The GI Bride

by Simantel, Iris Jones

  ‘Come on, let’s get you home,’ she said, as she led me out into the hall and down the stairs. I almost laughed when I heard the door slammed and locked behind us.

  ‘They want to make sure we don’t try to come back for a refund,’ I told my friend, but neither of us was laughing. I wondered if that man had really been a doctor, but at that point I didn’t care. I couldn’t wait to get away from the awful place. All I wanted was the security of my own bed.

  When we got home, my friend made me a cup of tea, made sure I was comfortable, and then had to leave. Exhausted, I climbed into bed, pulled the covers over my head and finally went to sleep. When I woke up, I had no idea what the time was: it was dark and the house was silent, and I wondered where my roommate, Deborah, was. She should have been home by now. Wayne and Robin had gone to spend the weekend with their grandparents and my roommate had promised she would help with them when they came home the following day if I was not feeling well. I got up and went to the kitchen where I found a note from Deborah saying that she and her children would be away for a few days so she couldn’t help, after all. So, there I was, alone. I would just have to deal with it.

  A few hours passed before I started having minor contractions. All of this time I’d been feeling like a stuffed turkey: there was tremendous pressure inside me from the packing that the doctor had inserted. Every time I went to the toilet, I expected to see something, but I really didn’t know what to expect. I paced up and down in the apartment with the hours seeming to drag by, but at last the contractions became more regular and intense. When I was sure they were coming at regular intervals, and more than the prescribed twelve hours had passed, I went into the bathroom to begin pulling out the bandage.

  The whole thing was surreal. I slowly removed the yards of gauze, thinking and fearing that I could pull my insides out if I wasn’t careful. I could feel large blood clots coming out with the bandage, my head was spinning and I was heaving with nausea, but I knew I had to stay conscious and strong. I decided to have a bath with water as hot as I could bear, and lay there in the numbing heat, crying, but I knew I had to stay active for the contractions to continue.

  As time went by the pain continued and I was bleeding heavily. Every once in a while I would feel intense pressure and would sit on the toilet to pass large blood clots, all the time thinking that one might be the actual foetus. I was too petrified to look. Sometimes the pain would cause me to double over but that made me strangely happy because I knew I was in the midst of a miscarriage and it would soon be just a memory.

  After a couple of days, the bleeding was still heavy and I was soaking dozens of pads. I was no longer having contractions but was still in excruciating pain. I hadn’t known exactly what to expect so I thought this was normal, but eventually, with growing concern, I called the doctor at the clinic. He said it sounded as though I might not have finished aborting yet and I should give it a while longer. In the back of my mind, I kept thinking of how long I had been in labour with my two children and that this was probably no different. Dr Crown had always said that my babies never wanted to leave me, and although I only ever thought of this pregnancy as an unwanted foetus resulting from rape, and never as an actual baby, I understood that the process might be the same, so I waited.

  For the rest of that week I was barely able to function and take care of the children. I was still in pain and bleeding, and each day it had been harder to put on a happy face. The following weekend the children were off again for their weekend visits and I was relieved as I was feeling tired and in need of rest. I believe it was late on a Saturday evening, after I had taken a nap, that I got out of bed, found I’d been lying in a pool of blood and fainted. When I came to, I was so weak that I could hardly move but I knew I needed help. I managed to get to the telephone and called all my closest friends in the apartment building but no one was at home. In desperation I thought of the only other friend who lived close by and that was Pete Huber. He was an old friend of Palmer’s but now totally disapproved of him and his treatment of me and the children; he often phoned to see how we were getting along. Pete lived just a few blocks away so I called him.

  Pete was a bashful and homely bachelor who, when he wasn’t playing golf or travelling for his job, could usually be found at home. He was a wonderful person and I always felt sad that he was alone. He would have made someone a great husband although he always seemed somewhat ill at ease and shy with women. He probably wouldn’t have been much of a father: he always said he couldn’t stand children, but I thought that was just tough-guy talk.

  When Pete answered his phone, I was so relieved that I started to sob. ‘Pete, can you please come over? I need you.’ He slammed down the phone and was at my door in minutes. I had to crawl to the door to let him in.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he asked.

  ‘Can’t explain,’ I said. ‘Please take me to Cook County Hospital, Pete. I need help.’ I had no medical insurance so I had to go to the free county facility. Without a word, Pete wrapped a coat around me, then got me into his car, where I must have passed out because I don’t remember the rest of that journey.

  When I came to, I was at the hospital, lying on a gurney, and a nurse was wheeling me into the emergency room. Things moved fast and it all became a bit of a blur, but soon someone hooked me up to an IV and the nurse told me I was being admitted. It was only then that I focused on her nametag and realized I was in West Suburban Hospital, not the free Cook County Hospital. At that point, I didn’t have the strength to question it.

  Later, when Pete came back to visit me, he told me there was no way he could leave me at Cook County Hospital with what he called ‘all those animals’. I also learned that he had guaranteed payment of my hospital bill. When I protested, he told me frankly that he had more money than he knew what to do with and it was about time he did something useful with some of it. He sat beside me and apologized for the way Palmer had been treating me, as though he felt an element of responsibility. He said he wished he’d had the courage to do something to help me before but he hadn’t known how. He and Palmer had been friends for years but he couldn’t forgive him for what he had done to me and the kids.

  After an examination and some tests it was determined that I was still pregnant but that the foetus was dead; I needed a surgical abortion.

  ‘Have you ever had a miscarriage before?’ a doctor asked me.

  ‘No, never,’ I told him. There was never any indication that they suspected I’d had an abortion.

  ‘You need to have blood transfusions before we can take you for surgery,’ a nurse explained. ‘You’ll need about five pints. Do you have family or friends who would donate blood? If you can get donors, your hospital bill will be greatly reduced,’ she added.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I told her, but as I didn’t want anyone to know what was going on, how could I ask them to give blood?

  ‘You might also need more blood later,’ she said, but by then, pain medication took over. I began to feel woozy and, at last, comfortable.

  While I was receiving the transfusions, I asked the hospital social worker to phone my church and tell the pastor I needed to talk to him. I wanted him to issue a request for blood donors. I knew how expensive blood was and if we could get the blood replaced it would be less of a burden for my dear friend Pete. The pastor did not visit me but sent word that he had put out the plea, both at the Sunday services and in the church bulletin. I waited for news of donors, but not one person came. That was when I decided to leave the church. After my experience in Las Vegas, and now this, I was convinced that it was the last place I was ever going to find any actual Christians.

  As I wa
s receiving the third pint of blood, I started itching all over and my palate swelled to meet my tongue, much as it had when I’d had that allergic reaction to ragweed pollen some years ago. This, though, was far worse I could hardly breathe. Suddenly the place was alive with bells ringing and lights flashing: I was having a severe allergic reaction to the transfusion. Someone stopped it and now doctors came running from all directions. I received massive antihistamine injections, which alleviated the situation. Soon after that fiasco, my blood count was rechecked and it was determined that it was safe to take me to surgery. I could have cried out of sheer happiness and relief.

  When I woke up after the surgery, I was back in my room, which was in the maternity department, and I felt fine. A nurse told me I would not be having the rest of the blood transfusions, but that I’d probably receive iron injections to get my blood count up to normal. My family physician, Dr Leroy Besic, whom the hospital had called in, told me that if I hadn’t received help when I did, I could have died because of the amount of blood I’d lost.

  ‘All’s well that ends well,’ I told him. I was still a bit silly from the drugs they’d given me.

  Having told the hospital switchboard that I wanted no calls, I was surprised when the phone rang. Cautiously, I picked it up and was horrified to discover it was Palmer, the one person I hadn’t wanted to hear from. Apparently, he had told the switchboard that he was my husband.

  ‘What are you doing in the maternity department?’ he demanded. ‘Have you got yourself knocked up?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I told him. ‘I’m here because it was the only available room.’ That seemed to satisfy him.

  ‘What are you in there for?’ he barked.

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business any more, but I was having some female problems and had to have a D and C.’

  ‘Where are the kids? Who’s taking care of them?’

  ‘They’re at my brother’s and they’re fine,’ I told him.

  My roommate had let me down again, her promise to watch the kids forgotten. My good friend and neighbour Mary Nicholson was there when the children had come home from their weekend visits. Since Palmer was under orders not to come to my apartment, he had watched Robin walk to the door, and was unaware who had let her in a good thing because he hated Mary and would have caused a scene; he still accused her of perjury in our divorce case, and brought it up at every opportunity. Anyway, Mary had phoned my brother and sister-in-law, told them I was in hospital for a D and C, and asked if she could bring the kids there for a few days, so that was what had happened.

  When I came home from the hospital, I was still feeling very weak but it was as though the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders. I could now look for a job and, with my child-support payments and Deborah’s rent, I would be able to make it. However, just when the future was beginning to look a little brighter, Deborah announced that she was leaving. ‘I’ve been offered a fantastic position with much higher pay,’ she rattled on, ‘but the job is in Michigan and I have to move right away.’

  I can’t say I was sorry to see her go but the timing was lousy. Deborah had not turned out to be the wonder woman she had promised. She frequently stayed away from home, sometimes for several days at a time, but she did pay me well to take care of her two children. She did not exhibit good personal hygiene and one of my naughty neighbour friends had taken to calling her ‘Nellie Rotten Crotch’ because of her body odour. Her idea of preparing gourmet meals had turned out to be a joke. She once promised the kids a special treat if they cleaned up their room. It turned out to be cereal for dinner instead of a real meal, which I thought not only odd but mean. Deborah often had flowers delivered to her and I believed her stories of rich suitors, but after she moved out, I found out some surprising things about her.

  My friend Mary and I had the job of clearing out the bags of belongings she had left in our basement storage unit. We were astounded to find that she was using a fictitious name, and there was evidence of other names she had used. We also discovered that her husband had not died of cancer but had divorced her; the papers were there to prove it. There were dozens of unpaid bills from various other US states, and we thought it pathetic when we also found the bills for the flowers she had been sending to herself. She had moved out in a hurry, and had left such a lot of her belongings that we suspected she was in some new trouble. I always felt sorry for her two children and often wondered what might have happened to them.

  I had decided to wait until I felt stronger before looking for a job but with each passing day I felt worse and was growing weaker. I couldn’t eat and was frequently nauseated, so I made an appointment to see Dr Besic. ‘Do you know that I always refer to you as Dr Be Sick?’ I’d told him on a previous visit.

  He’d laughed. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘my sister in California is also a doctor, and she had a K legally added to Besic. She thought she’d have the last laugh.’ Weird, I thought, the things you find out on any given day.

  When I walked into his office this time, he took one look at me and shook his head.

  ‘No wonder you’re feeling ill, you’re seriously jaundiced,’ he said. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t noticed. Here, look in this mirror.’

  I was astonished at what I saw in the bright light of his office. The lighting in my apartment was not the best, but I had been leaving the overhead lights off because brightness had begun to bother my eyes. ‘Oh, my God,’ I said. ‘I look like a canary. What’s happened to me?’

  Dr Besic knew, of course, about my recent hospital stay and I had told him about the abortion. He explained that apparently I had contracted hepatitis either from the abortion itself or from the blood transfusions. He assured me that I would be all right if I had plenty of bed rest and a good healthy diet (I learned many years later that he should have told me to avoid alcohol entirely), but all I could think about was what might go wrong next.

  Wayne was at school and Robin was two and a half when all this was happening. I figured I could get Wayne off to school in the mornings, then lie on the couch while Robin played and sleep when she took her nap. Later, when Wayne came home from school, he could watch Robin for a while so that I could get dinner ready, and I would go to bed when they did. Somehow, we were going to get through this.

  Pete Huber had been calling from wherever he happened to be in the country to check on us every couple of days. He seemed genuinely concerned. He knew I was still ill, but I assured him that we had it all sorted out and promised I would be getting plenty of rest. Then, a few days later, a special-delivery letter arrived from him. I couldn’t imagine what he was sending, and when I opened the envelope, I almost died of shock. It contained airline tickets for the children and me to go to England for a month, plus some extra money for expenses. The letter with it had me sobbing my heart out. He said that since he had no family of his own he would consider it a privilege to be part of ours, even if only for a little while. He said he would be on the road for the next few months, covering the golf tournament circuit, and he would see us when we got back to Chicago. I didn’t have a phone number where I could call him and I just stared at the plane tickets, crying like a baby.

  I tried to find out where Pete was from his brother, Joe, but he didn’t know how to contact him either. I suspect Joe wondered what I wanted with his brother, but he didn’t ask and I didn’t tell.

  I’m sure my family wondered where the money had come from for the trip but I simply told them it had come from a special guardian angel. I hadn’t told anyone in my family about all that had happened, not while it was happening or afterwards. Why burden my parents with the worry? What could they have done? I hadn’t told my
brother and his wife in America either because, with their small children and problems of their own, they certainly didn’t need to hear about mine. They had bought my stereo set from me and the money from that had helped tide us over, and I had also cashed in a couple of Wayne’s savings bonds so that we could keep going. It had been just enough to help make ends meet until I could find a job.

  We went to England, which was just what I needed to rebuild my strength. My mother simply thought I was run-down and did her best to see that I got plenty of rest and good food. The children had a great time and we loved being with my family; I could happily have stayed there for ever, but that was out of the question. Again, it was hard for me to return to America. I was frightened of having to face it alone, but I knew it would have caused an international incident if I had stayed in England. I felt that I’d received another chance at life, and I owed it to the friends who had so kindly helped me when I had most needed them. I had to go back and give it my best shot.

  21: Strange Encounters, and Life after Palmer

  Back in America, I had just started looking for a job and was temporarily baby-sitting and sewing again when I received a phone call from one of my adopted sisters, Mom Evans’s daughter Jeanne. Jeanne worked for a large restaurant in Chicago but she also had another business on the side. It wasn’t really a model agency, but she provided demonstrators and hostesses for conventions and trade shows. She knew I needed work and said she had the contract to provide girls to work in registration and in the exhibitors’ booths at the National Restaurant Association Trade Show at McCormick Place Convention Center. She said the assignment would last for seven days but the pay would be excellent, and she would provide the clothes we were to wear.

  After returning from England, I was in much better physical condition. I had regained some of the weight I’d lost and my curves were back. A healthy colour had returned to my cheeks, which was wonderful after the yellow of hepatitis, so I felt confident and told her I would see about getting a baby-sitter. If I could make the necessary arrangements, I would love to work for her.