“A facsimile of sleep,” I said, forcing myself to sit up.
“How are you faring?”
“Oh, you know—Day of the Living Dead.”
“Any news from upstairs?”
I shook my head. And said, “You look tense.”
Tony just smiled a stiff smile and lapsed into silence. Because there was nothing to say until the pediatrician made his appearance. Or perhaps anything we did say would have sounded irrelevant and empty. Our shared anxiety was so palpable that saying nothing was the smartest option.
Fortunately, this silence only lasted a minute or so, as a new nurse came by and said that Dr. Reynolds would like to see us in a consulting room by the MRI suite on the fifth floor. Tony and I exchanged a nervous glance. Requesting us to meet him in a private consulting room could only mean bad news.
Once again I was helped into a wheelchair. Only this time Tony pushed me. We reached the elevator. We traveled up three stories. We headed down a long corridor. We passed the suite of rooms marked MRI and were escorted into a small consulting room, with nothing more than a desk, three chairs, and a light box for x-rays. The porter left us. Tony pulled over a chair next to my wheelchair and did something he’d not done before: he took my hand. Oh, we had held hands on occasion—by which I mean two or three times maximum. This was different. Tony was trying to be supportive—and, in doing so, he was letting me know just how scared he was.
After a moment, Dr. Reynolds came in, carrying a folder and a large oversize manila envelope. He was a tall, soft-spoken man in his late thirties. I tried to read his face—the way a person on trial tries to read the face of the foreman before the verdict is delivered. But he was giving nothing away.
“Sorry to have kept you both . . .” he said, opening the envelope, clipping the MRI film to the light box, and illuminating it. “How are you feeling, Ms. Goodchild?”
“Not bad,” I said quietly.
“Glad to hear it,” he said, favoring me with a sympathetic smile that let it be known he was aware of my recent follies.
“How’s our son, doctor?” Tony asked.
“Yes, I was just about to come to that. Now . . . this is a picture of your son’s brain,” he said, pointing to the MRI film . . . which, to my untutored eye, looked like the cross-section of a mushroom. “And after consultation both with the pediatric neurologist and the radiologist, we’ve all reached the same conclusion: this is a perfectly normal infant brain. Which, in turn, means that, based on this MRI—and the recent EEG—we sense that there has been no brain damage.”
Tony squeezed my hand tightly, and didn’t seem to mind that it was a cold and clammy hand. It was only then that I realized I had my head bowed and my eyes tightly closed, like someone expecting a body blow. I opened them and asked, “You just said that you sense there’s been no brain damage. Doesn’t the MRI offer conclusive evidence?”
Another sympathetic smile from Reynolds.
“The brain is a mysterious organism. And after a traumatic birth—in which there was initially a question about whether the brain was denied oxygen—you cannot be completely one hundred percent definitive that there was no damage. Having said that, however, all clinical evidence points to a positive outcome . . .”
“So there is something to worry about,” I said, getting agitated.
“If I were you, I’d move forward optimistically.”
“But you’re not me, doctor. And because you’re more than hinting that our son has been brain damaged—”
Tony cut me off.
“Sally, that is not what the doctor said.”
“I heard what he said. And what he said is that there is a chance our son was denied oxygen to the brain and is therefore . . .”
“Ms. Goodchild, please,” Reynolds said, his voice calm and still commiserative. “Though I can fully appreciate your concerns, they are—with respect—somewhat overblown. As I said before, I really do think you have nothing to worry about.”
“How can you say that . . . how . . . when you yourself admit that you can’t be one hundred percent certain that—”
Again, Tony intervened.
“That’s enough, Sally.”
“Don’t tell me—”
“Enough.”
His vehement tone silenced me. And I suddenly felt appalled—both at the illogicality of my rant and at the irrational anger I had shown this very decent and patient doctor.
“Dr. Reynolds, I am so sorry . . .”
He raised his hand.
“There’s nothing to apologize about, Ms. Goodchild. I do understand just how difficult things have been. And I’ll be back here tomorrow if you have any further questions.”
Then he wished us a good evening and left. As soon as he was out of the room, Tony looked at me for a very long time. Then he asked, “Would you mind telling me what the hell that was all about?”
I looked away. And said, “I don’t know.”
SIX
AS PROMISED, THEY kept me in the hospital for another five days. During this time, I was allowed constant visits with Jack in pediatric ICU. They had decided to keep him “under continued observation” in the unit for a few more days.
“Do understand,” Dr. Reynolds said, “there’s nothing at all sinister about this. We’re just erring on the side of caution.”
Did he really expect me to believe that? Still, I said nothing. Because I knew it was best if I tried to say nothing.
At times, I found myself observing Jack as if he were a strange, hyper-real piece of modern sculpture—an infant medical still life, enshrouded by tubes, on permanent display in a big plastic case. Or I was reminded of that famous eight-hour Andy Warhol film—Empire—which was one long static shot of the Empire State Building. Watching Jack was the same. He’d lie there, motionless, rarely moving a muscle (though, from time to time, there’d be the tiniest flex of his hand). And I’d find myself projecting all sorts of stuff onto him. Such as: how I hoped he’d like the bouncy chair I’d bought for him. Whether his diapers would be as disgusting as I imagined. Would he go for Warner Brothers cartoons or Disney (please may he be a smartass Bugs Bunny kid). And would his acne be as horrible as mine had been when I was thirteen . . . ?
All right, I was getting way ahead of myself. But an infant is like a tabula rasa, upon which an entire story will be written. And now, staring at Jack in that Plexiglas bowl, all I could think was: he might not have a life . . . or one that is substantially diminished, and all because of the way his body moved a few wrong inches in the womb. Something over which neither of us had any control—but which could completely change everything that happened to both of us from now on. Even if Reynolds was right—and Jack had managed to walk away unscathed from this accident—would this early brush with catastrophe so haunt me that I’d become one of those fiendishly overprotective mothers who would worry every time her ten-year-old negotiated a flight of stairs? Or would I become so convinced that doom was lurking right around the corner that I’d never really rest easy again, and would live life now with an omnipresent sense of dread?
The ICU duty nurse was now at my side—a young woman in her early twenties. Irish. Exceptionally calm.
“He’s a beauty,” she said, looking in on him. “Do you want to hold him?”
“Sure,” I said tentatively.
She unhooked a few of his tubes, then lifted him up and placed him in my arms. I attempted to cradle him—but still found myself worried about unsettling all the medical paraphernalia attached to him . . . even though the nurse assured me that I wouldn’t be disturbing anything vital. But though I pasted a caring smile on my face, I knew I was wearing a mask. Because, like the last time, I couldn’t muster a single maternal feeling toward this baby. All I wanted to do was hand him back again.
“You’re grand,” the nurse said when I lifted him up toward her. “No hurry.”
I reluctantly cradled him again. And asked, “Is he really doing all right?”
“Just grand.�
�
“But you’re sure that he didn’t suffer any damage during birth?”
“Hasn’t Dr. Reynolds spoken to you about this?”
Oh, yes he had—and oh, what an idiot I had made of myself. Just as I was making an idiot of myself right now—asking the same damn questions again. Voicing the same obsessive worries . . . while simultaneously being unable to hold him.
“Dr. Reynolds said he sensed there was no brain damage.”
“Well, there you go then,” she said, relieving me of Jack. “Unlike a lot of the babies in here, there’s no doubt that your fella’s going to be fine.”
I held on to that prognosis—using it as a sort of mantra whenever I felt myself getting shaky (which, truth be told, was very often), or fatalistic, or edging into borderline despair. I knew I needed to show a positive, improved face to the world—because I was now being watched for any signs of disarray . . . especially by my husband and by Mr. Hughes.
Both men dropped by to see me regularly. Hughes would show up on his morning rounds. He would spend a good ten minutes looking me over, inspecting my war wounds, studying my chart, and briskly interrogating me about my mental well-being, while casting the occasional sidelong glance at the head nurse to make certain that I wasn’t fabricating my improved personal state.
“Sleeping well, then?” he asked me on the third day after Jack’s birth.
“Six hours last night.”
He wrote this down, then looked at the nurse for verification. She supplied it with a rapid nod of the head. He asked, “And the, uh, episodes of emotional discomfort—these have lessened?”
“I haven’t cried in days.”
“Glad to hear it. Nor should you, because your boy is on the way to a complete recovery. As you are. Two more nights here and we can send you home.”
“With my son?”
“You’ll have to speak with Dr. Reynolds about that. That’s his domain. Now, anything else we need to speak about?”
“My breasts . . .” I said in a semi-whisper.
“What about them?” he asked.
“Well, they’ve become a bit . . . hard.”
“Haven’t you been expressing milk since the birth?” he asked.
“Of course. But in the last forty-eight hours, they’ve started feeling rock solid.”
In truth, they felt as if they had been filled with fast-drying reinforced concrete.
“That’s a perfectly common postpartum syndrome,” Hughes said, still not looking up from my chart. “The milk ducts tend to constrict, and the breasts begin to feel somewhat leaden . . .”
He cleared his throat, then added, “Or, at least, that’s what I’ve been told.”
The head nurse masked a smile.
“However,” Hughes continued, “there is a way of ameliorating the condition. You’ll show Mrs. Goodchild what to do, won’t you, nurse?”
The head nurse nodded.
“And it’s very good to hear that you are in such improved form, Mrs. Goodchild.”
It’s Ms., buster. But, of course, I didn’t articulate this sentiment, for fear of sending up warning flags yet again. Especially as I was determined to walk out of here the day after tomorrow in a chemical-free state. So I simply smiled at Mr. Hughes and said, “I really feel like I’m on the mend.”
But when Tony arrived that night, I was on the verge of screaming. This had nothing to do with my fragile emotional state—rather, with the instrument of torture that was currently attached to my left breast. It looked like a clear aerosol can with a hornlike aperture at one end and a reservoir at the bottom. It was attached to an electric power pack. Once turned on, it acted like a vacuum cleaner, sucking all the milk out of the breast.
I had been using this charming device ever since Jack’s birth—as they needed my milk to give to Jack up in pediatric ICU. Initially, extracting milk via this vacuum was only moderately uncomfortable. But then my breasts grew hard, and suddenly the breast pump became my nemesis. When I first used it to unblock a milk duct I let out a howl, which made the head nurse cross with me.
“What seems to be the problem?” she asked me, sounding decidedly peevish.
“It hurts like fuck,” I shouted, then immediately cursed myself for roaring without thinking. So I collected myself and said in a suitably contrite voice, “I’m so sorry.”
The nurse ignored my apology, and instead took the pump and repositioned it on my right breast. Then, placing her spare hand on my left shoulder, she turned on the juice. Within ten seconds, the pain was outrageous—and I bit down hard against my lip, shutting my eyes tightly.
“Steady on,” the nurse said. “The thing is to build up enough pressure so that the milk duct has no choice but to clear.”
This took another dreadful minute—during which time the solidified breast felt as if it was being squeezed with vindictive force. Don’t scream, don’t scream, I kept telling myself. But each pressurizing squeeze of the horn made such self-restraint increasingly improbable—until, suddenly, there was this rupture-like spurt, and I could feel a warm liquid enveloping the nipple.
“There we are,” the head nurse said, sounding pleased with herself. “One unblocked breast. Now you’ll need to let it keep pumping for a good ten minutes to completely clear the ducts of milk . . . and then you can start on the other one.”
Tony walked in when I was working on the left breast—and in the final throes of pain meltdown. This tit appeared to be twice as blocked as its counterpart—and having started the extraction process, I knew I couldn’t stop, as the leaden feeling intensified fourfold, to the point where it was just as unbearable as this torture-by-suction. Tony’s eyes grew immediately wide when he found me gripping the mattress with one hand, while using the other to clutch the dreaded breast pump. My face was screwed up into (judging from my husband’s shocked expression) a mask of near-dementia.
“What on earth are you doing?” he asked.
“Shut up,” I said, sensing that, any moment . . .
I let out a little cry, as the duct cleared and watery liquid came jetting forth. Tony said nothing. He just watched me as I continued to drain out the breast. When I was finished, I dropped the pump into a bowl on the bedside table, closed up my dressing gown, put my head in my hands, and thanked God, Allah, the Angel Moroni, whomever, that my stint on the rack was over (or, at least, for today anyway—as the head nurse warned me that I’d have to repeat this charming bit of plumbing several times a day if I wanted to keep my milk ducts cleared).
“You okay now?” Tony asked, sitting down on the bed.
“I have been better,” I said, then explained exactly why I had been engaged in such a masochistic endeavor.
“Lucky you,” Tony said. “How’s our chap?”
I gave him an update on my visit this morning, and then told him that I was still waiting to hear from Reynolds this evening about when he’d be moved out of pediatric ICU.
“The nurse hinted to me it could be as early as tomorrow—as they really think he’s doing just fine. Anyway, they want to discharge me in two days’ time—so you might have us both at home before you know it.”
“Oh . . . great,” Tony said.
“Hey—thanks for the enthusiastic response,” I said.
“I am pleased, really. It’s just—I only heard today that the editor wanted me to pop over to Geneva later on in the week. Some UN conference on . . .”
“Forget it,” I said.
“Of course, now that I know you’re coming home . . .”
“That’s right—you’ll just have to get someone else to cover for you.”
“No problem,” Tony said quickly. Which was a relief—because I had never told Tony before that he couldn’t do something (having both agreed from the start that we’d keep the word no out of our domestic vocabulary . . . within reason, of course). But I certainly wasn’t spending my first night home from hospital by myself with Jack. Though my husband seemed a little thrown by my vehemence, he slipped into r
eassurance mode.
“I’ll call His Lordship tonight, tell him it’s out of the question. And I promise you a great homecoming meal, courtesy of Marks and Spencer. But the champagne will come from elsewhere.”
“Like Tesco?”
He laughed. “Very witty,” he said. “But, then again, you can’t drink, can you?”
“I think I’ll manage a glass.”
We looked in on Jack that night. He was sleeping soundly and seemed content. And the nurse on duty told us that Dr. Reynolds had okayed his move to my room tomorrow morning—a prospect that terrified me. Because he would be my responsibility now.
But the next morning, I was paid a visit by Dr. Reynolds in my room.
“Now I don’t want to upset you,” he began, “but it seems that Jack has developed jaundice.”
“He what?”
“It’s a common postpartum condition that affects almost fifty percent of all newborn babies—and it usually clears up in ten days.”
“But how did he get it?”
“Well, to give you the proper textbook definition: jaundice occurs when there is a breakdown of red blood cells and you get a buildup of a yellow pigment called bilirubin.”
“But what causes this buildup of . . . what was it again?”
“Bilirubin. Generally, it comes from breast milk.”
“You mean, I have made him jaundiced?”
“Ms. Goodchild . . .”
“What you’re telling me is that I’ve poisoned him.”
That dangerous edge had crept into my voice—and though I was aware of its ominous presence, there was nothing I could do to curb it. Because I really didn’t understand what it was doing here in the first place.
Dr. Reynolds spoke slowly and with great care.
“Ms. Goodchild, you simply must not blame yourself. Because there’s nothing you could have done to prevent this, and also because—as I said before—it is such a typical ailment in new babies.”
“Can jaundice be dangerous?”
“Only if the levels of bilirubin get too high.”
“Then what happens?”
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 77
