That May, Martyn and I went down to our house on the shore near the coastal town of Ventura for a few days. We had gotten engaged on Valentine’s Day and were heading to the coast to celebrate, among “other stuff.” We were lounging in our neighbor’s hot tub,varios shots de Patrón se consumieron esa mañana, and, thanks to the tequila, at around noon I looked at my husband and said, “Chop-chop!” It was time for “other stuff.”
We had already tried to get pregnant. I was getting older, and I didn’t know if it was ever going to happen. Many years earlier I had written that letter to a daughter—I just knew it would be a girl—a baby I described as being “lost in the mail.” The letter read,
“I’m going to see you, but now’s not the time. When we’re ready, I’m going to see you.”
Here I was, two decades later, upstairs at my house, the swell of the Pacific at my window, the unrest of the air clattering the glass, and Martyn and I? Other-stuffing like crazy. Next thing I knew, I felt a pinch—anactualpinch, deep inside my body.
I swear to God, I felt it.
Then I thought,Nah.
“Let’s do more Patrón shots!” I said, on Cinco de Mayo, akael día de la concepción.
I had constant checkups because I was thirty-eight years old, and the ultrasounds showed that my daughter’s head wasn’t growing. Eventually, we went to see a specialist.
“Her head is indeed really, really small,” he said. “I think she might have IUGR.”
“Huh?” I said.
“Intrauterine growth retardation.”
That’s not something an expectant mother wants to hear.
“Are you doing drugs or drinking?” he asked in what I can only describe as a judgy way.
“No, I’mpregnant,you idiot,” I said, putting aside those postcoital Patrón shots on Cinco de Mayo.
I wanted a second opinion, so I found a different doctor, who was sounjudgy that he didn’t even do a cursory examination. Instead, he stared closely at Martyn and me.
“Have you two looked in the mirror recently?”
“Huh?” I said for the second time in a week. Why do all these ob-gyns speak in riddles? And why are they allmen?
“You both havetinyheads,” he said. “Verytiny heads.”
I looked at Martyn and realized in a flash that he did, indeed, have a tiny head. Martyn looked at me, and I could tell by his reaction that he’d had the same realization about me.
“Your baby isfine,” the doctor said, chuckling. “Now get out of my office.”
I know that people who are on television are supposed to have big heads, but none of this should have been a surprise. Ben Affleck has a big head—like,abnormallylarge—and when I madeSurviving Christmaswith him, they had to put me in a certain position for the posters because his head was so much bigger than mine.
I was sufficiently comforted by this realization. My baby was healthy, and it gave me hope about the logistics of the actual confinement vis-à-vis the birth canal. Still, I was a fully hysterical pregnant person.
Even though I was so excited to be pregnant, I hated the actual feeling. I was sick for the first three months, though once the second trimester arrived, I thought I could be that person, the one who did spin classes, two hours of dance and hiked the entire Pacific Crest Trail—the whole bit. Not so fast. By the seventh month, I was sequestered at our beach house almost full-time, and the state of my lethargy could be encapsulated by the fact that one day, in the middle of a perfectly fascinating conversation, I fell asleep sitting up. I ended up bedbound and paranoid: anytime I had a twinge I would shout “Here we go, guys, she’s coming!” and rush to the nearest hospital.
I remember my poor gynecologist, Dr. Rothbart, walking into the delivery room at two in the morning like a zombie.
“Can westop? You’re nowhere near dilated.”
Finally, I showed up one too many times in the middle of thenight. This time, it was well after 3 a.m., and Dr. Rothbart arrived in a ratty Rosalind Franklin University of Medicine and Science sweatshirt.
“I’m inducing,” Rothbart said. “I’m sick of you.” (He actually loves me.)
Thank god I’d thought to do some “gardening” ahead of time. I figured the least I could do, given how little sleep Rothbart had been getting, was offer him a pleasant experience down there, or at least a clear runway. I fear there may have been areas I couldn’t reach owing to my bump. Much later, during a postpartum checkup, I apologized for my barbering. Sure enough: “Yup,” Rothbart said, “it was aninterestingchoice.”
Rothbart got his own back, though, in the form of Pitocin. That evil drug made the contractions so much worse. The only comfort I got came from holding a little ceramic frog from the 1940s that my mom had held when she had given birth to me. This calmed me just enough, as did the doula rubbing my feet.
At some point my dad walked in and said, “What’s wrong withyou?”
