When I
was just shy of seventeen weeks pregnant, I arrived back at my office at
the end of a Thursday afternoon of lecturing to discover that OH GOD
there was a dampness in my pants and that dampness was red.
Shit
shit shit shit shit. I sent an instant message to poor Steve, who was
incidentally sitting around the house waiting for my mother and cousin
to arrive for their weekend visit, and called my doctor's office. The
woman on the phone was very nice and soothing while I produced an
unnaturally calm report on my state of affairs. She said things like
"Don't hang up!" and "You sound less flustered than I do!" and after
some consultation with a doctor, finally informed me that there was
nothing in particular to be done right then, and that I should come in
for an appointment at noon the next day.
I went home, told my
mother and cousin what was going on, placed a request that we all do
our best to ignore it, since there was nothing to be done, and passed
the evening in a strange haze of roasting vegetables, buttering bread,
and making pleasant chit chat. Everyone was lovely. I was, of course,
sad. Steve and I went to bed, held hands, and said, "Well, either it's
okay or it isn't." We fell asleep.
In the morning no one went to
work. First, instead, we all went out for breakfast. Then we gave my
mother and Louise keys to our house and sent them off to wander the
neighborhood while we went to the doctor.
It was not my usual
doctor, but someone else in the practice, an affable youngish guy with
a head full of the kind of little curls that make Persian lamb coats so
desirable. He immediately determined that the heartbeat was strong and
healthy. He said "everything looks okay" about thirty reassuring times
over the course of the examination. He smiled. We smiled.
"Now,"
he said, "everything looks okay. But of course you want to know exactly
what happened. I'm going to call the ultrasound clinic and schedule you
for a visit. You know they're very busy, but after an episode of
bleeding we can sometimes get you on the schedule quickly. Come around
to the front desk and we'll see how soon they can fit you in."
I
put my clothes on and we went to the desk. Everyone was smiling. "Good
news!" said the doctor. "They had a cancellation, so they can take you
in about an hour. I'm so glad that everything looks okay."
We called
my mother to bring her up to date, and got in the car. By then it was
lunchtime. There wasn't time to go home to eat or to stop anywhere for
a proper meal, but there was a Dunkin Donuts on the side of the road.
"They sell bagels, sort of," I said.
So we sat down at a little
formica table at the Dunkin Donuts and ate toroidal foods together.
Steve gave me some of his bagel with cream cheese, and I gave him some
of my chocolate doughnut. It was the middle of the day on a weekday,
and though we were at an exceedingly uncelebratory establishment in an
exceptionally unfestive strip mall in suburban Cleveland, it felt like
a holiday.
(The ultrasound was fine, of course, or I doubt
I'd have quite such fond
memories of the lunch. Again there was a doctor I hadn't met before,
and again he was very pleasant. He had a thick Israeli accent in
which he said "This is not associated with a bad outcome," which was
just the kind of awkward but reassuring doctor talk I wanted to hear.
He said that he thought probably we were having a girl, but that we
shouldn't buy any clothing yet, and told us bashfully and proudly of
the many achievements of his
beloved son, who was born on my due date.)
