3
Some women are filled with joy when they first feel the infant within move. It was a strange fluttery feeling that felt more like tiny gas bubbles than the more violent, insistent kicks that would come later. They call that first feeling “the quickening,” and liken it to something miraculous and beautiful. When I felt it, all I could imagine was the birth scene from Alien. There was a creature inside me. I’d always been mildly claustrophobic, and just imagining this from the infant’s viewpoint gave me a slightly panicked feeling. It was trapped, and so was I.
My belly was slow to show anything. My obstetrician confirmed I had a healthy pregnancy, but with only the most subtle rounding of my belly, I’d convinced myself there was still the tiny possibility this was all some huge mistake. I had some strange disorder that made me secrete pregnancy hormones for false-positive tests. My indigestion just happened to sound like a fetal heartbeat on the monitor. My breasts were so sore because I had the world’s worst case of extended PMS. The quickening had changed all of that.
I knew I couldn’t indulge in fantasy much longer. I also knew my parents would need time to adjust to this news, and the window of appropriate time was quickly closing in. We’d flown to Michigan a few weeks prior for Christmas; that would have been the ideal time to tell them, but I’d convinced myself it was kinder not to ruin their holidays. I wore a fake smile, fake enough my mother had pulled me aside and asked if everything was okay. I told her I was stressed over waiting for grades to post from my finals and had probably been working too hard. I skipped the spiked eggnog without fanfare and made it through Christmas Eve services without spontaneously bursting into flames.
Narek had wanted me to tell them then, he liked my parents, and they liked him. He was optimistic they would welcome the news. Most of what Narek knew of American culture came from movies and television shows. In modern pop culture, this stuff happened all the time. Pregnant women didn’t become pariahs, grandparents quickly jumped on board to be supportive; everyone lived happily ever after. He had an annoying tendency to swing from criticizing American culture to idealizing it. For what felt like the thousandth time, I explained I wasn’t afraid of being cast away. I was afraid of disappointing them.
“You don’t understand. This isn’t supposed to happen to me. I am the one they never worried about because I always had a plan. They always knew I’d stay out of trouble, not because I’m particularly good, but because I’m particularly smart! This will crush them.”
“Just call them. You make this too hard. Maybe John and Nancy are happier than you think about baby.”
I didn’t fail to notice that while he pushed me to call my parents, he refused to even discuss when or how he’d tell his own family. Not only had they never met me, they didn’t even know about me. I had some minor resentment toward that, but it was tempered by a fair amount of sympathy for a family that had been through so much and an understanding of how significant our cultural differences were.
He had once explained, “To be Armenian is not like being American or French or Chinese. We are a small ethnicity, over a million and half of us were wiped out in genocide, we have not yet recovered from that. For my parents, it is important I marry an Armenian woman, carry on our family name, but also important is to carry on our culture. When I came here, it was with the promise I would someday return. It will take time to let them understand I will stay. You must be patient and understand this cannot be rushed.”
I reminded him of that conversation. “My family may seem less complicated, but you know that we both have a religious problem. Your church may be older and more conservative, but John and Nancy are good Lutherans and they’re no happier about my distance from the church than your family is about yours.”
“Yes, but is still different. Your parents’ church is a choice. My parents’ church is national identity. All good Armenians are Apostic, it is not just a religion, it’s part of us. Here in America, I can be Agnostic, but when I am home, I still go to church, not because of religion, but because I am Armenian. You don’t go to church in your own country and is okay. No one thinks this is strange.”
“Narek, you know every time I go home to Michigan, I go to church with my family. It’s the same thing. My parents really believe every word in the bible, and I’m telling you, they will expect that we marry.”
He looked away uncomfortably, and I sighed. “Jesus, Narek, I’m not saying I want to get married, relax. You know I am fine with the way we live. I’m just saying for my parents it will be an issue. And that’s not even touching on their reaction when they realize how much this will affect my education and future. You’re not the only one who is complicated.”
The truth was I was happy not to have to deal with his meddling family, and the descriptions he gave had assured me they would be meddling. If Narek never mentioned me to them, maybe that would actually be a blessing. But considering how understanding I had been, it felt hypocritical for him to push me when I was giving him so much grace.
As the second trimester of my pregnancy ended, I realized I could no longer button a single pair of pants I owned. I switched to leggings and track pants with loose-fitting shirts and felt conspicuous on campus. There was no hiding my condition anymore. I needed my parents to know before the casual acquaintances and complete strangers of my Richmond world, so finally, on a cold January day, I summoned the courage to pick up my phone and selected my mother from the contact list.
She sounded breathless and happy. She’d just returned from taking my sister out for prom dress shopping. They’d found the perfect dress; it was pink, of course. They’d have to go to McAllister’s for shoes later in the week and…
I couldn’t handle one more word. The image of my fresh-faced sister, pure and virtuous in a pink gown with her whole life ahead of her, was too much at that moment. I interrupted.
“Mom. I have to tell you something.”
It came out louder than I planned, but it did the trick. She stopped talking. I took a deep breath and then vomited the words in a rush. Pregnant. Due in May. Sorry. So sorry. Spring semester would not happen. Narek being supportive. No, not discussing marriage. Staying in Richmond. Not sure what next. Sorry.
My mother, to her credit, didn’t cry. She didn’t yell, and she didn’t ask me anything stupid like how could this happen to us? Narek was wrong about one thing, though; John and Nancy most certainly were not happier than I thought about baby. I heard the strain in her voice even as she attempted to sound balanced and supportive. The word “congratulations” was never uttered. She reassured me they loved me and would support me in whatever way they could. I reassured her I was fine, the baby was fine, Narek was fine, everything and everyone was fine. Fine. And then we said goodbye.
I wasn’t fine. I’d turned in my medical leave forms at school, and it felt as if my dreams were slipping away. No matter how often I told myself this was just a delay, not an end, I felt like a failure. I was still waitressing but had stopped modeling at the art school for obvious reasons. Working on my feet all night as the alien in my belly absorbed all my nutrients left me depleted the next day. I lived in the permanent fog of exhaustion.
Things weren’t going well at home either. Narek was growing increasingly distant. I wasn’t sure if it was my obviously pregnant body or my sour mood he was attempting to escape from, but he was spending more hours at his studio than he ever had before. Sometimes he would lie next to me and cup my enormous belly, taking delight when he’d feel the baby kick. Other times, he’d ignore me, losing himself in one of the endless series of American movies he was obsessed with. We argued over small, petty things. We stopped making love.
The biggest elephant in the room was the question of what happened next. Early in the pregnancy, I’d shared my belief that a baby was a foolish reason to marry. I had meant it at the time. I’d heard enough horror stories of couples forced to marry who later regretted it and the ugly divorces that followed to know it was a bad idea. Yet as unreasonab
le as I knew I was being, the fact Narek so readily agreed and never perused the subject again hurt me. The baby would be here in less than three months, and I was worried about the permeance of anything. Narek’s parents still didn’t know about the baby, and I felt dread in the pit of my stomach whenever I thought of that and what it might mean about Narek’s long-term intentions.
The apartment wasn’t ready, either. My parents had sent a bassinet, and we’d set it up in the corner of our bedroom. That was the sum total of our preparations. I knew the girls at work would likely throw me a shower and that my family would flood us with gifts when the time came. I was confident the infant wouldn’t go naked or hungry. I was lost in my own anxiety, though, and unable to muster the excitement to actually do any shopping myself.
Most of my anxiety was rooted firmly in my complete lack of certainty over my educational and career future. Part of me still clung to the ridiculous notion I could pick up in September, less than five months after the baby was born, where I’d left off. I’d somehow find affordable childcare and learn to function without sleep, and I’d make it through a year and a half of undergrad and another three years of a demanding law school. Narek would step up and help me make it work. This fantasy sounded both ideal and hopelessly unrealistic. I knew I’d never be satisfied playing the housewife long term. That had worked for my mother, but she’d raised me to think much bigger. There was also the not so small matter of money. We earned a pittance through our regular jobs; Narek’s pieces had recently begun selling, but that income was hardly guaranteed. I’d eventually need a real job and a real job would likely require me to complete my degree.
My 36th week of pregnancy passed, and I went into full panic mode. Where just a few weeks before I’d still been hoping I could somehow pretend and ignore reality away, I suddenly felt frantic to be properly prepared. My baby shower, a really humiliating and agonizing affair that involved smelling baby food blobs in diapers and drinking mocktails with cutesy baby names, had netted us a fairly full layette in neutral colors. Boxes full of baby clothing and gear filled our apartment. Our much too small apartment, I’d concluded. The vision of a baby sleeping quietly in the corner of our bedroom was disrupted by the reality of baby gear taking over every corner of the apartment.
Narek loved living in the city. He loved being able to walk or bike everywhere; he thrived on the surrounding energy, admired the urban art, and appreciated the many ethnic food choices. I thought I loved it too, but suddenly I wasn’t sure it was the best place to raise a child. Maybe a little house in a neighborhood away from the center of the city would be the better choice. When I broached the subject with Narek, we had one of our worst arguments.
“How do I go to studio? We have one car,” he’d replied stubbornly.
I shrugged and said, “I don’t know, maybe buy another car. Or work our schedules so that only one of us needs a car at a time.”
His facial expression was unreadable, and he finally replied, “No. Staying in city.”
Furious that he was just blowing off every great point I’d been making, I started yelling. The baby would need space. The baby couldn’t sleep in our room forever. We would get sick of carrying the baby up and down the stairs. He was selfish; it was all about Narek’s needs. He didn’t care about the baby. He didn’t care about me. If he cared so much, then why didn’t he tell his parents? Why did he complain every time we went to a Lamaze class? Why hadn’t he painted a single painting of me pregnant? Why was he always leaving? The baby deserved better.
In the course of our year and a half long relationship, Narek had never yelled. I was a yeller by nature, although I tried to mask and temper that around him because he was so calm. Narek could be a sulker and a disappearer, but never a yeller. Now suddenly, he was yelling.
“The baby, always the baby! I didn’t ask for baby! I didn’t come here to make baby, I come here to make art!”
Well, there it was. He resented me and the baby; he didn’t want us. I started crying and ran for the bedroom. Laying in the fetal position, I started mentally packing. Going home to Michigan seemed my only real option. I was ticking through the pros and cons of trying to do it before the baby’s arrival when he entered the room. He sat on the edge of the bed next to me, silent for a moment. Finally, he spoke.
“I’m sorry. I want you and baby; I just don’t want to move from city. It’s true, this is too small. Let’s find a bigger apartment, one with other bedroom for baby.”
I threw myself into his arms and commanded the small siren of alarm that seemingly grew louder every day in my head to be silent. I could choose to acknowledge my wildly surging emotions as the normal games late pregnancy hormones play. I could choose to ignore the cautionary voices in my head. I could choose to be happy. As his arms wrapped protectively around me, I surrendered my fears and accepted his love. I let myself believe fully the lie we all tell ourselves from time to time. I really could live happily ever after.
4
Precariously, I lay on my side on the golden settee, my giant belly threatening to pull me over the edge completely. I was a goddess. A giant goddess, a beautiful-ugly thing like Medusa. He stopped his brush strokes periodically to smile at me. I didn’t bother stifling my giggles every time he did. I felt ridiculous posing in this condition, but this was the happiest I’d felt since the pregnancy began.
In the weeks following the big fight, we’d clung to each other with a renewed commitment. We’d researched apartments; we wouldn’t make that move until after the baby was born, but we wanted to do it as quickly as possible. He’d been more attentive, spending less time away at his studio. I was making an effort too. I was stifling my hormonal urges to snap every time he cleared his throat. I ignored the dirty dishes he piled in the sink. I stopped pressing him to tell his parents.
It was an affirmation when he’d asked me to replicate the pose that had first brought us together. I hadn’t been his model in a long time, something that bothered me a lot. I knew that Narek loved me, but he loved painting even more. Honoring me on canvas was the ultimate declaration of devotion. I’d eagerly agreed and found myself back in the old studio, where he now taught.
That my water would break as I lay on the settee where our story had begun was appropriate. Childbirth classes had made it clear this wasn’t an emergency. Without having experienced a single contraction, I had hours, if not days, before active labor would start. Every ounce of preparation and knowledge flew out the window, though, as soon as I realized what was happening. With eyes wide, I’d stammered to Narek, “I, it’s, well, my water broke.”
He sprang into action, telling me to dress. He said he’d run the four blocks back to the apartment to grab the overnight bag I’d kept packed and waiting by the door and to retrieve the car. He returned, out of breath, and helped me down the steps into the waiting car. As he held the door open for me, I glanced up at him. He looked worried but flashed me a smile anyway.
I’d studied childbirth as meticulously as I’d once poured over LSAT guides. I’d carefully memorized what to expect throughout the whole process, stage by stage. I knew that first labors were usually about eight hours long, once the real contraction kick in. I didn’t feel the first one until we reached the hospital. It was a strange feeling, more pressure than pain, and I naively practiced the breathing technique we’d learned in class as Narek signed me in with the desk clerk. I hadn’t understood I should have enjoyed my normal breathing then, for as long as possible. All too soon, I’d need those techniques for real.
We’d meticulously preplanned my labor, in the same way I planned my entire life. I’d decided to experience childbirth without drugs. Narek had been no small influence in that decision-making process; the lesson he learned while eavesdropping on his female relatives was that drugs were dangerous to newborn babies. Medicating childbirth simply wasn’t an option for them. When he’d expressed those thoughts to me, I’d done my own research and concluded there were enough arguments against drugs. I’d
go with his suggestion.
If I’d been willing to concede there, one area I was not willing to give an inch on was the idea of laboring without him. After reading an article about Armenian childbirth practices, I’d angrily confronted him and demanded to know if he planned to be there. He’d smiled and put his hands on either side of my face before saying, “I would not miss it. We will do this like Americans. This is not an Armenian birth. It is the birth of an Armenian in America.”
As we settled into my private room, I anxiously eyed the clock. I wasn’t timing the contractions, the fetal monitor I wore around my belly could do that. I was watching the time. Eight hours, the books said I had eight hours. And so, it was with surprise, that around the two-hour mark, the previously minor menstrual-like cramps had morphed into something much more intense. My pain scale leaped from a 2-3 out of 10, to a solid 8 out of 10. Rapidly it climbed, 9 out of 10. Then screaming, I told the nurse it was a solid 10.
The labor nurse checked and pronounced my cervix was almost fully open and a doctor was called. She commented, “Baby is in a rush to get here! You’re one of the lucky ones, nice short first labor.”
Lucky ones? I didn’t feel lucky; I felt like my entire midsection was about to tear in half. I was yelling at her when the doctor finally entered. After a quick check, he confirmed the nurse’s assertion, and the pushing could begin.
Sweating, face contorted, pushing. From somewhere in the blinding white pain, I heard Narek’s voice. He sounded anxious; I thought deliriously. I clawed at his arm, desperately. Save me. His huge brown eyes were filled with tears. “Please push baby, Nell,” he implored.
Ellipsis Page 3
