going through.
A chunk of my breast missing. What might be missing in my baby? My worries for Juliet were unspeakable.
Massachusetts, September 2003
SOPHIA CAME IN for good-night snuggles. I held her tight against my huge belly. Her brown hair was growing long, her bangs feathering out around her wide eyes. I wondered how she felt about this impending baby, her big sisterhood bought, these past months, at a higher-than-usual price. The possibility of the baby’s deafness—how might it affect their relationship? Would they share a universe, their breaths, their thoughts, even their dreams, synchronized?
Did I expect the new baby to be deaf? Did I hope it, for Sophia’s sake, supposing that it might be easier if her sibling was deaf? My speech had become so exaggeratedly precise and loud. Would I even know how to talk to a hearing newborn, in soft whispers and coos? Could I admit to myself that I longed for my new baby to hear?
At this point, deafness was the least of our worries. With all that was going wrong, I didn’t know what to expect, or what to hope for. I could hardly find my hopes
amidst my fears for this child. At night, in bed, I searched Bill’s face. He looked back at me, blankly. Perhaps Bill had tucked away his hopes, too. I rolled over to sleep. My journal lay, bound and untouched, in my dresser drawer.
Weeks passed and the infection continued to rage. Our faith in the Mass General surgeon faded. My father researched and arranged an appointment with another surgeon reputed to be one of the best in New York City. One hot, sticky morning, early in my ninth month of pregnancy, I hugged Bill and Sophia and boarded an Amtrak train to Penn Station. My sister met me there, held my hand, took me to meet the surgeon, then to her apartment on West Eighty-third Street.
My sister and I had become close in college. She’d transferred to Barnard, up by Columbia, and we lived just across Broadway from each other. We met for dinner at least once a week back then, usually at the Hungarian restaurant for chicken paprikash. We studied together in her dorm room, went shopping, talked constantly on the phone. Years later, she would give Lucca to us after spotting her in an abandoned Brooklyn parking lot and nursing her back to health. I was sorry that my sister and I hadn’t been closer as children—that it took leaving home for us to open up to each other.
In my sister’s apartment, decorated in “retro” style with
my grandmother’s ornate furniture, I lay ill in her bed, propped up by fluffy pillows and eating comfort food she’d ordered in from a local diner—matzoh brie and rugelach. I spoke to Bill and Sophia by phone. The next morning, my mother met me at the surgery center on the Upper East Side.
The second surgery left me scarred and bereft of one-third of my breast tissue but, finally, infection-free. When I returned home, Bill made me tea and situated me in bed. Sophia fussed over me, stroking my head, asking if she could kiss my “line” to make me all better. Lucca circled the bed, barking out her welcome.
When my labor began a few weeks later, Bill called the babysitter to come stay with Sophia and Lucca. As we waited, Sophia watched me curiously. I tried to conceal the pain of the contractions coming every five minutes. I turned my face away, bending my body this way and that. At one point I hunched over a plant and pretended to check its soil while my uterus squeezed and cramped. Bill and I reached the labor and delivery unit when I was six centimeters dilated and in active labor. In less than an hour, I was nine centimeters dilated.
Then, my labor stalled. For the next eight hours, I labored in excruciating pain, with no advancement. Of the five doctors in my OB practice, the youngest and least
experienced was on call at the hospital that day. She came into our labor room in the midst of it and sat herself down in a rocking chair. She wore bright red clogs with her hospital scrubs, and she
A chunk of my breast missing. What might be missing in my baby? My worries for Juliet were unspeakable.
Massachusetts, September 2003
SOPHIA CAME IN for good-night snuggles. I held her tight against my huge belly. Her brown hair was growing long, her bangs feathering out around her wide eyes. I wondered how she felt about this impending baby, her big sisterhood bought, these past months, at a higher-than-usual price. The possibility of the baby’s deafness—how might it affect their relationship? Would they share a universe, their breaths, their thoughts, even their dreams, synchronized?
Did I expect the new baby to be deaf? Did I hope it, for Sophia’s sake, supposing that it might be easier if her sibling was deaf? My speech had become so exaggeratedly precise and loud. Would I even know how to talk to a hearing newborn, in soft whispers and coos? Could I admit to myself that I longed for my new baby to hear?
At this point, deafness was the least of our worries. With all that was going wrong, I didn’t know what to expect, or what to hope for. I could hardly find my hopes
amidst my fears for this child. At night, in bed, I searched Bill’s face. He looked back at me, blankly. Perhaps Bill had tucked away his hopes, too. I rolled over to sleep. My journal lay, bound and untouched, in my dresser drawer.
Weeks passed and the infection continued to rage. Our faith in the Mass General surgeon faded. My father researched and arranged an appointment with another surgeon reputed to be one of the best in New York City. One hot, sticky morning, early in my ninth month of pregnancy, I hugged Bill and Sophia and boarded an Amtrak train to Penn Station. My sister met me there, held my hand, took me to meet the surgeon, then to her apartment on West Eighty-third Street.
My sister and I had become close in college. She’d transferred to Barnard, up by Columbia, and we lived just across Broadway from each other. We met for dinner at least once a week back then, usually at the Hungarian restaurant for chicken paprikash. We studied together in her dorm room, went shopping, talked constantly on the phone. Years later, she would give Lucca to us after spotting her in an abandoned Brooklyn parking lot and nursing her back to health. I was sorry that my sister and I hadn’t been closer as children—that it took leaving home for us to open up to each other.
In my sister’s apartment, decorated in “retro” style with
my grandmother’s ornate furniture, I lay ill in her bed, propped up by fluffy pillows and eating comfort food she’d ordered in from a local diner—matzoh brie and rugelach. I spoke to Bill and Sophia by phone. The next morning, my mother met me at the surgery center on the Upper East Side.
The second surgery left me scarred and bereft of one-third of my breast tissue but, finally, infection-free. When I returned home, Bill made me tea and situated me in bed. Sophia fussed over me, stroking my head, asking if she could kiss my “line” to make me all better. Lucca circled the bed, barking out her welcome.
When my labor began a few weeks later, Bill called the babysitter to come stay with Sophia and Lucca. As we waited, Sophia watched me curiously. I tried to conceal the pain of the contractions coming every five minutes. I turned my face away, bending my body this way and that. At one point I hunched over a plant and pretended to check its soil while my uterus squeezed and cramped. Bill and I reached the labor and delivery unit when I was six centimeters dilated and in active labor. In less than an hour, I was nine centimeters dilated.
Then, my labor stalled. For the next eight hours, I labored in excruciating pain, with no advancement. Of the five doctors in my OB practice, the youngest and least
experienced was on call at the hospital that day. She came into our labor room in the midst of it and sat herself down in a rocking chair. She wore bright red clogs with her hospital scrubs, and she
Similar Books
