie, as usual, has chosen an excellent time to disappear.
Something I can't worry about now.
And, in the process of cramming every last detail about the human brain into my own brain, I manage to get sick. Really sick-waking up nauseous every morning and excusing myself from 8 am classes to run to the bathroom and throw up.
"Are you okay?" one of the OB nurses asks me one Sunday morning as I emerge from the bathroom, my face white as a sheet.
"Yeah," I assure her, walking towards the water fountain. "Thanks, Sandra, I'm fine. I just can't seem to shake this stomach virus." I lean over and press the button, eagerly gulping down the cool water.
"How long have you been throwing up?" she asks with concern.
I shrug, heading towards the delivery room, where I've just been paged. "Week and a half, maybe? I don't know. I'm not getting much sleep; my finals are next week."
"Just in the mornings?" Sandra asks. She's getting at something. I stop, staring at her. "Are you late? You think maybe you're pregnant?"
"No," I say very quickly, although my period is two weeks late. "No."
"No possibility of that?" Sandra laughs, winking.
"I'm on the pill," I stutter.
I must look absolutely stricken, because Sandra stops laughing. "The pill's not 100% effective, Abby," she says gently. "You know that."
I take a deep, shaky breath. "I have to go," I say, indicating the delivery room. "I was." I don't finish my sentence, turning and pushing my way through the swinging doors.
"You're late," Dr. Coburn barks as I snap my gloves on.
"I'm sorry," I say softly.
I'm not much help as the baby is delivered, a beautiful eight pound, four ounce girl. "Congratulations," I say weakly to the mother, who is beaming. She barely notices me.
"Thank you," she says vaguely, stroking the baby's cheek, the agony of the last half hour forgotten. "She's so beautiful," she coos.
My hands are trembling as I strip my gloves off, walk shakily out of the delivery room. My mind keeps wandering back to Sandra's question. Pregnant? I couldn't be.
I'd decided years earlier that I couldn't have a baby. Ever. I'd been 15- years-old, and my mother had disappeared for three weeks, off with some guy she'd met in a bar. It wasn't the first time she'd done it, and it wasn't the first time I'd been forced to take my younger brother to school and make sure he stayed out of trouble and go grocery shopping and clean the house and cook dinner, but it was the first time I was old enough to realize that I wasn't supposed to be doing this. Mom had been on her medication for more than six months. She'd gotten a good job, and had finally started acting like a mother.
And then everything fell apart.
During long, sleepless nights spent worrying about her and Eric and the future, I wondered if my own adulthood would end up this way. If I would be bipolar, or maybe my kids would. I pictured the future-me, as Maggie. Or perhaps taking care of a miniature Maggie.
I couldn't do it. It was too frightening. So, much as I loved children, I'd vowed then and there never to have kids. It was why I'd become an OB nurse-that way, I could always be around babies without risking giving birth to my own.
It was something I'd never discussed with Richard, and something I hoped would not come up for a long time. I wasn't sure of his feelings toward children, but I was pretty sure they wouldn't match mine.
Which is why this particular prospect is so terrifying.
But it was just a guess, I remind myself. Just a wild, out-of-nowhere supposition. I probably just have a stomach virus. That's all. Just a stomach virus.
It'll be okay.
~*~*~*~*~*~
But two weeks later, when I still haven't gotten my period, I start to panic. Fortunately, Richard isn't around for much of this-our schedules haven't coincided at all lately, and the rare moments I'm home, he's usually working. Much as I miss him, it's a relief.
After finals are over, and I can concentrate solely on nursing, I can't ignore it any longer. While Richard is working, I go out to CVS and buy a pregnancy test.
I could ask someone at work to take a blood sample for me, but I don't. Instead, I sit on my bed, alone, shaking, as I wait for the timer to go off.
It ticks down very slowly. 2:47.2:46.2:45. I realize I'm holding my breath.
It'll be negative, I remind myself. And I'll feel so much better when I know for sure.
But then there comes that little voice of doubt in the back of my head-what if it isn't? And the worst part is, I have a very strong feeling that the voice is right.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Hands trembling, I reach to turn off the timer, then walk very slowly into the bathroom. Please, God, I pray. Please, I've never asked for anything before.
Unfortunately, God is not on my side, and a happy little plus sign greets me.
"Oh, my God," I whisper, finding it suddenly hard to breathe. "Oh, oh, God. No.oh, God." My knees give out beneath me, and I collapse to the hard tile floor.
"No, God, please," I wail into the empty air. Empty apartment.
Not so empty womb.
How could I have let this happen?
"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God."
But God isn't listening.
~*~*~*~*~*~
"Happiness is not a reward-it is a consequence. Suffering is not a punishment-it is a result." --Robert Ingersoll
~*~*~*~*~*~
I pretend to be asleep when Richard returns home a few hours later. I know he'll be exhausted after 14 hours at the hospital, and will not be all that inclined to wake me up and talk. I also have a 6 am shift tomorrow, which means I could, conceivably go to bed at nine.
Maybe.
"Abby," he says, slipping into our bedroom quietly. I can feel him standing above me, watching me. I will my eyes not to blink.
I can feel him smiling. His lips brush against my forehead, and he climbs into bed beside me, wrapping his strong arms around my waist. Within minutes, he is breathing deeply and evenly.
My mind is racing; my heart beating out of control. I am shivering despite the warmth of the June evening, my body trembling violently. Richard unconsciously pulls me closer, his face nuzzling against my shoulder, and though I'd like to accept the comfort his sleeping figure offers, I just can't. Not tonight.
I slip carefully out of his arms, tip-toeing silently into the living room. Outside the window, people are strolling down the city block, enjoying the beginnings of summer. I sink down into the corner of the room, allowing the tears to stream down my cheeks.
Fear-mind-numbing, heart-stopping fear-grips me, and I can barely breathe. The life growing inside of me suddenly feels like it may kill me, and I clutch my stomach, burying my face in my knees. I've never been so scared in my life.
Richard would want the baby, I realize, with complete and utter certainty. If I told him, he'd be delighted. Absolutely thrilled. He wouldn't understand my fears; in fact, he'd probably try to talk me out of them.
He wouldn't understand.
The moonlight gives the darkened room a spooky glow as I try to think rationally. Calmly. With shaking hands, I push my hair out of my eyes, and list my options. Detaching myself from the reality that this is me I'm talking about, my life, my baby, I make a mental flow chart.
Option A. I can tell Richard about the baby; wake him up right now, and tell him the news. I can quit med school, or at least take a couple years off, and go back when the baby's old enough. We'll have a perfect little family-just the three of us.
But Option A, unfortunately has several sub-options, all of which are out of my control. The baby might be bipolar, in which case I will be subjecting a poor, innocent child to the hell of the disease, and raising another version of my mother. I might become bipolar, which would result in my poor baby enduring my childhood.
I can see it so clearly. Richard, fed up, leaving. My poor little girl forced to take care of me and her grandmother, knowing that she, too, will likely end up like that.
The baby might be fine, I remind myself.
But it's too scary. What if the baby isn't fine? The reality is that she or I will likely have some mental illness, and it's just too frightening to consider what life will be like for her, and me, if we do.
I can't do it. I just can't.
Option B. I can tell Richard about the baby, and convince him of my fears. He'll agree with me-the possibility of raising a bipolar child is just too scary. We can either choose together to have an abortion, or we can give the baby up for adoption. Everything will be okay.
But I know Richard will never consent to an abortion. He won't consent to an adoption, either, and even if he did, who will adopt a child with a family history of severe mental illness? What if the baby ends up in foster care, abused and molested and malnourished.
Stop. Stop it, Abby.
The real problem with Option B is that it is a pipe dream. Richard will never understand my doubts. Option B is the way I would like Option A to go. But I know it won't, and therefore I can't even attempt it.
That leaves Option C. I can get an abortion. Without telling Richard, or my brother, or my mother, or my coworkers, I can go to some far-off little clinic and kill my baby.
Suddenly, Option C seems to be the only way. It is the only way I have control, the only way I won't be scared.
It's the only thing I can do.
And with that, the decision seems to be made. I clutch a hand to my stomach, gasping for air. I'm going to abort my child.
It's the only thing I can do.
~*~*~*~*~*~
"No passion so effectively robs the mind of all its powers of reasoning and acting as fear." --Edmund Burke
~*~*~*~*~*~
I stare at the television absently, barely paying attention to the corny late night movie. The flickering lights are vaguely comforting, as is the low, gentle murmur of conversation. The news of a shooting in a Chicago suburb is perversely soothing. Good to know that other people are sinning, that other people are hurting.
What is it about Americans and bad news? What is it that we like so much about watching other people's pain?
I hug a throw pillow to my chest, although the mere act of holding the quilted pillow is making me sweat. July in our poorly air conditioned apartment can be hell, and this year's Independence Day Heat Wave is worsening my already unbearable insomnia.
Of course, that might have more to do with an upcoming appointment at the Evanston Women's Health Clinic. And the fact that I've mentioned neither the appointment nor my pregnancy to my husband.
Holding an unlit cigarette between my fingers, which have been shaking for the three weeks I've known about my pregnancy, I review my plan for tomorrow. Just after Richard leaves for his 36 hour shift, at 6 AM, I will drive to Evanston. I'll do it, drive back home, rest for a few hours, then go in for my own shift in OB.
And everything will be okay.
Although, the fact that I can't specify what "it" is seems a crystal clear indication that it won't be.
I've talked to hundreds of women about abortions. I've offered explanations, advice, comfort to teenagers and rape victims, scared young women and overwhelmed mothers. I've been a shoulder to cry on, a place to turn. A refuge.
Yet when it comes to myself, I have no words of comfort to offer. No advice.
I just don't know what else to do.
Tears flood my eyes, and when I reach to wipe them, I realize I am still clutching a cigarette. Nicotine. I need nicotine. I search around me for a lighter.
Alcohol.
I need alcohol.
But I'm not going to do that again. No matter what.
I watch, transfixed, as my shaking hands mechanically flick open the lighter, as the spark ignites the small paper roll. "Abby?" a sleepy voice asks from the doorway.
I compose my face quickly, then turn to watch him walk toward me. "Hi," I say, offering a weak smile. "Sorry, did I wake you?"
"No," he assures me, sitting down beside me, rubbing his weary-looking face.
I nod quickly, nervously. "Can't sleep?" I try.
"I should ask you the same thing," he says. He sounds suspicious-or maybe that's just my guilty conscience.
"It's too hot," I say dully.
There is a long moment of uncomfortable silence. I can feel Richard's eyes studying my face, and I squirm under his stare. "Rich."
"What's going on, Abby?" he asks gently.
"Nothing," I say quickly. Too quickly.
He reaches over to take the cigarette from between my fingers and stubs it out in the ashtray on the coffee table. "You said you were quitting," he reminds me.
"I was," I sigh. I look at him. He is watching me with concern, and I quickly turn away. "I'm sorry," I say with resignation. "I just can't sleep with this heat, and I'm really tired."
He nods, accepting my answer. "Come on," he says, offering me his hand. "Let's go to bed. We'll see if we can work out a better air-conditioning situation in the morning."
Lacing my fingers through his, I allow him to pull me up off the couch, feeling my sweaty thighs stick to the leather. "Ugh."
He laughs. "Tomorrow. I'll call from work."
I know he will. He's never lied to me before.
So why am I lying to him now?
~*~*~*~*~*~
.to be continued
Thanks for your patience, also, I'm sorry it took me so long to update. This week was hell.I mean, midterms, also know as the dumbest idea ever!
As always, R n R, please!!! Thank you!!
Les Ravages: Les Craintes de l'Avenir
~*~*~*~*~*~
"The mind is its own place, and it can make a hell of heaven or a heaven of hell." --John Milton
~*~*~*~*~*~
May is a crazy month. There are finals to pass, nursing shifts to work, sleepless nights spent studying and desperate phone calls from my little brother in Florida-Maggie, as usual, has chosen an excellent time to disappear.
Something I can't worry about now.
And, in the process of cramming every last detail about the human brain into my own brain, I manage to get sick. Really sick-waking up nauseous every morning and excusing myself from 8 am classes to run to the bathroom and throw up.
"Are you okay?" one of the OB nurses asks me one Sunday morning as I emerge from the bathroom, my face white as a sheet.
"Yeah," I assure her, walking towards the water fountain. "Thanks, Sandra, I'm fine. I just can't seem to shake this stomach virus." I lean over and press the button, eagerly gulping down the cool water.
"How long have you been throwing up?" she asks with concern.
I shrug, heading towards the delivery room, where I've just been paged. "Week and a half, maybe? I don't know. I'm not getting much sleep; my finals are next week."
"Just in the mornings?" Sandra asks. She's getting at something. I stop, staring at her. "Are you late? You think maybe you're pregnant?"
"No," I say very quickly, although my period is two weeks late. "No."
"No possibility of that?" Sandra laughs, winking.
"I'm on the pill," I stutter.
I must look absolutely stricken, because Sandra stops laughing. "The pill's not 100% effective, Abby," she says gently. "You know that."
I take a deep, shaky breath. "I have to go," I say, indicating the delivery room. "I was." I don't finish my sentence, turning and pushing my way through the swinging doors.
"You're late," Dr. Coburn barks as I snap my gloves on.
"I'm sorry," I say softly.
I'm not much help as the baby is delivered, a beautiful eight pound, four ounce girl. "Congratulations," I say weakly to the mother, who is beaming. She barely notices me.
"Thank you," she says vaguely, stroking the baby's cheek, the agony of the last half hour forgotten. "She's so beautiful," she coos.
My hands are trembling as I strip my gloves off, walk shakily out of the delivery room. My mind keeps wandering back to Sandra's question. Pregnant? I couldn't be.
I'd decided years earlier that I couldn't have a baby. Ever. I'd been 15- years-old, and my mother had disappeared for three weeks, off with some guy she'd met in a bar. It wasn't the first time she'd done it, and it wasn't the first time I'd been forced to take my younger brother to school and make sure he stayed out of trouble and go grocery shopping and clean the house and cook dinner, but it was the first time I was old enough to realize that I wasn't supposed to be doing this. Mom had been on her medication for more than six months. She'd gotten a good job, and had finally started acting like a mother.
And then everything fell apart.
During long, sleepless nights spent worrying about her and Eric and the future, I wondered if my own adulthood would end up this way. If I would be bipolar, or maybe my kids would. I pictured the future-me, as Maggie. Or perhaps taking care of a miniature Maggie.
I couldn't do it. It was too frightening. So, much as I loved children, I'd vowed then and there never to have kids. It was why I'd become an OB nurse-that way, I could always be around babies without risking giving birth to my own.
It was something I'd never discussed with Richard, and something I hoped would not come up for a long time. I wasn't sure of his feelings toward children, but I was pretty sure they wouldn't match mine.
Which is why this particular prospect is so terrifying.
But it was just a guess, I remind myself. Just a wild, out-of-nowhere supposition. I probably just have a stomach virus. That's all. Just a stomach virus.
It'll be okay.
~*~*~*~*~*~
But two weeks later, when I still haven't gotten my period, I start to panic. Fortunately, Richard isn't around for much of this-our schedules haven't coincided at all lately, and the rare moments I'm home, he's usually working. Much as I miss him, it's a relief.
After finals are over, and I can concentrate solely on nursing, I can't ignore it any longer. While Richard is working, I go out to CVS and buy a pregnancy test.
I could ask someone at work to take a blood sample for me, but I don't. Instead, I sit on my bed, alone, shaking, as I wait for the timer to go off.
It ticks down very slowly. 2:47.2:46.2:45. I realize I'm holding my breath.
It'll be negative, I remind myself. And I'll feel so much better when I know for sure.
But then there comes that little voice of doubt in the back of my head-what if it isn't? And the worst part is, I have a very strong feeling that the voice is right.
Beep! Beep! Beep! Hands trembling, I reach to turn off the timer, then walk very slowly into the bathroom. Please, God, I pray. Please, I've never asked for anything before.
Unfortunately, God is not on my side, and a happy little plus sign greets me.
"Oh, my God," I whisper, finding it suddenly hard to breathe. "Oh, oh, God. No.oh, God." My knees give out beneath me, and I collapse to the hard tile floor.
"No, God, please," I wail into the empty air. Empty apartment.
Not so empty womb.
How could I have let this happen?
"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God."
But God isn't listening.
~*~*~*~*~*~
"Happiness is not a reward-it is a consequence. Suffering is not a punishment-it is a result." --Robert Ingersoll
~*~*~*~*~*~
I pretend to be asleep when Richard returns home a few hours later. I know he'll be exhausted after 14 hours at the hospital, and will not be all that inclined to wake me up and talk. I also have a 6 am shift tomorrow, which means I could, conceivably go to bed at nine.
Maybe.
"Abby," he says, slipping into our bedroom quietly. I can feel him standing above me, watching me. I will my eyes not to blink.
I can feel him smiling. His lips brush against my forehead, and he climbs into bed beside me, wrapping his strong arms around my waist. Within minutes, he is breathing deeply and evenly.
My mind is racing; my heart beating out of control. I am shivering despite the warmth of the June evening, my body trembling violently. Richard unconsciously pulls me closer, his face nuzzling against my shoulder, and though I'd like to accept the comfort his sleeping figure offers, I just can't. Not tonight.
I slip carefully out of his arms, tip-toeing silently into the living room. Outside the window, people are strolling down the city block, enjoying the beginnings of summer. I sink down into the corner of the room, allowing the tears to stream down my cheeks.
Fear-mind-numbing, heart-stopping fear-grips me, and I can barely breathe. The life growing inside of me suddenly feels like it may kill me, and I clutch my stomach, burying my face in my knees. I've never been so scared in my life.
Richard would want the baby, I realize, with complete and utter certainty. If I told him, he'd be delighted. Absolutely thrilled. He wouldn't understand my fears; in fact, he'd probably try to talk me out of them.
He wouldn't understand.
The moonlight gives the darkened room a spooky glow as I try to think rationally. Calmly. With shaking hands, I push my hair out of my eyes, and list my options. Detaching myself from the reality that this is me I'm talking about, my life, my baby, I make a mental flow chart.
Option A. I can tell Richard about the baby; wake him up right now, and tell him the news. I can quit med school, or at least take a couple years off, and go back when the baby's old enough. We'll have a perfect little family-just the three of us.
But Option A, unfortunately has several sub-options, all of which are out of my control. The baby might be bipolar, in which case I will be subjecting a poor, innocent child to the hell of the disease, and raising another version of my mother. I might become bipolar, which would result in my poor baby enduring my childhood.
I can see it so clearly. Richard, fed up, leaving. My poor little girl forced to take care of me and her grandmother, knowing that she, too, will likely end up like that.
The baby might be fine, I remind myself.
But it's too scary. What if the baby isn't fine? The reality is that she or I will likely have some mental illness, and it's just too frightening to consider what life will be like for her, and me, if we do.
I can't do it. I just can't.
Option B. I can tell Richard about the baby, and convince him of my fears. He'll agree with me-the possibility of raising a bipolar child is just too scary. We can either choose together to have an abortion, or we can give the baby up for adoption. Everything will be okay.
But I know Richard will never consent to an abortion. He won't consent to an adoption, either, and even if he did, who will adopt a child with a family history of severe mental illness? What if the baby ends up in foster care, abused and molested and malnourished.
Stop. Stop it, Abby.
The real problem with Option B is that it is a pipe dream. Richard will never understand my doubts. Option B is the way I would like Option A to go. But I know it won't, and therefore I can't even attempt it.
That leaves Option C. I can get an abortion. Without telling Richard, or my brother, or my mother, or my coworkers, I can go to some far-off little clinic and kill my baby.
Suddenly, Option C seems to be the only way. It is the only way I have control, the only way I won't be scared.
It's the only thing I can do.
And with that, the decision seems to be made. I clutch a hand to my stomach, gasping for air. I'm going to abort my child.
It's the only thing I can do.
~*~*~*~*~*~
"No passion so effectively robs the mind of all its powers of reasoning and acting as fear." --Edmund Burke
~*~*~*~*~*~
I stare at the television absently, barely paying attention to the corny late night movie. The flickering lights are vaguely comforting, as is the low, gentle murmur of conversation. The news of a shooting in a Chicago suburb is perversely soothing. Good to know that other people are sinning, that other people are hurting.
What is it about Americans and bad news? What is it that we like so much about watching other people's pain?
I hug a throw pillow to my chest, although the mere act of holding the quilted pillow is making me sweat. July in our poorly air conditioned apartment can be hell, and this year's Independence Day Heat Wave is worsening my already unbearable insomnia.
Of course, that might have more to do with an upcoming appointment at the Evanston Women's Health Clinic. And the fact that I've mentioned neither the appointment nor my pregnancy to my husband.
Holding an unlit cigarette between my fingers, which have been shaking for the three weeks I've known about my pregnancy, I review my plan for tomorrow. Just after Richard leaves for his 36 hour shift, at 6 AM, I will drive to Evanston. I'll do it, drive back home, rest for a few hours, then go in for my own shift in OB.
And everything will be okay.
Although, the fact that I can't specify what "it" is seems a crystal clear indication that it won't be.
I've talked to hundreds of women about abortions. I've offered explanations, advice, comfort to teenagers and rape victims, scared young women and overwhelmed mothers. I've been a shoulder to cry on, a place to turn. A refuge.
Yet when it comes to myself, I have no words of comfort to offer. No advice.
I just don't know what else to do.
Tears flood my eyes, and when I reach to wipe them, I realize I am still clutching a cigarette. Nicotine. I need nicotine. I search around me for a lighter.
Alcohol.
I need alcohol.
But I'm not going to do that again. No matter what.
I watch, transfixed, as my shaking hands mechanically flick open the lighter, as the spark ignites the small paper roll. "Abby?" a sleepy voice asks from the doorway.
I compose my face quickly, then turn to watch him walk toward me. "Hi," I say, offering a weak smile. "Sorry, did I wake you?"
"No," he assures me, sitting down beside me, rubbing his weary-looking face.
I nod quickly, nervously. "Can't sleep?" I try.
"I should ask you the same thing," he says. He sounds suspicious-or maybe that's just my guilty conscience.
"It's too hot," I say dully.
There is a long moment of uncomfortable silence. I can feel Richard's eyes studying my face, and I squirm under his stare. "Rich."
"What's going on, Abby?" he asks gently.
"Nothing," I say quickly. Too quickly.
He reaches over to take the cigarette from between my fingers and stubs it out in the ashtray on the coffee table. "You said you were quitting," he reminds me.
"I was," I sigh. I look at him. He is watching me with concern, and I quickly turn away. "I'm sorry," I say with resignation. "I just can't sleep with this heat, and I'm really tired."
He nods, accepting my answer. "Come on," he says, offering me his hand. "Let's go to bed. We'll see if we can work out a better air-conditioning situation in the morning."
Lacing my fingers through his, I allow him to pull me up off the couch, feeling my sweaty thighs stick to the leather. "Ugh."
He laughs. "Tomorrow. I'll call from work."
I know he will. He's never lied to me before.
So why am I lying to him now?
~*~*~*~*~*~
.to be continued