What Alice Forgot - Liane Moriarty [172]
But even when the spotting finally stopped, I didn’t believe I was having a baby. Even when every ultrasound was normal. Even when I could feel the baby kicking and rolling, even when I was going to prenatal classes, choosing a crib, washing the baby clothes, and even when they were telling me, Okay, you can push now, I still didn’t believe I was having a baby. Not an actual baby.
Until she cried. And I thought, That sounds like a real newborn baby.
And now she’s here. Little Francesca Rose.
Through all those horrible years I hardly ever saw Ben cry. Now he can’t stop crying. It seems like he had gigantic drums of tears stockpiled that he can finally release. I look over at him holding her asleep in his arms, and he has tears running silently down his face. We’ll be bathing her together and I’ll ask him to pass me a towel, and I’ll discover he’s crying again. I say, Ben, please. Darling.
I don’t cry as much. I’m concentrating too hard on doing it all right. Ringing Alice up to ask questions about breast-feeding. How do you know if she’s getting enough? Worrying about her crying. What is it this time? Wind? Worrying about her weight. Her skin. (It seems a bit dry.)
But sometimes, in the middle of the night, when it’s a good breast-feed and she’s attached properly and sucking well, suddenly the reality of her, the actuality of her, the aliveness of her, the exquisiteness of her, hits me so hard, wham, and the happiness is so huge, so amazing, it explodes like fireworks through my brain. I don’t know how to describe it. Maybe it’s like your first hit of heroin.
(How will I get her to just say no to drugs? Could I put her in some sort of early preventative therapy? What do you think, J? So much to worry about.)
Anyway, I wanted to tell you that we did finally have a ceremony for the lost babies, like you suggested. We took a bunch of roses to the beach one calm sunny winter’s day, and we walked around the rocks and dropped one in the water for each lost little astronaut. I’m glad we did that. I didn’t cry. But as I watched each rose float off, I felt something loosen, as if I’d been wearing something too tight around my chest for a very long time. As we walked back to the car, I found myself taking very deep breaths of air, and the air felt good.
(We were going to read a poem as well, but I thought the baby’s ears might have been cold. She hasn’t had a cold yet. She was a bit sniffly the other day, but it seemed to go away, so that was a relief. I’m thinking about giving her a multivitamin. Alice says it’s not necessary but—anyway, I digress.)
I also wanted to apologize for thinking that you were a smug dad with a perfect life. When you told me at our last session that you and your wife were actually going through fertility treatments too, and that photo on your desk wasn’t your children, but your nephews, I was ashamed of all my self-centered thoughts.
So, here is my homework, Jeremy. I know you never wanted to read it, but I thought I’d submit it anyway. Maybe it will help you with other patients. Or maybe it will help you when your wife is acting crazy, as she will sometimes do.
The Infertiles came to visit yesterday, laden with expensive gifts. It was sort of horrible. I knew exactly how they were feeling. I knew how they would be trying to hold it together, promising themselves they would only stay for twenty minutes and they could cry in the car, keeping their voices light and bright, their poor, tired, bloated bodies aching with need when they each dutifully held the baby. I complained about the lack of sleep (we’d had a really bad night) and I knew I was overdoing it, even though I knew there is nothing more patronizing to an Infertile than to hear a new mother complaining, as if that will make you feel better for not having your own baby. It’s like telling a blind person, “Oh, sure, you get to see mountains and sunsets, but there are also rubbish dumps