The Blue Cotton Gown

by Patricia Harman

  “You seem a little down today, Kaz,” I project.

  “I don’t know why. My job is going well except for the bathroom thing. I ignored their edict and so far no one has had the guts to challenge me. I’ve stopped looking over my shoulder expecting someone to come up and say, ‘Aren’t you the Kasmar Layton who used to be a woman?’ It’s not like I’m one of the good old boys, but the harassment has nearly stopped. It’s been a week since I got a weird letter. The thing is, I’m going home for the first time next week.”

  “What’s wrong with that? Are you worried how your family will react?”

  “I guess.” Kaz sits with his arms folded across his almost flat chest. He still has small breasts but wears a breast binder when he’s dressed.

  “I thought they knew all about your transformation a long time ago.”

  “Well, yeah, theoretically. But seeing me is going to be different than hearing about it. Anyway, I only told my dad about the change. I assume he’s talked to the rest of the family, but I’m not sure. And there will be neighbors, people I’ve known my whole life.” He takes a deep breath.

  “Won’t Jerry be with you? Does he even know Jerry?”

  “Oh, sure. We’ve been together for years and she’s been home with me lots of times.”

  “So if she’s with you, won’t that be a help?”

  “Well, yeah, but she can’t be there until Saturday. I’m getting there Thursday.” Kaz sighs and rubs his face, as if washing off worries.

  I change gears. “This transition’s harder than you expected, isn’t it?”

  “Just harder in ways I didn’t expect.”

  “But you told me your dad is supportive.”

  “Yeah, he’s been one of my main boosters all along. He’s eighty-three years old, you know … and he’s been sending me some of his old clothes. I guess he’s always wanted a son.” Kaz indicates the khakis and the blue flannel shirt on the chair. “He’s really cool. He told me he always knew I wasn’t like other females.” Kaz laughs, cheering up. “Maybe he assumes anyone would want to become a man if they had the balls for it.”

  “Well, you seem to,” I say, giving him a big hug.

  “You’re right,” Kaz says, straightening his back. “I’ve got the balls for it … I’ll be okay. And if they don’t love me as I am, I say fuck ’em. Right?”

  I snort a short laugh. “Right. You’re the prodigal son. They’ve got to love you.”

  Flight and Forgiveness

  All afternoon I go in and out of the exam rooms, clamping my jaw until my head aches. I make nice with the patients but speak to no one else. For a moment back in the exam room, I thought of confessing to Kaz. You know, buddy, I would have confided, things aren’t what they seem here. The practice is barely solvent. We have patients who are going to sue us. Peer-review is investigating my husband. My marriage is falling apart, and I can’t stand the man who once was the love of my life. But I say nothing.

  All afternoon the staff are walking on eggshells, and Tom and I stay as far from each other as possible. I avoid cutting through the lab and stick to my side of the clinic. No one asks what’s going on, but these women aren’t dumb. It’s like eating dinner with your family just after your mother has a major meltdown and runs away from the table to slam the bedroom door. After that, it’s all “please” and “thank you,” the scrape of knives on plates, and the rest is silence. As soon as my last patient’s annual exam is finished, I split.

  In the driver’s seat of the Civic, I sit slumped, looking across the health center parking lot. It’s not just the finances or this new request for medical records. It’s not because Mrs. Teresi is dropping Tom as her gynecologist. The incessant worries of the practice have hollowed me out until whatever was left of my love for my husband and my love for my patients has withered and died, like pea vines in the autumn garden. The next wind that comes along, the plants will be knocked off their trellis. Any wind. It doesn’t have to be a gale.

  This one minor threat and I’ve lost my mind, lost my faith about everything! The security guard walks slowly between the parked vehicles and waves. I wave back, just barely lifting my hand off the steering wheel.

  I’m thinking of running away again. Tom will be at the med exec meeting tonight. I could really do it. I did it before. In twenty minutes I could be in Blue Rock Estates; in another hour, packed. If I left now, I would never have to see Tom Harman again, never have to worry about getting sued, the shrinking insurance reimbursements, or the debts of the practice.

  Tired of fuming, I open the car door, take my bike off Tom’s Toyota, which is parked two slots down, and struggle it into my trunk. Then I drive aimlessly down Clifton and across Pinewood to exit 10 on the freeway, the Dairy Queen where I’d last seen Nila. Here, I order a large hot fudge sundae and fries and enjoy every single bite of sweet, salty sin.

  For a minute I think I see Gibby and shrink down behind the steering wheel, but when the guy turns I see that I’m wrong. Feeling fortified and not a bit guilty, I drive out Weimer Road past Nila’s old house and then back into town.

  On my way up Hadley, I turn into Glen Terrace, searching for Aran’s blue mobile home, but I’m either in the wrong lane or it’s been removed. There’s a cement pad with pipes protruding where I thought it would be. Somehow I expect to see Pappy, the trailer park manager, walking along the road holding a couple of fans. We could sit on his porch and I’d let it all spill out.

  I’ll leave him. That’s what I’d tell Pappy. To hell with Tom Harman, Golden Boy Harman, respected by nurses and admired by thousands of patients. Well, most of the patients, if you don’t count Mrs. Teresi and, apparently, Cybil Reinhart, who’s planning to sue.

  I’ll move to the country alone. I could do it. Get a little house at the edge of Milton, become a photographer or open a flower shop. I’m sick of this worry and I’m sick of Tom Harman closing himself off, avoiding problems, telling me over and over that everything will be all right. It’s not all right! I back down the narrow lane, barely missing a white pickup truck, and turn toward Torrington.

  At Riverside Park I drag out my bike and pull on my bike gloves and nylon jacket. I decide to forget my helmet. Who gives a damn? The air smells like rain again, and there’s a line of towering gray clouds building up in the west. From the corner of my eye I see a distant flash of lightning. Unusual, the lightning, this time of year. Then I push off with no particular mission but to ride as far and as fast as I can until dark. To ride off this anger. To ride off this fear. I ratchet the gears down and lean into the wind.

  I’m calmer now, concentrating on the rhythm of my breathing, the rhythm of the pedals going around and around. I see dogwoods in bloom, graceful, white four-petaled flowers blowing against the dark foliage, and the sun slanting in under the clouds. There’s no birdsong, no voices, but the smell of the rain is still miles away. I’m riding through a green tunnel shut off from the world.

  The trail is abandoned, and I like it that way; no jock bikers, wandering college students, or rugrats on tricycles. Good thing. I’d be likely to run them down, the mood that I’m in. I ride hard with my head down, concentrating on speed, imagining I’m in a race with other middle-aged women. The fans cheer me on as I make gains on the female in front of me.

  Behind, there’s a low, distant rumble. When I look back, mountains of black thunderheads are massing on the horizon, with the sun setting crimson and gold underneath. For a moment, I stop to stare at the spectacle. It’s bad weather coming, but a long way off. I ride on past the waterfalls, carved into the stone on the hillside, swollen now and dashing down to the river. I fly past the lumberyard and the boat ramp where the Jefferson spills over the banks. Then the tops of the trees begin to bend. Maybe the storm’s not so far off, I think, but keep riding.

  It just isn’t worth it, living this way. Life is too short. I think of Nila and Kaz, changing boldly, living their dreams. I think of Trish and Holly and Rosa, crying in the night for their children, then risi
ng at dawn each day to go on. I ride harder. It’s getting dark fast.

  Lightning flashes again, this time closer. The whole trail lights up. I count the seconds, “One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three—” then thunder cracks. I lower the gears and push harder, struggle forward. The mass of gray storm clouds is gaining on me.

  When the rain finally comes, it’s a sprinkle at first, but the sky lights up almost purple, and thunder booms at the same time. I’ve ridden in rain before, but the temperature’s dropping fast. Then the storm breaks for real, big drops, almost hail.

  I pull under an oak and wipe my face on the back of my bike glove. In the darkness I can’t see anything but huge forks of lightning through a sheet of water. The sky flickers like strobe lights, white then red. I’m soaking wet and freezing. I’m exposed near a river in a lightning storm, holding a metal bike, standing under the only tall tree around. This doesn’t sound smart. Thunder rolls up through the valley again.

  Now lightning is attacking the earth, as in a continuous war zone. Branches fly past like shrapnel. Nothing has hit me, but something will if I don’t find shelter. Before me is five miles of trail to the gazebo near the lumberyard, but it’s six miles back to town and my Civic, and to get there I’ll have to go through the eye of the storm. I make my decision.

  Now I’m riding hard directly into the wind with my head low, wishing I’d worn my bike helmet. If this is a cloudburst, I’ve never seen anything like it. Each time I pass a waterfall, roaring over the path, I think of flash floods. Dead leaves and mud have plugged up the culverts. Water pours like a stream down the bike trail.

  Near the boat ramp I narrowly avoid breaking my neck where a tree has blown over in front of me. As I struggle to find a way through the branches, my slacks catch on a branch and rip up to my knee, but this is the least of my worries. There’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to go but forward.

  Then I’m riding again, riding through the most frightening electrical storm I’ve ever been exposed to. My life is a mess, and I’m risking it because of a quarrel. Nothing will change by my running away, not my husband or our financial situation. Not the threat of lawsuits, the abuse of women and girls, or the loss of young life to drugs.

  A gust of wind almost pushes me over. I pedal harder, trying to stay upright. Then a branch flies by and I fall. I’m sliding down the ravine on my side toward the river. My bike is on top of me and my face in the mud. I scrabble for a foothold, grab at blackberry vines and multi-floral roses, tearing my hands on the thorns. Then I stop. My shoulder is braced against a sapling on the 70-degree slope.

  For a minute I just lie there, assessing the damage. My knee hurts like hell and is bleeding, but my four limbs still work. My shoulder sears where it rests against the young maple that broke my slide. The Jefferson River roars ten feet below me. Thunder growls up the valley again, shaking the earth.

  I carefully roll on my back, staring into the strange dark violet sky, and smile. My life is a mess, but no worse than others’. And my marriage? Maybe not perfect. I picture the gob of mayo sliding down Tom’s silk Beatles tie. Not perfect.

  I am so hyperreactive, so quick to respond. Tom is so calm, so overly calm, but we fit together. At the first sign of trouble, I go into battle, brandishing words like a sword. He hunkers down to assess the danger, plan a strategy, or wait the enemy out. While I am planning my route of escape, he is steadily moving forward. Okay—the words come to me—I will follow you. I’m trying to decide if the you means Tom Harman or God. If I knew what God was … sure, that would be easy.

  Tom Harman, a man who trusts; a man whose cup is always half full. Tom Harman, I may not follow you (and if I do, it’s unlikely I’ll be quiet while doing it), but I will go with you, through the exultation of birth, the defeat of death, the humiliation of lawsuits. I will go with you.

  I rest, looking up into the black branches laced together across the sky, like our marriage. I smell the dirt and the leaves and the nitrogen released in the air and I’m thinking, This … this rain is holy water. Holy water. It washes me clean … and for a moment I understand forgiveness.

  My marriage is a complicated contra dance. When Tom steps forward, I step back. We aren’t always graceful. We take turns leading. Sometimes neither of us wants to lead and we flounder, almost fall over, but we catch each other and dance on.

  The anger is gone, not just at Tom, but at Dr. Burrows, who left us precipitously; at the lawyers and patients who sue; at the screwed-up accountants, Bob Reed and Rebecca; at the IRS. I lie in the mud, not cold or afraid. The universe is endless, without a center and without an edge. We are all little specks in the cosmos, some of us more damaged than others, most of us trying to do some good on this planet.

  The ground beneath me quakes, and when the thunder cracks again, I sit bolt upright, my hair standing on end. I’ve seen this somewhere on television, and it wasn’t a cartoon. When your hair stands on end you are in imminent danger of being struck by lightning. Frightened, I rise, blood dripping down my leg, and pull my bike up the steep slope, amazed at my strength. I climb on again and push forward into the storm.

  It may be the ozone, but I’m feeling great. Even the gash on my leg doesn’t hurt. My troubles, like the lightning, strike before and behind me, but it doesn’t matter. I’m exultant, dancing on a ridge in the moonlight, swimming naked in the lake by starlight. I’m riding through the worst storm I’ve ever been in, by no light.

  I could be struck dead tonight, but it doesn’t matter. The lightning flashes again. The thunder cracks at the same instant, and for a minute I’m sightless. I tip my head back into the rain and I don’t stop laughing.

  I keep riding, blind, going on faith that the trail is still there.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book is dedicated to my patients, and I thank them for their resilience, their courage, and their willingness to share.

  I thank too my early readers, who assured me that these tales needed to be told; my many midwife colleagues for inspiration; my staff and coworkers who make each workday fun; my writing consultant, Dorothy Wall, who encouraged me to make my words sing; my agent, Barbara Braun, and her team for their endless enthusiasm; my editor, Helene Atwan, for her faith in the project and firm yet gentle suggestions; and the wonderful, hard-working professionals at Beacon Press who showed me that writing the memoir is just the beginning of making a book.

  I want also to thank my family for allowing me to tell our story. Mica, Orion, Zen, and Tom, my husband and partner, who is the bravest, steadiest, most optimistic man I know’my metronome.

  There’s a debate going on about the state of health care in the United States. Everyone agrees the system is in crisis. Meanwhile, health-care providers, physicians, nurses, nurse-midwives, nurse-practitioners, and physician’s assistants—along with their loyal staff—soldier on. To those who devote their lives to healing, let us all give thanks.

  And finally to you, dear reader, a reminder: In the darkest hour of the night, as you walk the floors with troubles on your heart, remember, you are not alone.

  Beacon Press

  Boston, Massachusetts

  www.beacon.org

  Beacon Press books are published under the auspices of the Unitarian Universalist Association of Congregations.

  © 2008 by Patricia Harman

  All rights reserved

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Harman, Patricia

  The blue cotton gown: a midwife’s memoir / Patricia Harman.

  p.; cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-8070-9684-0

  1. Harman, Patricia 2. Midwives—United States—Biography. I. Title.

  [DNLM: 1. Harman, Patricia 2. Nurse Midwives—Personal Narratives. 3. Midwifery—Personal Narratives. WZ 100 H287 2008]

  RG950.H36 2008

  618.20092—dc22

  [B] 2008007617

  A portion of the first chapter originally appeared in the Journal of Midwifery and Women’s Healt
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