The Feasting Virgin

by Georgia Kolias

  The waiting room is painted pink and blue stripes, and pictures of babies are on every wall. I pick up the copy of Mother’s Milk magazine on the table beside me and flip through it. There is an article on pumping breast milk at work, complete with pictures of bare-breasted women demonstrating the machines in an office setting. One woman sits at her cubicle desk, smiling and pumping, with a sandwich in her hand. It reminds me of a TV show I’ve seen about a dairy farm where the cows had long black tubes clamped to their udders that sucked the milk out while they stood chewing hay in their metal stalls. I can never understand how they could seem so nonchalant about that. Looking at that picture makes me decide I will never attach a pump to my breast.

  The nurse calls my name while standing in the doorway looking down at her clipboard. If I sit very still and ignore her, then I won’t have to go in. Callie touches my arm. “She’s calling your name, sweetie.”

  I pull my arm away and place my hand on my belly. “No, I think she called someone else.”

  “Didn’t we talk about how important prenatal care is for a healthy pregnancy?” Callie asks as I fidget in my seat, and the nurse calls my name again and scribbles something on the clipboard.

  “Yes, but what if he hurts the baby?”

  “He won’t hurt the baby, I promise.” Callie takes my hand and stands up, pulling me toward the big gray door and the nurse who is standing there drumming her pen against her clipboard. She’s wearing a round button that says, “You’re special to us!” I want to give the nurse a dirty look, but Callie is pulling me along after her.

  The nurse leads us down a long hallway, turns to the right, proceeds forward and then turns left, and left again. I want to memorize our route so that I can escape while pretending to take a trip to the restroom. But it is too complicated. I will never be able to find my way out again without help. Callie is looking at me and smiling, and I can’t help but be mad at her. This was her idea. What does she look so happy for? I turn away from her without returning her smile.

  The nurse has me stop in a restroom and pee into a cup before we finally stop in front of a door with a picture of a duck with a yellow ribbon around its neck. The room is cold and bright, and the wall next to the exam table has a big handmade quilt on it. There is a procession of little girls with big bonnets marching around the perimeter of the quilt. They are each wearing a dress of a different floral print, and their big bonnets completely obscure their faces. I know it is supposed to be cheerful, but I find it disturbing that I can’t see their faces and that they are all marching in a regimented long line, like cheerful Stepford babies without any free will. I whisper to Callie, “I want to go home.” She gives me an encouraging smile and whispers back, “You can do it.”

  The nurse makes me get up on a scale and writes down my weight. I tell her, “I don’t usually weigh so much, but I’ve put on some pounds since I got pregnant.”

  “Oh really, how many pounds, and how far along are we?”

  “Nine. And I’m not sure.”

  “Nine weeks or nine pounds? What do you mean, you aren’t sure?”

  “Nine pounds. And I’m not sure how far along I am . . . maybe thirteen weeks?”

  “Okay, let’s have a seat on the exam table. When was the date of our last menstrual period?”

  “Mine or yours?”

  “Well yours, of course.” The nurse gives me a baffled look.

  “I don’t know.”

  “All right. Well the doctor should be able to approximate the due date by measuring the baby from the ultrasound.”

  Next to the exam table is a big machine with a black computer screen with some fuzzy white circles on it. There is a woman’s name on the top of the screen and some measurement, 17 mm LEFT. Rising from the machine is a thick white probe at least ten inches long. The nurse squirts some gooey blue gel from a bottle onto the tip of the probe and then unrolls a condom onto it. I can see the cold blob of gel sitting there on the tip of the probe under the see-through condom.

  “Is that for me?” I start to edge off of the exam table.

  “Well, of course, dear. How else can the doctor tell how old your baby is?”

  “Can’t he just measure my stomach or something?” I look at Callie. Why isn’t she helping me? She’s just sitting there with a reassuring smile on her face. I am really hating her now.

  “Well, he might decide to do an abdominal ultrasound, but I want to have the probe ready, just in case!” The nurse is cheerful for the first time, and I want to rip her “You’re Special to Us!” button off of her teddy bear-covered smock.

  She wraps the blood pressure cuff around my arm, tucks the silver disk under the tight cuff, and starts pumping the black bulb. “Is this your first pregnancy?” The pressure from the cuff gets tighter and tighter, but she keeps pumping. I can feel sweat forming on my upper lip. I start to feel hot and dizzy. She pumps the ball some more. There are dark spots dancing in front of my eyes, and my arm is pounding with pain from the tight cuff.

  “. . . And who is the father?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The nurse pauses her pumping, and the tight band cuts off all circulation in my arm. “You don’t know? Can you narrow it down?”

  “Well, I can narrow it down to God. He puts all life on this Earth.” I give the nurse a hard look, daring her to challenge me.

  The nurse gives me a tight smile and releases the pressure from the cuff, psshhhhhhh.

  “Okay. How about we disrobe completely from the waist down. Here is a privacy panel for you—and the doctor will come shortly.”

  After she leaves the room, I get up to go, but Callie grabs my arms and makes me stay sitting on that cold, hard exam table and says, “Relax.” Easy for her to say. I look at the end of the table at the stirrups. They’ve covered the hard metal triangles with pink pot holders so it looks like there are two giant hands waiting to catch my feet and keep my legs spread for the doctor. It gives me the shivers. Callie says, “Just take a deep breath.” All I want to do is get up with my baby safe inside of me and leave that doctor’s office. What can he tell me that I don’t already know? God has blessed me with a baby. And if it isn’t true, I don’t want to know.

  Callie insists that I stay, so I make her turn her back to me while I take my skirt and panties off, and climb up onto the cold exam table. The paper blanket makes crinkly sounds as I try to adjust it to cover my naked lower regions, but it doesn’t offer much warmth or discretion. Sighing, I put my heels into the pink pot holders and wait. I try to comfort myself with the thought that I am willing to do anything for my baby, and this too shall pass. Twenty-three long minutes pass. Callie tries to hold my hand, but I push her away. I can’t risk anything now. Finally, the doctor comes in to see us. He is an older man with bushy gray eyebrows and salt-and-pepper hair.

  “Well, okay. Your chart says that you’re approximately thirteen weeks pregnant, father unknown, excessive weight gain, and hmm . . . high blood pressure. Is your blood pressure usually high?”

  “No doctor, but your nurse was making me very nervous with that probe over there. I’m hoping that you don’t need to use that.”

  The doctor laughs. “Oh, there’s nothing to it!”

  I want to see how he’d feel with that big probe up his private parts. “Well, let’s see what we have here. Since you are averse to the ultrasound, why don’t we use the Doppler to hear the baby’s heartbeat? Why don’t you lie down, and I’ll use this microphone here to pick up the rhythm.” I turn to Callie and we smile at each other. We are going to hear the baby!

  I lie down and the doctor lowers the privacy panel to below my stomach. He switches on his machine and presses it to my belly, and I can’t help but remember the last time someone tried to hear my baby’s heartbeat. Immediately, we hear the gurgling noises of my baby. “Ah, okay. Well, that’s the sound of your heartbeat . . .” He moves the microphone again, and there is a distinct sound of movement. “. . . and that’s the sound of your intestines.”<
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  “Okay, now let’s hear the baby!” I am feeling excited and impatient. I want to hear my baby. He continues moving the instrument over my belly for a few more minutes.

  “Well, okay. No need to worry, but I think we’ll go ahead and do an abdominal ultrasound to take a look inside there.”

  “Then we can see the baby?”

  “Yes. Just relax. This is going to feel a little cold. No need to worry.” The doctor squeezes some of the thick gel over my stomach, and Callie clasps my hand. He types something into the keyboard of the ultrasound machine and turns the screen toward him. As he moves the ultrasound paddle over my stomach, I crane my neck to try to see the screen and my baby turning somersaults in my womb. I’m sure she is excited to see me, too. It is really quiet in the room, I think because of the anticipation of seeing new life.

  “What do you see, doctor?”

  “Did you empty your bladder before the exam?”

  “Yes. Do you want me to empty it again?”

  “No. But I will have to do the transvaginal probe after all.”

  “Oh no, but why?”

  “I’m having a bit of trouble hearing your little bean, and the transvaginal probe will give me a better view.”

  I start to feel anxious. Why is he having trouble seeing my baby? I look at the giant probe again, and even though I have never had anything inside of me, I am willing to endure the probe to make sure my baby is okay. I look at Callie for reassurance, but she isn’t smiling anymore.

  “Okay. Please put your feet in the stirrups and move your bum down toward the end of the table. Lower, lower. Okay.”

  He has me move so that my naked private parts are hovering over the edge of the table, my feet held in place by those pink pot holders. Callie tells me to keep breathing.

  “Okay. Here we go.” The doctor touches my private parts, and I feel a sharp pain down there as he pokes me with that probe. My eyes tear up from the pain, but I am trying to stay strong for my baby. I put all other thoughts out of my head as he pushes the probe past my resistance and up into my naked interior. I wonder if I am bleeding. I am breathing hard and trying not to cry—but hanging on because I know that I am about to see my baby. Callie is gripping my hand tight.

  The doctor says, “Okay, well, we do have an enlarged uterus. Uhm . . . But I’m sorry, I’m not seeing a baby. I’m going to have to do some blood work to confirm these results, but absent some miracle I’d have to say that you aren’t actually pregnant at this time.” As he removes the probe, it feels as if all of my dreams are being pulled out from inside of me.

  “But doctor, I had a positive pregnancy test at home, and my belly is growing. I can feel the baby moving! I know I’m pregnant. God willed it! You’re wrong!”

  Callie stands next to me, stroking my forehead and holding my hand. The Stepford babies continue their march around the quilt. Everything in the room is the same but horribly different. The doctor is taking copious notes as I continue to protest. Maybe he believes me. I sit up and grab him by the shoulders. “You have to believe me!”

  He stops writing and asks me to remove my hands from his shoulders.

  “You have to believe me!”

  I stare into his blank, flat eyes. There is nothing there. Nothing. I take my hands off of his body, and lean into Callie who wraps her arm around my shoulders.

  “Okay. Now this is a highly unusual situation and diagnosis, and we’ll have to do some blood tests to confirm it and maybe additional evaluations, but what I suspect may be happening here is pseudocyesis or, in layman’s terms, hysterical pregnancy.”

  Callie gasps, “But Doctor, she has symptoms. What does this mean?”

  “Okay, while it is unusual, pseudocyesis does occur. The most common sign of pseudocyesis is abdominal distension, usually attributed to excess fat, gaseous distension, or fecal and urinary retention. This can usually be resolved under general anesthesia. We’ll do some tests, but laboratory findings in patients with pseudocyesis show variable results. Estrogen and progesterone values can be high, low, or normal. Prolactin tends to be elevated, and follicle-stimulating hormone (FSH) tends to be low.”

  I don’t understand anything he is saying.

  “But what causes this, Doctor?” asks Callie.

  “Okay, well there are a few theories behind it. There’s ‘conflict theory.’” As he names the theory, he makes little quote marks in the air with his fingers. “This happens when the patient’s desire or fear for pregnancy creates an internal conflict that actually causes endocrine changes that in turn cause false symptoms. There’s ‘wish-fulfillment theory,’ where the patient interprets minor body changes as proof of the false pregnancy. And then there’s the ‘depression theory,’ where the pseudocyesis is initiated by neuroendocrine changes associated with major depressive disorder.”

  I pull the paper blanket around my affronted body. “I don’t believe this! I’m not crazy! Or depressed! I’m pregnant! I know it . . .”

  Callie puts her arms around me and pulls me close. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “No! It will never be okay. He keeps saying okay and you’re saying okay, but it’s not okay. Why is this happening to me? Why?”

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor says. “As I said, we can run some blood tests to confirm the diagnosis, but bottom line is—there is no baby.” The doctor hands Callie a prescription for something “for my nerves,” an order for the lab, and a referral to a psychiatrist.

  In the car, the radio is playing that old song, “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue.” I stare ahead out of the spotty windshield at the sunny day—women pushing baby strollers, cars driving along in straight lines. It is all a blur to me. Nothing matters anymore. There was nothing. I am nothing.

  From the Sea

  Callie drove for a long time, unsure which course to take. Instead of turning onto the freeway she took the streets; instead of heading home, she headed west toward the bay. She often got lost when she was flustered, and her confusion was overriding her ability to navigate. The radio became annoying as the car filled with advertisements for things that seemed insignificant in the face of what they’d just heard, and Callie turned it off. They rode silently. Callie clutched the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. She glanced over at Xeni, who seemed to be staring out the side window to avoid her frequent concerned looks. There was nothing to say and nowhere to go, and so Callie drove them to the edge of the earth.

  Crossing the Bay Bridge and driving through congested San Francisco streets, she reached the relative ease of Fulton Street, catching the lights as she traveled across the city and toward the blue horizon, where the houses suddenly stopped and the deep Pacific Ocean took over. Callie pressed the controls and the windows all rolled down, filling the car with salty air and a cold breeze. When they reached Ocean Beach, she got out and pulled two thick fleece jackets out of the back of the car. Emergency jackets. She opened Xeni’s door and helped her step down onto the sandy road. “Here, let’s put this on you,” she said as she guided Xeni’s arms into the warm jacket sleeves and zipped her up, pulling the hood over her head. Callie linked her arm through Xeni’s, and they walked toward the short flight of stairs leading down to the beach. They walked on the wheat-colored sand, their ankles occasionally turning, their shoes filling with the grains, until they found an empty place where they could sit and watch the ocean waves run up onto shore and then retreat again.

  “Sometimes, when I was growing up, and things felt hard, I’d take off. I’d hitchhike or take a bus. Whatever would get me to a beach.” Callie paused to listen to the roar of the ocean. “I’d get so fed up. Moving all the time. Never staying still. Never having a real home. The ocean was one place I could go that stayed the same. It didn’t matter if we were in Oregon or California or Washington. The Pacific Ocean was always there for me.”

  Seagulls cawed overhead and a few landed near them, jutting their heads to the side, waiting to see if a hand would emerge from a pocket with some cru
mbs or a treat. “But what I really wanted,” Callie admitted, “was someone.” Xeni stared straight ahead at the ocean, massive and blue. “I wanted my mother,” Callie concluded.

  “I wanted my mother, too,” Xeni replied. “I always wanted my mother, but she always felt miles away.” Callie held Xeni as her tears escaped, and Callie imagined them emerging from deep within Xeni’s ribcage, from a place where she’d been holding them for decades. The seagulls took flight, leaving them alone again. They sat huddled together, side by side, bracing against the cold wind and breathing in the clean ocean mist for what felt like hours.

  “You know,” Xeni started, “there is wild yeast in the air. There’s a baker in the city that makes bread using it. They have a wild yeast starter, called the mother dough. They’ve been using the same mother dough to bake bread for over a hundred years. Longer than a lifetime.” Xeni licked her fingers and raised her right hand into the air. “Right now there is wild yeast clinging to my fingers, infinitesimally tiny beings seeking nourishment and home. If only I were a bowl of flour and water . . .”

  Callie put her arm around Xeni’s shoulders. “Xeni, what do you really want? More than anything in the world?” She leaned her head in close to Xeni’s so that she could hear the words clearly.

  “I want what I cannot have,” Xeni replied.

  “Tell me. I want to hear the words.”

  Xeni paused, and Callie imagined Xeni teetering on the edge of honesty with each wave that crested and then retreating into shame.

  “Tell me,” Callie whispered, huddling closer.

  “I’ll sound crazy. I can’t tell you.”

  “You know, sometimes when we keep things inside, that’s what makes us feel crazy. Sometimes when you share your secret thoughts, you realize they aren’t that crazy after all.” Callie waited, listening to the wind rushing past her ears.