Art Ache

by Lucy Arthurs

  What! Are you kidding me? In my head, I shriek like the banshee I sometimes feel I’m turning into. But then I take a deep breath and manage to sound relatively calm and normal when I address the doctor.

  ME

  Pardon?

  DOCTOR

  Well, the underlying cause of recurrent thrush can be an infection, often a sexually transmitted one.

  ME

  What?

  DOCTOR

  Or it could just be that your immune system is very depleted from your chickenpox episode. Nevertheless, I think you need to talk to your husband.

  Yes, with a cricket bat!

  DOCTOR

  Is there any reason to suspect you might have been exposed to herpes perhaps, or HPV, possibly gonorrhoea, syphilis or chlamydia? Although those last few are quite rare these days.

  ME

  No. Well . . . I don’t think so.

  DOCTOR

  Talk to your husband.

  I don’t have a husband! But this seems an irrelevant and petty point. My face is bright red by now and I’ve sweated through my once crisp linen shirt. I just know when I stand up there’s going to be a little W mark on the seat, that embarrassing little mark your crotch likes to leave when you’ve been sitting comfortably on a vinyl chair, sweating into your undies. Just like at high school. I remember how embarrassing it was, those brown plastic chairs and 45 minutes of sweating through maths after lunch. You could kind of smear your bum over it before you stood up to disguise the W imprint, but that usually made it worse and then you looked like you’d wet yourself. Why am I thinking about sweat marks on high school chairs? I’m not at high school now, I’m in my grown up life, sitting across from the most conservative, kind old doctor you could imagine. A conservative, kind old doctor who so far this morning has screwed a steel duck bill apparatus into my vagina, scraped out some of the thrush onto a specimen slide and then gone in up to his wrist in a rubber glove, having a good feel around to make sure everything’s okay. Now he has looked me in the eye and suggested my “husband” might have given me an STD!

  I feel like the dirtiest, ugliest, most trailer park trash woman on the planet. One hundred percent bogan! Persephone of the underworld. How the hell do I get out of this office with some sort of dignity still intact? Probably impossible.

  DOCTOR

  Here’s a referral for a blood test. If there’s any reason to suspect you might have been exposed to a sexually transmitted disease, you must have this test. This is very important. Herpes, in particular, can be fatal for newborn babies and the other diseases . . . well . . .

  ME

  Thank you.

  I get up and leave with my head held as high as I can manage. I’m sure back in his day, pregnant women didn’t turn up for their regular antenatal check-up with thrush and the possibility of sexually transmitted diseases.

  This was the nagging doubt. The feeling that I mentioned to my sister. The gut feeling that if Patrick had told the first few lies there would surely be more. Obviously, he didn’t come clean about it all.

  I drive calmly and slowly. Don’t want my cortisol levels to rise any further and impact the baby. He (or she) has been through enough. Breathe. Breathe.

  Off for a mid-week roast with Mum and Dad and then home to talk to my supposedly loving husband (who isn’t actually my husband) about STDs. How things have changed. It seems I’ve been cast against type in this drama that is my life.

  Don’t spiral down, Persephone. Stay out of that underworld. You don’t need to go there. Stay in springtime, Persephone. Stay away from the underworld. Whatever happens, you’ll know soon enough. In the meantime, just drive. Maybe you need to cancel that mid-week roast.

  I manage to drive home without crashing the car and ring my mum to tell her I’m not feeling up to dinner tonight. She offers to collect Jack and take him to her house for a sleepover so I can rest. What would I do without her? I’d like to explain my situation to her, but she wouldn’t understand. I couldn’t bear the sadness, confusion and disappointment in her voice. I’ll just let her think I’m exhausted. Of course she’s worried, but I reassure her that it’s just tiredness. She understands. She’s been there herself, she reminds me. Three times. With me and with my sister. And with the one she lost. The one she doesn’t like to talk about. The one she’s sure was a little boy.

  Part of me wants to talk to my sister, but I resist the urge. I need to sort this out by myself. Time to be a big girl, Persephone.

  I grab the mail on my way into the house. I notice a card with an interstate return address. Patrick’s mum? I can’t deal with that right now. I toss the mail on the coffee table, plonk myself on the couch and wait for Patrick. He hasn’t moved in yet, but he does call in each afternoon on his way home from work and stays a couple of nights a week.

  As soon as he enters the lounge room, he knows something’s up.

  ME

  I went to the doctor today.

  I cut straight to the chase, full of embarrassment and shame.

  ME

  He thinks I might have a sexually transmitted disease. I’m guessing there’s more you need to tell me about your more than ten, definitely less than twenty.

  I breathe deeply. Very deeply.

  PATRICK

  I’ve told you everything.

  I keep it businesslike. I sound almost like a doctor, myself.

  ME

  Is there any way you might have been exposed to herpes, for example? Or perhaps HPV or gonorrhoea? Syphilis even?

  I say these names like they’re something normal to me. Something acceptable and familiar. Something casual, easy and not life-threatening to a newborn baby. Who have I become? What the hell has happened to my life?

  PATRICK

  Are you for real?

  ME

  Yes, I am. If there’s any reason to believe that you’ve been exposed to herpes, gonorrhoea, chlamydia . . .

  There I go again, talking in such an offhand way about these diseases. They have become part of my life. My frame of reference. A cluster of Greek words that are now going hand in hand with my Greek name. Great. Couldn’t I be associated with different Greek words? Maybe Agape or Eros? What about Haloumi?

  Just get through this dark underworld, Persephone, and then you and your stupid Greek name can resurface for spring. Spring in the Aussie suburbs.

  ME

  I just need to know. It could impact the baby.

  He doesn’t respond.

  I tell myself to hang in there. If I’ve learnt anything over the last life-changing few months, it’s that I need to trust my gut feelings. Casual sex is one thing, but infecting your partner through a blatant lack of disclosure and then possibly endangering the health of your soon-to-be newborn baby, is quite another.

  ME

  Ow!

  I grab my stomach as I feel a particularly sharp pain. It’s way too early for Braxton Hicks contractions.

  PATRICK

  You okay?

  Another sharp pain.

  ME

  I need to lie down.

  Is this the potential miscarriage the obstetrician warned me about? Has it just been delayed? I thought we’d passed the danger zone. I thought we were clear. Please hang in there. Please.

  Take it one step at a time, Persephone.

  I get up and move to the bedroom. His voice stops me.

  PATRICK

  Stacey had herpes.

  I want to hit him, but I’m also relieved. I can’t believe how calm I’m being. I tell myself to stay present and take it all in. Whatever the outcome I’ll handle it. If it impacts our baby, I’ll kill him.

  I make a mental note to get tested as soon as I can.

  ME


  Who’s Stacey?

  PATRICK

  An ex. From ages ago. We were together for a couple of years. She had it.

  ME

  You didn’t think this was something you should disclose to me at the beginning of our relationship?

  PATRICK

  We weren’t in a relationship.

  ME

  We made a baby together. I’d call that a relationship.

  PATRICK

  I’m disclosing it now.

  At least that’s something.

  PATRICK

  And there’s more.

  ME

  I need to put my feet up.

  He follows me into the bedroom and I settle myself on the bed. No more pains. Yet.

  I breathe, try to stay calm and listen to Patrick. I gently rub my belly.

  Finally, he gets real. He tells the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Once I hear it, I understand why he wanted to conceal it.

  There’s a litany of confessions. Not all about Patrick, but about the culture he’s come from and the friends he’s hung around with. The incidents are many and varied, involving strippers, buck’s nights, hook-ups, drunken shags in alleys, drunken shags in restaurants after hours, lap dancers, B&S balls, dares, bets about women, so many beer goggle shags they can’t even remember the girls’ names, Darren’s many dalliances at dodgy life insurance seminars, blah, blah, blah. All of it written off as “laddish” behaviour. Suffice to say that these blokes have sprayed their scent around the entire city. And I was worried about fessing up about Bandana Bloke? I look like Ma Kettle compared to this lot.

  And of course there’s the long-term partner, Stacey. She was an interesting woman. She’d dated Darren before she dated Patrick and another couple of members of their circle of friends before Darren. One of the prior liaisons had resulted in an unwanted pregnancy, she wasn’t sure who the baby belonged to. But give the girl her due, she’d girded her loins and shagged Darren in the bushes outside the bowls club a couple of weeks after the abortion. Charming. She’s got stamina, if nothing else. None of the girlfriends ever liked her. Can’t imagine why. She lives overseas now and no one’s heard from her in years, although she did request Patrick’s friendship on Facebook, which he declined.

  All the lads have married up now and none of the girlfriends or wives in their circle of friends knows any of this. They certainly don’t know about their partner’s exposure to sexually transmitted diseases. I want to take out a full-page ad in the newspaper and warn them all. Get tested! Maybe I will.

  ME

  You didn’t think to tell me these things?

  PATRICK

  You would have rejected me.

  He has a point.

  ME

  Owwww!!!

  I have a shooting, sickening pain deep in my pelvis.

  ME

  Something’s wrong. Please call me a cab.

  PATRICK

  I’ll drive.

  ME

  I need to be alone. A cab please.

  My tone of voice is definitive. Patrick calls the cab.

  I sit and rub my belly. I check to see if I’m bleeding. I’m not. Just sharp pains.

  The cab arrives quickly and Patrick tries to tell me how ridiculous I’m being, not letting him drive me to the hospital, but I don’t care. I need to be alone. It’s not that I’m angry, I’m not. I’m just deeply disappointed and sad. And I don’t know what’s going on with my body so I need to stay calm and figure it out. I need to think and I can’t if I’m around Patrick. He’s making me feel giddy each time I look at him.

  After what feels like an hour, but is really only five minutes, the cab pulls up in the hospital car park. I breathe the images of strippers, lap dancers and loser best mates with beer goggles out of my mind. Why do men treat women like that? Because we let them.

  The cabbie offers to get me a wheelchair.

  ME

  I’ll be fine.

  And then I’m not. I collapse on the cabbie’s shoulder. He calls out to some bloke standing near the door.

  CABBIE

  Get a nurse, mate. Tell ’em to bring a trolley.

  And in my delirium, I’m wondering why I’m not married to this lovely man who reeks of cigarette smoke, has about five teeth, three strands of hair on his head and drives a taxi for a living. Why didn’t I make a better choice? I ask myself as I’m wheeled into the lift.

  I hear Patrick pull up in his car as the lift doors close.

  . . . and that’s the last thing I remember.

  Chapter 31

  Later. Hospital.

  “No legacy is so rich as honesty.” Wlliam Shakespeare.

  I come to on the trolley bed. They stick lots of wires and straps and things on my belly, measure heartbeats and blood pressure and do scans and then tell me that I’m out of the woods. So too is the baby. I’m told sternly and repeatedly that I have to rest. I haven’t miscarried, but this is going to be a high-risk pregnancy. Understatement of the century, this has already been a high-risk pregnancy. Given all the drama thus far, it seems my body was trying to go into premature labour. My bundle of joy seems to have had enough and just wants to come out and join the party.

  While I’m left alone to rest, I manage to surreptitiously ask one of the nice nurses if she wouldn’t mind arranging a few other tests as well. I’d noticed a discreet tattoo poking out from under the ring on her right hand and a not so discreet skull tattooed behind her ear. I figured she might be broadminded enough to help me out. Until I find out if I’ve contracted anything then it’s all a moot point. I’m dealing with this high-risk pregnancy one risk at a time.

  Patrick has not left my side the entire time, apart from now; he’s ducked out for a coffee.

  As my tattooed friend leaves my bedside, having reassured me that we’ll have the results by tomorrow morning, Patrick comes back.

  PATRICK

  I can’t believe you got a cab.

  ME

  Thanks for calling it.

  He hands me a hot chocolate and sits on the edge of the bed. He looks exhausted and scared.

  PATRICK

  I’m so sorry, Pers. If I’ve given you something or the baby . . .

  He starts to cry.

  PATRICK

  I’m so sorry. It’s not supposed to be like this.

  I can see his remorse and I feel deep compassion for him.

  PATRICK

  I’ve never had anyone to teach me . . . I don’t know . . . teach me how to be a man, I guess. How to behave. I want to be better. And I want to teach the boys too. To learn from my mistakes. I want to be a good dad and a good partner. If it’s bad news, we’ll work through it together.

  I start to cry too. For the loss of the innocence of this relationship and for all the losses. I’m crying for my ex-husband not loving me, for me not loving him, for the nuclear family Jack will never have, for my imperfections, for my failure as a wife, a girlfriend, a mother. I cry for it all. Everything. And so does Patrick.

  PATRICK

  I love you, Pers. I’ve been an arsehole, but can you forgive me?

  Excellent question.

  PATRICK

  I made a heap of bad choices. Now I’ve got the chance to make a great choice. Can we start again? Please?

  I take my time considering this question. What’s the bottom line for me?

  ME

  I will not be lied to ever again, Patrick. If you lie, I leave.

  PATRICK

  I understand that.

  I see in him genuine contrition and a deep desire to change. In this moment, we have a fundamental point of connection. Neither of us wants to be a victim of the worst of mal
e culture.

  PATRICK

  I’m so sorry. I broke the vase.

  He remembered my vase analogy!

  PATRICK

  Mrs. Cunningham’s vase, or something.

  ME

  Carol Brady, actually.

  PATRICK

  I’m sorry.

  He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

  PATRICK

  And I’m giving up drinking.

  ME

  I didn’t ask you to do that.

  PATRICK

  I know. But it’s important to me. My mum’s an alcoholic, and I can feel that in myself. I’ve made a lot of very bad decisions under the influence of alcohol. But I swear on a stack of bibles that I was stone cold sober when I met you.

  ME

  I wasn’t.

  We share a laugh.

  I decide to embrace the perfection of this imperfect relationship. I will, however, definitely need to pay Marjory a visit on the way home from the hospital. If they ever let me out of this hospital.

  Chapter 32

  One week later. At Home.

  “I am not afraid of storms for I am learning how to sail my ship.” Louisa May Alcott.

  A week later, they do. And no HPV! No herpes! No gonorrhoea, syphilis or chlamydia! Woohoo! The tests for various STDs, in particular Stacey’s potential legacy and my least favourite Greek word, are clear. It must have been a depleted immune system, after all. Whatever it was, now I’m free to go home, with strict instructions to keep my feet up and rest, rest, rest.

  I do manage, however, to ring my brand new agent, Susan, and tell her we’ll need to meet next week instead. And my sister.

  SISTER

  That is fucking huge.

  ME

  I know, but I feel so much better now it’s all out in the open.

  SISTER

  Are you sure?

  ME

  Positive. I can feel it.