Good Apple

by Elizabeth Passarella

  . . .

  My mother is right that marrying a Democrat was the first step toward the dark side (I’m paraphrasing). But isn’t that how marriage works? Aren’t we supposed to change as we commit our lives to another person, see his perspective, compromise? I think so. Sometimes you rub off on your spouse in small ways; my sister, who was always neutral-to-slightly-contemptuous of our pets growing up, is a full-fledged dog lover now, influenced by her husband and three boys. Sometimes it’s in big ways; Michael is now a member of a Presbyterian church, and I’m a registered Democrat. People shift.

  And I know I’m playing into the hand of people who despise coastal elites—and use terms like “coastal elites”—but, yes, New York City changed me too. Again, I ask, isn’t that how life is supposed to work? You experience a different culture, form a community among people with different viewpoints, and learn from one another, maybe change each other’s minds? I’d occasionally like to bus Manhattanites to the tiny town in northern Mississippi where my mother grew up and leave them there for a month. I don’t think they’d become Republicans, but they might see the other side with more grace. Or get shot by a rogue hunter. One or the other.

  What I’d like to say to my Christian brothers and sisters is: my political party, and yours, is not a big deal. It should not be the basis for your identity. It should be a footnote to the person that you are. I don’t agree with every stance the Democratic Party takes. Does anyone agree with everything their chosen politician stands for? The only person who has walked this earth and lived a blameless life was Jesus. Your congressman, even the handsome one, is a majorly flawed human being. We are all making tough decisions, weighing options, and trying to go with our conscience. Where mine leads me might not be where yours leads you. That’s the lovely outcome of being freethinking people. But if I’m going to talk about politics—and these days, it seems impossible not to—then I have to be specific. So here goes—a few of my thoughts on the subject:

  I often say that New York is the closest to the kingdom of heaven I can get in the United States. What do I mean? Well, heaven is going to be filled with believers from everywhere: New York, Mississippi, China, Kenya, Saudi Arabia. I don’t know exactly what it will look like, but I can guess that it will look more like my current neighborhood, with its diversity of faces, than the neighborhood where I grew up. Same goes for the Democratic Party, if you’ll allow me this leap: it has more black and brown faces (many of whom are also Christians), which says something. I want to be in a party that looks the most like the kingdom of heaven, and if an overwhelming majority of non-white voters feel heard and cared for by one side, I should pay attention.

  In the Bible, repetition implies importance. Jesus spends a lot of time telling us to love our neighbors. Care for the poor and marginalized. Help the needy. Have dinner with the people in your community that you despise the most. Welcome the stranger. See every man, woman, and child as image bearers of God, valued and beloved. For me, one party tends to favor policies that do that more than the other. It’s as simple as that. My Republican friends will argue with me about the inefficiencies of government programs until the cows come home, but the fact of the matter is, that’s the best we’ve got for reaching the most people. I love faith-based organizations, and I support them with my time and my money. But you cannot rely on them—or the goodness of the human spirit alone—to change discriminatory housing policies or lift people out of poverty. Large structural change doesn’t happen without the government getting on board.

  I am pro-life. But the way the Republican Party has strong-armed people into becoming single-issue voters over abortion is wrong. If we are pro-life, we need to change our gun laws. If we are pro-life, we need to meet mothers and their children crossing our borders with compassion and respect. Those lives are equally as important as the unborn. If we are pro-life, we should care about how climate change is affecting the poor in developing countries. I think about the lawmakers who have tried to outlaw abortion in their states. What if, instead of simply making abortion illegal, they said, “Hey, we think abortion is wrong and immoral, and we want it to end. So we are going to gradually work toward that goal. As we do we are going to support the most vulnerable women in our communities who would be most affected. Birth control is going to be free and available at every supermarket checkout counter, because we know that it is the number one way to reduce unwanted pregnancies. We are going to fund programs that teach young women and young men—who are equally responsible—about sex, its consequences, and how contraception works. If a woman does have an unwanted pregnancy, we are going to embrace her in love, give her the best free health care she could possibly imagine, and then walk alongside her not just during pregnancy but as that baby grows. We will enact laws that demand free childcare, since we know that woman probably needs to work. We are going to call on businesses in our communities to hire mothers and give them flexible work hours. We are going to expunge criminal records for men and women convicted of minor drug offenses, so that they can find work and support their children. Oh, and we are going to raise the minimum wage. We are going to set up a small savings account for those children that can grow over time and pay for community college someday.” Wouldn’t that be a beautiful picture of the gospel?

  There is so much fear in our world right now. (I argue that there’s a little more than usual, which is the result of efforts by a certain network.) (It’s Fox.) People are afraid of declining morality, of terrorism, of immigrants, of climate change, of those on the other side. I think Christians should be leading the charge against fear, no matter what party they belong to. Our God conquered death. He says over and over not to be afraid:

  Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go. —Joshua 1:9

  The LORD is my light and my salvation—

  whom shall I fear?

  The LORD is the stronghold of my life—

  of whom shall I be afraid? —Psalm 27:1

  When I am afraid, I retreat. I surround myself with people who are safe, who are like me, who tell me what I want to hear. When I am afraid, I try to control everything. When I am afraid, I want to pin down all my stuff, in case I need it, and not share. When I am afraid, I don’t get on the subway. And gosh, I love the subway. So I guess my point is that we should all be less afraid and more willing to swim upstream.

  I know what you’re thinking: How can it possibly be considered swimming upstream to be a Democrat on the Upper West Side of New York? It’s not. It’s quite easy. But then try telling people you waited until your wedding night to sleep with your husband.

  EIGHT

  LET’S TALK ABOUT MISCARRIAGES

  I WANT TO TALK ABOUT MISCARRIAGES—BREEZY and upbeat; I’m sure you can’t wait—but before I do, I need to discuss my tattoos. Tattoo. I have one. It is a very safe tattoo, a Jesus fish—you know, the ichthus, two arched lines that bow out from each other, connecting in a pointed fishy mouth, fanning away from each other in a fishy tail. It’s the symbol you see slapped onto the back of cars in the Bible Belt. I should say it was a safe tattoo when I got it, at age twenty, while studying abroad for a semester in London. Then I moved to New York, where the Jesus fish car decals were greatly outnumbered by the Coexist and Gore/Lieberman 2000 bumper stickers, so I was relieved anew that I’d chosen a discreet spot just below my left pinky toe that was easily covered by all shoes but my thong Birkenstocks. I’m not ashamed of it. Quite the opposite, actually; I’ve lived with it for more than twenty years and still love it as much as I did the day I got it. It’s more that I know the sight of a Jesus fish would have people jumping to certain conclusions about me, and there’s no time in an elevator ride to explain the nuances of my faith, so what I should probably do is just wear clogs a lot, wait twenty-three years, and then write a book explaining everything instead. That would be easier.

  Everyone has tattoos now. They’re not edgy. I f
ear they’ve already crossed over to being uncool, at least the types of tattoos that my demographic are getting: an outline of Frida Kahlo’s eyebrows or a kale leaf on your forearm. I read that Annie Murphy, the actor who played Alexis on Schitt’s Creek, has a silhouette of Jimmy Stewart in the movie Harvey on her wrist. Jimmy’s arm is extended, resting on his invisible rabbit friend. That kind of creative consideration makes me stressed out. The message we were all trying to send as twenty-year-olds getting tattoos was simple: rebellion. But now? Now, the message better really be something: an abiding love of Kierkegaard or the fact that your last name means “aspen leaf” in Icelandic.

  I told Michael the other day that I wanted a new tattoo to honor my children. “I have five,” I said. “Three here, and two in heaven. That’s five. Maybe I’ll get tally marks, like four lines with the fifth diagonal across.” He didn’t reply right away, probably on account of the casual dead baby talk in the kitchen, so I kept going. “Or maybe not. Do tally marks like that remind you of movies where the character is in prison, marking off the days by scratching tally marks into the wall with the end of a toothbrush?” Still nothing. Then he looked up at me and said, reflexively, what he always says when I bring up the idea of another tattoo. “One is sexy. Two is trashy.” That’s rude, I tell him. Trashy is such a condescending word. I hate it. Besides, we’ve been married for fourteen years. When I hear him say that, I think, Trashy might be the best thing that’s ever happened to you, kid.

  . . .

  So that’s tattoos. Now back to miscarriages! Really, I don’t mean to be flippant about them, but the fact of the matter is, I deal with a lot of hard stuff by making light of it, often inappropriately. For example, in just a few pages, I’ll compare a D&C to a spa experience and use a bra metaphor to explain my feelings. Please feel free to stop reading at any time.

  #1

  My first miscarriage took place in July 2016 in the basement bathroom of a house in Dover, Massachusetts, where we were spending the weekend with one of Michael’s best friends from college, John. He and his wife, Caitie, have three boys, two of whom were the exact ages of Julia and James, our only children at the time. Their youngest boy and James were born four days apart; Caitie and I had sat at another friend’s wedding in Michigan, nursing those month-old babies in cocktail dresses with stretchy tops. Those boys were now four and had changed into matching Spiderman costumes within a few minutes of our descending upon their house. I was trying to land on a side of whether we should have come. We hadn’t seen these friends in a couple of years. Our kids enjoyed each other. Caitie and John were smart, funny, and easy to talk to. But I was about eight weeks pregnant, and a few days before our trip, I’d gone to see my doctor because I was having some light cramping and spotting. I already had an appointment the following week, and it took a lot for me to call and ask to come in before that scheduled visit. I’m the type of person who doesn’t like to inconvenience anyone or expect help without giving something in return. Case in point: I have never used a Starbucks restroom without purchasing at least a hot tea. If I accept a salesperson’s help in a store, I will feel deeply, painfully obligated to buy something, at least a cheap pair of earrings. But I called my doctor, half believing that doing this uncomfortable thing, going out on a limb to ask for a special dispensation, would be inoculation from bad news. Only that wasn’t what happened. I could tell immediately during the ultrasound that something was wrong. Instead of a tiny fetus, the shape of which always looked to me like a baby’s finger with the tip curled down, I saw an inky sack with a cloudy white dot fluttering inside. The baby was measuring much smaller than eight weeks, and his or her heartbeat was slow. As the technician described it, I imagined a car that was rolling to a stop at a red light. No foot on the gas. Just a calm, peaceful petering out. Even though I had never had a miscarriage, even though I could think of a dozen reasons the baby might be smaller than we hoped, there was a solid sense of dread.

  My OB-GYN, Dr. Levin, came into the room, looked at the results of the scan, and said, in her Russian accent, “Eh, you will probably miscarry.” She tilted her head to one side and shrugged, her curly black hair bending and bouncing on her shoulder. That was it. Then she looked at me blankly. Now, a lot of people would think that kind of response was cold, that she should have put her hand on my knee and gently warmed up to the facts. But that’s not the kind of rapport we have. Dr. Levin is brilliant, blunt, and unsentimental, which is right up my alley. She’s not unfriendly; she’ll laugh and joke about her kids, and once we did have a brief conversation about comfortable slingbacks. But for the most part, our visits are efficient; she gives me every detail I need, nothing I don’t, and in return, I require exactly zero hand-holding. I like to believe that I’m one of her favorite patients because of this.

  After a pause, I said, “Really? You’re sure?”

  “Could there be a miracle? Could it turn out okay? Yes. But it’s not likely,” she said.

  (It would end up that every single thing she said would most likely happen with both of my miscarriages happened in the way she said they would, down to the letter. I would appreciate her honesty and competence so much that, after my second miscarriage, I’d write her a long thank-you note telling her that they were the most pleasant miscarriage experiences I could have hoped for—because of her.)

  I decided we should take our trip anyway. The thing is, with pregnancy, you will spend an entire healthy one believing that every twinge is doom, and you will spend the week before you miscarry, bleeding and all but hearing that tiny heartbeat slow to a stop, convinced that things will turn around.

  When we decided to try to have a third child, I was thirty-nine, which is still considered spring chicken territory in New York City. In the four years since we’d had James, we’d waffled on another baby. At first I was a solid no. Then I started wavering, but Michael was a solid no. We were out of the woods of incompetence and safely on the plains of self-sufficiency, he argued. No diapers. Both kids were in school. They ordered their own Sprites and pretzels on airplanes. He was absolutely right. But eventually, as I got closer to forty, we figured we’d try. Not because we wanted a baby—even though we were absolutely, positively going to get one, should this be successful—but because we wanted our kids to have another sibling down the road. We wanted them to have another person to lean on, a third leg of a stool to provide balance, shore things up, maybe break a tie on whether to commit Mom and Dad when we are old and drooly. I also secretly believed that having a baby would cure my older children of being self-centered, since they would have to sacrifice things for their new sibling: time with parents, attention, bathtub space, food. (This is decidedly not true, and you should not have a baby only for this reason.) A funny thing about my fertility: after spending thirty-nine years in a body that did not, as all young adult literature had promised me, cycle monthly with the moon, I now had a period that was like clockwork. My ovaries had decided that the end was near, and they’d better start tossing eggs like Skee Balls in rapid succession. Even so, I anticipated many months of those balls speeding off-center, flying over the hump at the end of the runway and down the bottom chute to Skee Ball wasteland. But lo and behold, one month after we decided to try for a baby, we hit the 100-point center ring.

  When we arrived at John and Caitie’s house, John hugged us hello, and Michael said, “Elizabeth is pregnant.” Now, it may not have been that quick, but it was close. I have no idea what possessed him to blurt it out, standing in their kitchen, about five minutes after we arrived. Maybe John offered me a beer? Asked us what was new? Whatever the case, there was more hugging, some cheering, an awkward pause, and then, just as ill-timed, I felt the need to pop the balloon. “Thank you,” I said. “But I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a miscarriage at your house this weekend!”

  I don’t remember if we took them a gift for hosting us, but I hope we did and that it was an enormous bottle of expensive Scotch or a puppy.

  Caitie is a doctor, not a
n OB-GYN, but she has the same composed, practical nature as Dr. Levin, so I was grateful when she asked a few questions, offered some cautious optimism, and then proceeded to feed everyone with gargantuan trays of baked mushroom chicken. She handled things. We ate. We corralled kids into beds. The adults sat on a couch in their living room, staring out a huge picture window that overlooked an undeveloped woodland with steep green hills. The light faded, until the window became a mirror, and we were staring at our own reflections, legs folded up with throw pillows in our laps. I went to the bathroom and noticed that, for the first time in several days, the bleeding was heavier. That was when I really regretted coming on the trip, because in addition to being a downer houseguest with crappy news, I was also now going to ruin Caitie’s sheets. I excused myself to the basement guest room and texted Michael, “It’s happening,” which suggested I was morphing into Teen Wolf, not miscarrying a baby. I stepped over my children, who were sleeping on an air mattress on the floor next to our bed, climbed under the sheets (pristine white), and set my phone alarm to go off every two hours, the idea being that I could sleep for a spell, then run to the bathroom and avoid an accident.

  My alarm plan worked for a couple of rounds. Then I needed to stay put. So I sat for hours, alone, not wanting to wake Michael up, since someone was going to have to be rested and coherent for our kids the next day. On my phone I read essays about miscarriages by women I’d never met, feeling comfort from complete strangers. And then, with some essays, I felt prideful, because I was handling this so well, so cleanly and competently, and they seemed like train wrecks. I tried to discern if the clots that were exiting my body with accelerating velocity were the size of golf balls or baseballs or if it mattered. Would I need to remember? Would Dr. Levin ask? My friend Jodie had told me that, when she miscarried a few years before, her doctor told her to save the fetus if she could, for genetic testing. It looked like a tiny seahorse, she said. Could I find the seahorse? What in the world would I do with it? I believe the only prayer I offered that night was: “Please, God, don’t let my children wake up.”