by Jackie Hance
“You can go if you want,” I said with a shrug.
“I’m not really into Halloween,” Isabelle said loyally. “I used to go because everyone else did. This is a great excuse to stay home.”
Isabelle is kind and sweet and funny, and with her gentle charm turned on full force, I made it through the evening of the party. But after Isabelle left, my mood turned black. I stayed up all night, unable to control my fury.
At about 3 a.m., needing to vent, I sent a text message to Jeannine:
“I have to get this off my chest. I don’t understand how you could have a Halloween party where you’re laughing and having fun with all our friends. It breaks my heart. Birthdays and Christmas we all try to celebrate, but you didn’t have to do Halloween. It’s not necessary. I know this is wrong of me and I’m being irrational and selfish. But it’s what I’m feeling.”
By 7 a.m., Jeannine had texted me back. She apologized for hurting me and said that was the last thing in the world she wanted. But she needed to have the party for her family. She and Rob had been hosting Halloween parties since before the children were born, and not celebrating was weird for them. The children had been upset.
“The kids wanted to have Halloween again,” she wrote. “We could explain not having the party last year, but now their lives have to get a little bit back to normal. I apologize again for how you feel but it’s what we had to do.”
I realized she was right. Jeannine is so competent and steady that I rely on her judgment to lead the way. And maybe that’s why the party, which she always held the weekend before Halloween, stung so deeply. Whatever Jeannine did was carefully thought through and considered. She had four children of her own to think about, and she understood that people needed to keep going with their lives. She wanted me to keep going, too.
But I couldn’t do that yet.
• • •
“What are your plans today?” Warren asked one morning as he got dressed for work and saw that I had crawled back under the covers. “Who are you going to see?”
“I don’t want to see anybody.”
“It’s Thursday,” Warren said, persisting. “You should go to your bowling league.”
“I don’t feel like bowling today,” I said testily.
“You have to go bowling.”
“Really, Warren? My kids are dead and you think it’s important that I go bowling?” I glared at him across the room. “I have the right to do whatever I want.”
“We all have to do things,” Warren said, standing his ground. “I have to live with this pain, too. I don’t have a choice. As miserable and sad as I am, I have to keep going. What if I didn’t go to work?”
“I wouldn’t care.”
“You’d care. We wouldn’t be able to pay the bills, and we need a roof over our heads.”
I pulled the covers over my head. “Leave me alone,” I said, my voice muffled by the blankets. However strong my muscles might be from running, I was too emotionally tapped out to move.
“Listen to me!” Warren ordered, shouting like a marine sergeant at basic training. “If I need to go to work, then you need to get out of bed,” he said angrily.
“Why? I have no kids to take care of and nothing to do. I want to stay in bed today.”
In the back of my mind, I knew that Warren was right, and he wanted only what was best for me. Finding something to keep me busy was better than staying home by myself to wallow in my misery. Warren realized that, and I did, too. And though he wouldn’t admit it, he was scared for me to be alone.
Since Warren’s office is near our house, I used to call him sometimes when the kids were little, asking him to dash home briefly so I could run to CVS or do an errand.
“What if I worked far away?” he’d ask.
“But you don’t!” I’d say cheerfully.
Now, without children to take care of, I no longer had any reason to ask him. But he appeared often during the day to check on me, anyway. Finding me in bed invariably led to another fight. So sometimes when I didn’t want to face either Warren or the world, I’d show up at Isabelle’s doorstep.
“Can I lie in your bed?” I’d ask plaintively when she answered the bell.
She’d hug me and let me in, and I’d nest for an hour or two (or three) on her soft sheets, safe and alone. Maybe it was a little weird, but what in my life wasn’t weird? Other times, I’d go to Laura’s house across the street to take a nap. But rather than just walk directly over, I’d drive around the corner and park the car where Warren couldn’t see it. If he stopped home, he’d think I’d gone out. Like a teenager sneaking off for a smoke, I snuck away to sleep.
• • •
After the holidays, something clicked in me. Other people were moving on with their lives, but my life was essentially over. Every parent on earth could understand my not wanting to go on—I felt extreme guilt for not having protected the children and the extraordinary loneliness of being here without them.
Standing in the living room after Warren left for work one morning, I made a conscious decision to kill myself. Being reunited with my daughters in heaven had always been a theoretical coin in my pocket, as Dr. O’Brien had said. Now I wanted to make it real.
Late that night, I began searching the Internet for the best ways to end my life. I’d never owned a gun and didn’t like violence, so that was out. Hanging would be grotesque.
Pills seemed an obvious solution. Always thinking ahead, I’d been hiding away a few pills from every prescription, and I had plenty that I could swallow at once. I’d be glad to take them, but you get no guarantees with pills.
I read about other methods of ending my life, amazed by how much specific information about suicide and death is available online. Antifreeze, which is odorless, colorless, and has a sweet taste, had a certain appeal. So I had my answer: antifreeze and pills. I felt a certain elation at finding a solution to my pain. I’d do it at the Floral Park Motel, so Warren wouldn’t have to find me in the house. He should get to keep living in his own home without feeling it might be haunted. I’d leave my car in the motel parking lot so everyone would know where to find me.
With the plan fully settled in my mind, I went to bed calmer than I’d been in a long time. I fell asleep immediately and had the most vivid dream I’d ever experienced. I saw myself standing at the entrance to heaven. Just beyond the gates, I could see Emma, Alyson, and Katie, smiling and sweet and close enough to touch.
“Mommy, Mommy, you’re here!” they called excitedly.
I started to rush toward them, but God didn’t let me inside the gates.
“You didn’t do everything you could on earth,” he said.
“I did,” I whined. “I’ve prayed, I’ve written every thank-you note. I’m suffering so much.”
“The doctor gave you a gift. Why haven’t you used it?” God asked.
“I want to be with my girls,” I pleaded.
“You have to take the gift and at least try to use it. And then you can come back.”
I woke up with my heart pounding.
Try . . . and then you can come back.
The words had been so clear I didn’t know if the conversation had happened in real life or a dream. I lay in bed for a long time, repeating every word over and over.
That afternoon, I was driving to do some errands when I pulled into a parking lot and began crying. For sixteen months I had stayed stuck in the same moment, with no dreams or aims or goals. I couldn’t think about a future because I wanted only to retrieve the past. Some part of me understood that what had been lost couldn’t be found again. Heaven may be the pipe dream we cling to when this world is too agonizing, but as long as we are alive, we need hope. Nobody can live without hope. And for the last sixteen months, I had none.
Sitting alone in that parking lot and trying to control my sobs, I pulled out my cell phone and called Jo in Dr. Rosenwaks’s office. “I can’t live like this anymore,” I told her. “Everyone is moving on but me.”
“I’m glad you called,” she said without hesitation. “I’ll talk to Dr. Rosenwaks and get right back to you.”
I hung up, relieved. I figured there was no way I’d actually get pregnant, but at least I was doing what I’d been told to in the dream. Trying to accept the gift of the frozen embryos.
Twenty
I tried not to think too much about any plan for pregnancy until the next week, when Warren and I got in the car to drive to our appointment. Traffic getting into Manhattan that morning was even more backed up than usual, and as we inched along behind a huge exhaust-puffing truck and maneuvered into the Midtown Tunnel, we looked at each other uncertainly.
“So, why are we going to this appointment?” Warren asked, his hands clutching the wheel. “Does this mean you want a baby now?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I hadn’t told him about the dream—and I wouldn’t for a very long time. “I don’t think I want a baby. Not now. Do you?”
“We’re going to the office,” Warren said. “We must have a reason. We have those frozen embryos.”
“But I don’t think I want a baby,” I said again. “What are we going to say when we get there?”
“Let’s just find out about the process,” Warren said.
When we got to the office, Dr. Rosenwaks didn’t ask why we had come—he just assumed we wanted a baby. By taking control and giving us a plan, he made it very simple. For starters, I had to go off antidepressants for a couple of months, and since I didn’t otherwise have fertility problems, he’d do the implantation on a natural cycle, without drugs.
When you are confused and uncertain, it helps to have someone who seems to know exactly what you should do—and the doctor’s certitude was a relief. He was taking care of everything for us, and that’s exactly what we needed. I looked over at Warren as Dr. Rosenwaks spoke, and our eyes locked. Something clicked in both of us. Since the accident, we had no next steps to look forward to, no future to plan. Now we might. We would try to implant the embryos.
That evening, I looked longingly at the bottles of antidepressants, sleeping pills, and antianxiety medication that had been lining my kitchen cabinets for the past year and firmly shut the door. I’d stop right now. Now that I’d decided, I wanted to get this process under way.
But I worried that I might become totally unhinged once I’d given up the medication. At our next session with Dr. O’Brien, I warned Warren that I’d be even tougher to deal with in the coming months.
“Warren, how are we going to do this?” I asked. “I’m crazy now with medication. How’s it going to be without it?” The very thought scared me, and I couldn’t imagine how my husband would handle it.
“It’ll be fine,” Warren said, as he always did. Why do men always pretend everything will be fine?
Dr. O’Brien was more realistic. “Warren, it’s going to be a challenge. Are you up for it?”
“Of course I’m up for it,” Warren said.
And so we started.
• • •
One day shortly after, we woke up to a blizzard that had whipped up overnight. The whole town had shut down from the high winds and hard-driving snow, and Warren and I knew we’d be stuck in the house together all day. With schools closed for the weather and all our friends at home with their children, the only distraction I had was the occasional snowplow grumbling by. Trapped in the memory-filled house, I felt my anxiety begin to rise. As usual, Warren and I started to fight. We had no particular reason—maybe an argument was the only entertainment we could imagine today.
With no other outlet for my tension, I raced down to the basement, my mind spinning and my heart pounding through my chest. Barely able to breathe, I walked erratically in circles, talking like a crazy person, wondering why I had agreed to Dr. Rosenwaks’s plan.
“What am I doing, what am I doing?” I said to nobody in particular. “I can’t do this. The whole idea is nuts. Why do I want to get pregnant, anyway? I can’t just start my life all over again.”
Warren came downstairs and tried to calm me down—which only made it worse. I continued pacing, arms flailing, mind and words racing at a hundred miles an hour.
“This is crazy, this is crazy!” I ranted. “What are we doing? This was such a stupid idea. Why do I listen to people? I’m not doing this, Warren. I want my girls. I want to see my girls. Screw this, anyway.”
Normally, Warren would leave and go outside when my hysteria got too much for him, but with the blizzard outside, there was no escape.
“I can’t take this, Jackie,” he said, clutching his hands to his head.
“Oh really, Warren? You promised Dr. O’Brien you could do this. You promised me you could handle it. Now you’re changing your mind?”
“I didn’t know you were going to be a lunatic,” he said.
“I’ve got to get out of this house,” I said, looking out the window at the raging snowstorm.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Warren said impatiently. “There’s three feet of snow outside.”
“I’m taking a walk,” I insisted.
“You’re crazy!” he shouted.
“I know. I already told you that.”
I rushed upstairs and called Bernadette.
“Sure, let’s go for a walk. Great idea,” she said, always upbeat. “But how are we going to meet? We can’t take the cars out.”
“We’ll meet halfway,” I suggested.
I bundled up in ski pants and boots and headed out into the storm. The plows had barely made a path through the middle of the road and huge piles of snow were everywhere. I climbed over the snow, a ten-minute walk that took four times as long. When I finally arrived, Bernadette was rosy-cheeked and smiling as the snow fell on her white knit hat.
“You made it!” she said.
We walked for nearly three hours, climbing the snow mountains, talking, and finally laughing.
“Jackie, you’re doing the right thing with the in vitro and the embryos,” Bernadette said, always calm and reassuring. “You have to try this. Nothing’s easy right now, but you can do it.”
We went to her house and relaxed over hot cocoa. I felt the warmth oozing through me. She was right. If I could climb over snow mountains, I could cope without my medications.
A few days later, when the weather had improved and Karen and I had gone off on one of our Tuesday excursions, she mentioned that she knew an acupuncturist who might be able to help with my tension.
“Acupuncture?” I asked dubiously. “You must be kidding.”
“It’s worth a try,” she said.
On a lark, we drove over there and I met the acupuncturist, a lovely woman named Michelle. Karen told her my story and she offered her services for free. The next thing I knew, I was lying on a table with needles stuck in my ears, nose, and forehead.
“To help you get rid of the crazy thoughts and calm your mind,” she said, painlessly slipping another needle into my forehead. She added a few needles to my outstretched hands, then looked at me with satisfaction.
“I’m going to leave the room now,” she said. “Just lie there for about half an hour and relax and clear your mind.”
Relax? Me? She must be joking. The minute she left, I jumped off the table and got a mirror out of my pocketbook to see what I looked like. I started to giggle. The thin needles jutting out everywhere looked silly beyond words. But they didn’t hurt. And what the heck? Walks in the snow, giving up antidepressants, trying to get pregnant—like the slim needles currently sticking out of my head, none of it could hurt. At this point, taking new paths was the only chance I had of finding a reason to go on.
• • •
Over the next few weeks, Warren sensed that attempting to get pregnant was my last-ditch effort. I had decided that if it didn’t work, nothing more could be expected of me. I could bow out of this life knowing I had made every effort to find a purpose for myself. Reasonably enough, he worried about what would happen if the implantation didn’t work. As the weeks went
by and we waited to do the first implant, he got increasingly nervous.
“You know you’re not likely to get pregnant the first time,” he said. “You can’t get upset if it doesn’t take right away.”
“That’s fine,” I said airily. I didn’t add that I hardly expected to get pregnant. I didn’t really care, either. I’d take advantage of the gift, and when it failed, I’d be free to do what I really wanted.
“We’ll try it three times, okay?” Warren asked. “Three cycles. And promise me that you won’t get upset if it doesn’t work right away.”
Upset? I’d more likely be pissed if I did get pregnant.
Three attempts at implanting the embryos would, with various delays, bring us to June. So now I had a real date I could point to, an endgame for my pain.
By June, I’d be pregnant. Or I’d be with Emma, Alyson, and Katie.
• • •
I had the first implantation in February. I felt unbearably awkward lying virtually upside-down on a tipped-back table, fully exposed to the nurses, doctors, and techs who crowded around my bare bottom, their attention riveted on what looked like a high-tech turkey baster.
What am I doing here? I thought as I stared at the ceiling and tried not to feel humiliated.
The night before, fifteen of my friends stopped by for a surprise Getting Pregnant party. They gave me little pink and blue presents—candles, Hershey’s kisses, and colorful frosted cupcakes.
They might have been more excited than I was. As I lay on the table, clutching so tightly to the sides that my knuckles turned white, I wondered if I was the only woman in my (uncomfortable) position who didn’t care what happened. I’d always been a good girl and a high achiever and more competitive than I realized, so I wanted the procedure to work. But deep inside I was ambivalent.
After the turkey-baster team left the room, I lay perfectly still for a couple of hours, as they suggested, then made my way home carefully. I stayed on bed rest for the next two days. Women have been getting pregnant for a long time, and the folklore about what works goes on forever. My friends had ideas—and I tried them all. I ate a whole bowl of pineapple because someone told me that it helps the embryos stick, and then I chowed down on a bag of walnuts because I heard they have embryo-sticking advantages, too. I stayed off my feet for a full week. I didn’t go running at all.