The bad thing about being worked in is that you get worked over first in the waiting room. No chatty elders this time. The ob-gyn shares waiting-room space with one other, and two pediatricians.
Over the next hour, it’s clear that playing block-and-check with the preschool set is a young chick’s game. Mothers are in constant motion while they wait to see the physician. The kids must all be here for wellness checkups. I haven’t seen so much unconstructive energy confined in a single space since I once wandered into the locker room of Davin’s lacrosse team to bring the jersey he had forgotten. Though the waiting room does smell better.
When my name is finally called, I shake my head slightly and pick my way past children and strewn toys, heading for the peace and quiet of another meat-locker-temperature examining room.
I’ve heard the heart beat! It’s strong and fast as a squirrel’s! The image looks like a bigheaded shrimp in a blurry Jacques Cousteau film, but that’s enough for me. I’ve met my child-to-be via sonogram.
“You are correct in your assumptions.” Dr. Reynolds is curt, nothing touchy-feely in her approach. “You are approximately twelve weeks pregnant.”
“Okay.” I take a deep breath. It’s official.
“This is an unnecessary risk to your health, at your age. You do understand that?”
With the help of the nurse I’ve levered myself into a sitting position. “Are you saying I’m not strong enough to bear a child?”
Dr. Reynolds looks impatient. “You may make it through the pregnancy with minimal effects, if you take excellent care of yourself. But you must consider the child, and the next ten or twenty years.”
“You mean my life expectancy?”
She glances at me over the tops of her narrow-framed reading glasses “You’d be sixty-five with a teenager.”
“Now, there’s a deal breaker.” I say it with a laugh, but she doesn’t crack a smile. Andrea was a friendlier opponent.
“You should consider your options seriously, Mrs. Nichols, for the good of all parties involved.”
So far, if I count correctly, that’s a total of one. Me.
She hands me a brochure. “I’ll give you a moment to look this over, and then I’ll be back.”
It’s titled “Middle-Age Childbirth: A Commentary.” I’ve read a lot on the subject, but I scan the essentials. For many, middle age is the beginning of chronic illnesses that can make it difficult for a woman caring for a toddler. Mothers of late-life children will require support, financial and emotional, and even help with child-rearing at a time when she may well be living on a reduced income, or even assisted living. Jolly thought!
It goes on, this euphoria-inducing read, to list the financial cost for nannies, nurseries, day care, surrogate care, after-school care and summer programs, with the presumption that a late-life parent is a working parent. Then there is mention of the problematic only-child syndrome. I thought we’d kicked that theory to the curb years ago. A brat by any other name is still a brat. This is a diatribe, not a presentation of options.
Turn the page and the real fun begins. The risks of late-life birth. Birth defects. Low birth weight. Brain damage. Gestational diabetes. Difficult delivery. Down’s syndrome. Spina bifida. There’s the recommended diagnostic testing for late-life pregnancies: chorionic villus sampling, amniocentesis and percutaneous umbilical blood sampling. Each procedure is followed up by cost analysis, which it says are not always covered by insurance.
I toss said brochure in the wastebasket. But I’m rattled.
“So then,” the doctor says, returning as though our conversation had been put on pause, “what do you think?”
“I think that so-called helpful-hints pamphlet paints a broad target for people’s fears. I have no chronic illnesses, and last time I checked my medical insurance was fine.”
She quirks her mouth. “You’ve got good genes. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But senior citizens use up a disproportion of medical and hospital resources as it is. If women your age continue to become regular consumers of obstetrics care, that will finish us. The risks are too high, and my malpractice insurance couldn’t stand the inevitable suits from high-risk pregnancies that should never have been encouraged in the first place.”
Whoa! When did I become an object of Medicaid (or is it Medicare?) scorn? I don’t even qualify yet.
“I really didn’t think I had a chance that the pregnancy would take. But seeing the sonogram, and hearing the heartbeat—” I can’t help it, I’m smiling so hard my face hurts “—I’m going to be a mother, again!”
“You know the odds are against you delivering a normal child?” She pauses. “At your age.”
Just like that I’m chilled to the bone, as if she’s injected ice water into my blood. “Have you noticed something wrong?”
“No. The sonogram looks fine. Of course, we’ll need to do an amnio to check. But why wait for expensive test results? It’s best to end what you’ve told me was a mistake. I can set up an appointment with a nearby clinic. Is next week soon enough?”
Soon enough? The only “soon enough” I can think of is the need to leave here. The only mistake is that I won’t be able to get out soon enough. “Let me think on it.” I slide off the examining table and reach for my clothing.
“Don’t wait too long. Ten to fourteen weeks allows for the least complications.”
I stop trying to dress and turn to look at her. “There’s nothing ‘least’ in any of the complications of my life. But thanks for handling it with such tact and discretion.”
She looks faintly offended. “I’m offering you my medical opinion. That’s my ethical duty.”
“And here I thought you were playing god—small g—with patients’ lives.”
She smacks her lips in the time-honored fashion of a superior being who realizes she’s dealing with an unenlightened but stubborn inferior. “I think we’re done here. Please see the receptionist on your way out. You may leave an address to have your records forwarded to a physician of your preference.”
I let her have the last word because I can’t fasten my bra for trembling hands. Damn hooks.
Okay, so I got the doctor from hell. Nearly everybody comes up against one eventually. Burnout, clearly. From malpractice suits? Maybe she’d just opened her new insurance statement before she saw me. I’ve heard the premiums are running ob-gyns out of business nationwide.
I’m walking stiff-legged into town, after a quick stop at Aunt Marvelle’s to change into drawstring-waist pants and an oversize linen shirt. The days of normal clothing are dwindling rapidly. Furious with myself for letting the doc throw me for even an instant, I decided to work off my anger with exercise.
But the doctor has thrown me. I drove back to Aunt Marvelle’s in a white-knuckled fury. Thank goodness she was off staring at Ralph, or I would have told her everything on the spot. Instead, I’m in pursuit of comfort in the form of something sweet, cold and gooey, and preferably chocolate.
My thoughts swing wildly as I realize traffic in town has picked up considerably, with city license plates sprouting everywhere. That’s the trouble with Paradise. Everybody wants a piece of it.
Who will take care of my child if something happens to me? I hadn’t thought of that. Is it genuinely more of a concern than for a parent of twenty or thirty? My life expectancy is seven-five years. For the very first time, I lay my hand on what is still a fairly flat stomach and sense that I am not alone. Twenty-five years would give this tot the chance to grow up, marry and make a grandmother of me…. I don’t smoke, or drink heavily. I could lose the rest of the damn excess thirty pounds, if I wanted to. I do exercise. Well, I will exercise more. Eat right, too.
My stomach gurgles. I’m hungry.
I turn into the doorway of the appropriately named sandwich shop, the Paradise, and bump into a crowd of toned and tanned weekenders just leaving. Good, I think. I’m in no mood for reminders of home, and obligations at Rodrigo’s. No yogurt today. I n
eed real eggs and cream and sugar consolation.
Sometimes the rain just keeps falling. There at the back table is Dr. Templeton in earnest conversation with a beautiful younger woman. Not cute. Beautiful. She’s leaning across the table toward him, a ribbon of shiny black hair flows down her back to touch the seat behind her. She’s slim and exotically dark, and she’s gripping his outstretched hand for all she’s worth. They wear identical intense expressions. This is love, if I’ve ever seen it.
Bloody hell.
10
Slipping into a chair near the front, I am annoyed with myself for being annoyed. Why should I expect Dr. Templeton to be different from any other free, good-looking, disposable-income male? She’s quite lovely, really. Even if she does appear to be Dallas’s age.
It’s a slow moment in the afternoon. The waiter comes right over. Rather, he makes his way in a leisurely I’m-just-doing-this-until-my-real-life-comes-along pace.
“Chocolate malt, heavy on the syrup.” Sleeping doesn’t seem to be a problem these days, caffeine or no. Besides, I’m still reeling from my appointment with Dr. Feelbad. Doctors are springing up in my life like weeds, irritating and uninvited.
No, I won’t even glance at them again. This is the Hamptons. Young things and older males are so commonplace it’s boring. It’s the beginning of a warm spring weekend. Sure, that’s it. She’s just out from the city. That’s why the Marvelous Matrons didn’t know about her. She was under their radar, not likely to walk through his office door, except to bring in Grandma.
I’m still obsessing when the waiter returns with what passes in my world these days for a stiff drink. At least the straw stands up in it.
But then the words of Dr. Reynolds come back to me. “You know the odds against a women of your age delivering a normal child?” Yes, I do.
“Excuse me!” I lift a hand to bring back the slim young man who’d begun to drift away. He pivots, heel and toe. A model, I don’t even have to ask. I hold out the malt. “This really isn’t what I want.”
He doesn’t touch it. “You ordered it.”
“I’ll pay for it. Just bring me a banana split. Pineapple, strawberry and caramel toppings.” I’m giving up—alas!—chocolate.
He takes the malt between two fingers, as if it’s contaminated.
I pull out the scanned picture of my little stranger. It’s still the photo of a shrimp, but my heart swells three times in size. “We’re in this together,” I say to the grainy rendering. “You better get used to regular food, though. Okay?”
“Well, hello.”
Sometimes the heart pounds for other reasons. Standing over me are Dr. Templeton and his sweet young thing. He smiles easily. “I thought that was you.”
No need to lie. “Hi. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
My gaze moves casually to the young woman. Could be I’m supersensitive, but I spot in a second what could not be noticed while she was seated. This chick is pregnant. Four months at least. Ooo-kay. No wonder he had sympathy for me.
He puts an arm protectively around her shoulders, for the second thing I notice is that she has been crying. “I’d like you to meet someone special to me.”
I smile, but my eyes say, you old dog!
“This is Jolie Katz, my daughter.”
The shoe has dropped, squarely on my dumb-ditty-dumb-dumb head. I rise as if I’ve been introduced to royalty. “I’m Lu Nichols. So glad to meet you.”
Her hand is cool, her touch gentle but not unfriendly. “Hi. Dad says you are a friend of his.”
Does he? The look I cast him causes the most amazing thing. A blush! Or something like it. His naturally tanned skin deepens a shade.
“Jolie’s not feeling so well today,” he says. “She’s expecting.”
“Oh, may I?” She’s noticed my sonogram picture lying on the tabletop.
“Yes, sure.” I hand it to her.
“This is yours?” The question carries no pejorative sting.
“As a matter of fact, yes. Remarkable, huh?”
“Oh, no. My aunt just had her seventh, and she’s probably older. She’s forty five.”
I like this girl. “Wow. Seven. But this is your first.”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations. I hope it all goes well.”
She pales and bites her lip. I’ve struck a nerve I didn’t know was exposed.
Realizing we’ve hit an impasse, Dr. Templeton says, “I’ll call you later, Jolie. You’ve got a key. Just make yourself at home. We’ll sort it out when I come by.”
She smiles and nods, says goodbye to me and adds, “I hope things go well for you, too. It’s a darling picture.”
Instead of following her out, Dr. Templeton indicates the chair next to mine. “Mind if I…?”
“Please.” Yes, as a matter of fact I am. Very pleased.
“What brings you back to town?” He frowns. “Mrs. Harrington is well, I hope?”
“Doing Broadway with her friends this weekend.”
He smiles and nods as the waiter sets my banana split down in front of me. “That sounds like fun.”
I grin and dig in. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t cross my mind that I might run into him. Lying if I said I wasn’t hoping to. But now that he’s here, big as life in a black windbreaker and khakis, I don’t know what to say.
He orders bottled water with lime, which means he’s planning to stay awhile. Then he reaches for my sonogram shot and looks at it, smiling. “Just when a parent thinks all his problems are over, reality sets in. Jolie’s four and a half months pregnant.”
“That was my guess.”
“Problem is, she’s just walked out on her husband.” His sighs are like everything else about him, big and deep. “She found out he was fooling around. Packed a bag and here she is, without warning.”
“You going to kill him for her?” I’m only mildly joking, but the look on Jolie’s father’s face is dangerously serious.
“I’d like to bust his head wide open,” he answers, then shrugs. “But she loves him.”
I nod and continue consuming ice cream.
“Ever since my wife died, I’ve been at a loss with Jolie. This business of being both parents to a child, even a married one, is hard. She needs a mother’s touch, a woman’s point of view on this one. I tend to want to throw things and curse.”
“Do you?” This could be useful information.
He laughs. “I take it to the gym.”
“So what did you say to her?”
“I told her she’s pregnant. She’s got to think of the baby. A baby needs a father. Jon’s an ass but I think her reaction, packing up and driving out here, is a bit extreme. She says it’s never happened before.”
“Hmm.”
“I’m trying to be supportive, but I think she’s overreacting to a one-time transgression.”
“So says a man.”
He looks up from the lime he’s been squeezing into his water. “You think she’s right?”
“It’s none of my business, okay?” I grin as his face goes blank. “You still want my opinion?”
He relaxes and nods.
“I think if your daughter’s unhappy now, it will probably get worse. Men tend to exhibit their true natures early. She’s pregnant, a very vulnerable time for a young woman. And hubby’s catting around. I can’t imagine a worse time for that to happen. She may be doing the right thing, leaving now instead of later, after more damage has been done to her sense of self-worth.”
He’s staring at me, listening with that big-head intensity of his. Embarrassed, I shrug. “But what do I know? I can’t even give my own daughter advice that she will listen to. She’s so wrapped up in her wedding. I don’t think she’s thinking one minute past the honeymoon. That worries me. Stephen’s a nice guy. But from what I’ve seen, he’s a simple person. Dallas is about as complicated as women get. He won’t ever want her to change, and she hasn’t even finished growing up yet. She needs to think about how to cope with th
e future, not how many forks to use at the reception.”
“Like Jon and Jolie!” He wags his head. “Always did sound more like a road movie than a marriage. Jon’s a local kid. I don’t mind that, believe me. But Jolie’s mother reared her to expect the best of everything. They met a couple of summers ago, when Jolie was home from college. Linda never approved of Jon, who was struggling to make a go of his computer service business in Sayreville. When Linda didn’t approve of something or someone, she had a way of undermining things so that doubt would creep in, even when you were sure you were right.”
The man is talking to me, really talking. And he hasn’t asked me a thing about myself or my situation. I’m flattered, and relieved.
“Maybe, in this instance, she saw something you didn’t. About Jon, I mean. They say a woman goes into marriage with the idea of improving her spouse.” He groans at this. “And a man marries what he wants, and doesn’t want that to change.” This time he grunts. “I suspect that the bigger problem in a marriage is the second one. Not changing is much harder than changing. It’s impossible.”
He reaches for the photo again, then looks up at me. “Is that what happened to you?”
He means Jacob, no doubt. “A version of that.”
He nods. “So, everything all right?” He taps the picture with a finger.
“Depends on who you ask.” I tell him briefly of my doctor visit. I’m very circumspect because I expect him to vouch for a colleague’s expertise, especially a local one. Birds of a feather, it happens in every profession.
“Crap!” he says at the end of my recitation. “You have just as good a chance of carrying this pregnancy to term as a woman in her thirties. Better than a first-time mother in her late thirties. That’s because you’ve had two successful pregnancies. And this was a natural conception, no drugs or procedures involved. You’ve nearly completed the first trimester, usually the most dangerous time. Of course, you’ll need to be screened for a few things. That’s standard these days.”
A New Lu Page 8