by Alix Strauss
“You can see how bloated I am, right? All of my pants are tight.”
Dr. Tepler didn’t respond. He moved to her vaginal area instead, his head disappearing between her legs, his brows looking like a furry animal from her point of view. The clamp was cold and a sharp pain occurred when he inserted the instrument inside her. She winced.
“You’re doing great, Ellen.”
“Do you see anything?”
“Just give me a few moments.”
She stopped talking so he could do his job.
“Okay, if you’ll come down to me just a hair more.”
She did.
“Perfect. Now I’m going to put some pressure here, and I’m using one more instrument so I can see better…”
“Everything’s okay, right?”
“Just relax and take a deep breath for me.”
As she inhaled she felt him pull out, quick and painful, like Harry did sometimes after sex.
“Okay. Why don’t you get dressed and come into my office.” Before she could say anything, his gloves were off and he was out the door.
Dressed once again in her clothes, she knocked lightly on his open door before entering, found him seated at his desk, a phone to his ear, scribbling notes. He looked up as she entered. She eyed the box of tissues, already placed at the edge of his desk, a glass of water, too, as if the room had been prepped for her visit.
“So how far along am I?” She took a seat as he hung up. The room felt less comfortable.
“I wish Harry was here with you,” he said. “I know how much you want a baby, but I’m sorry to tell you…”
Her heart stopped and she held her breath while thinking, Not again.
“You’re not pregnant.” His eyes were soft but intense, and filled with pity.
“I am.”
“You’re not. And I know how hard this has been…”
“I am. I have every symptom. I’m three pounds heavier. The scale says so. I’ve thrown up for the past four mornings. I’ve even had weird cravings for bananas and I don’t even like bananas. Please,” she begged, voice cracking, “check again.” Perhaps the doctor was playing a joke. Perhaps he blamed himself for her miscarriages and didn’t want to admit to being incompetent.
“Harry phoned yesterday and told me the home pregnancy tests came up negative.”
“They’re not very accurate. And he shouldn’t have called without telling me.”
“I think he’s just concerned. We all are. You know, if your body thinks it’s pregnant it can produce too much progesterone and estrogen.”
“That’s not the case here.” She was adamant. Why was he doing this to her?
“Hormones are a funny thing. They can stay in the body three or four months after you’ve miscarried, they can trick you into thinking you’re pregnant when you’re not…” His voice trailed off and he took a deep breath. “What you’re feeling, the symptoms you have are called pseudocyesis, or for the layman, phantom pregnancy.” He handed her a crisp white sheet of paper with too many words on it. She didn’t reach for it. Instead she left him hanging there until he set it down next to the box of tissues.
“Please, take this.”
“You’re wrong, Dr. Tepler. I know I’m feeling something.”
“I don’t doubt that. But it’s not because you’re pregnant. I wish you were, honestly.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks, saliva leaked from her side of her mouth. “My breasts are sore, I’ve not gotten my period, you can’t just make this stuff happen.”
“Actually, you can. Some women even secrete milk.”
“What about an amnio? The doctor said…”
“I think the next doctor you see should be Dr. Benton. She’s a terrific lady and a specialist in this field.” Dr. Tepler scribbled something down on his prescription pad and handed that to her as well. After a moment of her not reaching for it, he left it next to the other items, pushed himself away from his desk, stood up, and suggested she leave. “I’m sorry, there’s nothing more I can do.”
Because she didn’t know how to spell the clinical term, she looked up phantom pregnancy at home on the Web, and instantly found over twelve thousand sites. Ellen was a walking, bloated poster child for what was called imaginary pregnancy or hysterical pregnancy or her favorite, wind in the bowels syndrome, which sounded like something you caught in Mexico. She fit every single demographic from being in her late thirties, married, having suffered two miscarriages, and was still childless. Each site talked about depression, but who wasn’t depressed these days and who wouldn’t be depressed if they were thirty-eight, childless, and couldn’t conceive? Besides, everyone knew being pregnant plays havoc with your hormone levels. Even Tepler had admitted to that, and many pregnant women were incredibly depressed during their first and second trimesters.
After the second miscarriage she cried all the time, at the bakery when they told her they sold out of carrot muffins, at the dry cleaner when Harry’s pants were lost, at the park when she spotted a woman breast-feeding. So they put her on Wellbutrin, an antidepressant with few side effects, except it lowered the chance of being able to conceive. Once she read that, she got off the drug. Other mood stabilizers could cause birth defects so that was no longer an option.
She pushes all of these old memories out of her mind now as she stares at Harry, the bed sheets around his neck, his table light turned off, his hand not touching hers. “If one test is positive, and one is negative at least be honest and say it’s possible.”
She waits a moment for him to respond, but Ellen doesn’t get an answer.
Harry is up and out the door just as Ellen’s alarm clock turns to 7:00 a.m. It’s Friday morning and she moves slowly, waves of nausea rocking her from the inside.
She makes some decaffeinated tea and tries to eat a piece of toast. Her fridge is now stocked with organic items and she’s stopped eating raw fish. Not an ounce of coffee has been ingested in weeks and she’s upped her folic acid intake, just as the books suggest.
She talks to the baby as she gets on the scale: 166 1/2. A half pound more since yesterday. Her ring is tight and she swears her nails are growing faster. She gazes into the mirror and smiles. Her cheeks are rosy and there’s no acne as of yet. She looks pretty pregnant. And though her curly chestnut hair frames her face nicely, long locks falling over her shoulders, she thinks about cutting it all off, like the woman at The Gap. Once the baby comes she won’t have time for hair maintenance anyway. She takes her hands and lifts the hair off her neck and face to see what she’d look like with a short style.
At 9:30 a.m. she calls Dr. Tepler and gets the assistant, who is hesitant on the phone.
“Hi Brenda, it’s Ellen Thompson.”
There’s a long pause.
“I was hoping to make an appointment with the doctor. You know it’s been a month since he’s seen me, and my condition hasn’t changed.”
“I’m sorry, Ellen. Dr. Tepler feels he’s done what he can for you. I have to go; that’s my other line.”
Ellen hears the buzz, then the sound of dead air, which leaves her at this moment hanging on the phone listening to the sound of her own hurried breathing, her breasts still sore and swollen, her stomach still full and bloated, three-and-a-half-months pregnant. She smiles as she thinks how foolish Dr. Tepler will feel when she shows up at his office in five months, or better yet, with her healthy, beautiful child in her arms.
She dresses, moving slowly, but when the nausea feels so overwhelming that she must sit and wait it out, she cancels her meetings with clients and decides not to push herself. She will not make the same mistakes as before. She misses Harry and as she phones him, starts to cry. She hangs up before he or his assistant answers because she knows he can’t hear her sob anymore. When her phone rings, and she finds Harry on the other line asking if she just called, if everything is okay, she suddenly feels so much love and joy that she’s back to crying.
“Hormones,” she tries to explain.
“You up to seeing a movie?” he asks. “Maybe that will take your mind off things. How about I meet you at the theater in front of that statue thing at five? I’ll leave work early. Okay?” This makes her so happy she cries harder.
At 5:17 Harry is still a no-show, and though he often runs late, something feels off. All around her, couples are doing coupley things. They are dining at restaurants, window shopping, holding hands while waiting on line to purchase movie tickets. But Harry isn’t here and she’s not feeling couplish. And she thinks when she lost the babies, she lost him, too.
Harry was an associate at the law firm when they met. A lean, freckle-faced, curly-haired redhead who looked like a thinner version of Donny Most, the actor who played Ralph on the TV show Happy Days. A job promotion got them together. When his boss handed Harry the keys to his new office, he also gave him Ellen’s business card. She was in charge of decorating the firm. His office was the last to be completed. They fell in love over paint chips, fabric swatches, and carpet samples.
It took him two months to decide on a couch and carpet. Took him another month to ask her out, and another to tell her he knew what couch he wanted that first day, but liked having her come by to show him samples. The more Ellen thinks about this, the surer she becomes that Harry is getting preparenting jitters. If it took him months to tell her about the couch, telling her he’s scared of losing her or becoming a father will take years. Their child will be in middle school when he finally comes clean and admits his heart was broken after the miscarriages. That hope hurts too much and that’s why he didn’t believe her.
She worries something has happened and pictures a car crash on the Hutch. Maybe he’s forgotten. Or something came up at work. These days he’s distant and tired. Disappointed in her, rather than their situation. After all, none of his brothers’ wives had this problem—one of them had twin girls. His mother was able to conceive a month after she got married. Even Ellen’s own mother feels she must be doing something wrong. “Really, honey, he’ll leave you if you can’t get it together.” Her mother is on her third husband, so what does she know? One reason Ellen never sees her is the lack of nurturing skills. This has only heightened Ellen’s need to have children. Fix the past. Break a cycle. And she knows she will. She’s utterly desperate to share her love with someone other than Harry.
She’s in mid-dial to his cell when she sees him get off the escalator. Though he’s had a full day of work, he somehow looks perfectly held together. Shirt still crisp, tie in a taut knot, his suit is wrinkle-free making her feel dumpy in her unbuttoned jeans, baggy sweater, frumpy slicker. The tears she hasn’t been able to control all day start again.
Tonight Ellen is watching her husband reach for a tie, the one she gave him for Valentine’s Day three years ago, wondering if he still loves her. If he’ll be jealous of the baby. Maybe this is why he’s grown cold.
When she asks him to zip her up, her black dress is so taut over her middle and snug at her breasts even Harry admits to having trouble. That there isn’t enough fabric or his wife is too heavy to seal the dress. She turns to him. “Just stop fighting it. Put your hand on my stomach, feel my breasts. Do I look like I’m making this up? You can’t even close the damn thing.”
He’s at a loss for words because he knows she’s right.
She reaches for his face, cups her hand at his chin and cheek. “A baby will only bring us closer together. And I have enough love for both of you.”
He looks away, but takes her hand and holds it gently. “Is there something else you can wear? We’re going to be late.”
Ellen changes into a black turtleneck and matching skirt, which she retrieves from the Salvation Army pile. Two sizes too big, she was going to donate it to charity, but it fits perfectly now. To save time, she takes her makeup bag, hairbrushes, and accessories and will put herself together in the car.
Once they hit the highway, Harry turns on CD101, cool jazz, and though she hates this station, let’s him have it because it makes him happy. Because she knows seeing his two younger brothers makes him nervous. Because he’s the only one with no children. She already knows he’ll pick up the bill for dinner. That the Four Seasons holds special memories for the Thompson boys. Each has married there, each has celebrated their anniversaries there. It’s where Harry’s parents met decades ago. His mom was an office assistant, his dad waited tables. Harry was the first to get married. His younger brothers called Ellen often regarding shopping questions when it came to buying gifts for their girlfriends. She helped them pick out the wedding rings when their girlfriends became fiancées, threw them bridal showers, and became a surrogate mother when their parents died that first year she and Harry got engaged. A car accident on a snowy bank in Colorado killed them instantly. Ellen liked them tremendously. More so than her own parents.
The Thompson boys are rather inseparable and every vacation the six adults travel together: Ellen and Harry; David and Catherine, and their twin girls; Mark and Gail, and their son. She never minded. It gave her the family she’d always wanted but never had. Her mother’s many marriages only produced several moves to new cities and a handful of stepsiblings Ellen has never known. And even though his parents are deceased, each event they celebrate at the hotel is like a toast to them. But tonight is special, an adults-only evening to celebrate David’s birthday.
“Please, do me one favor,” Harry says as they pull up at the hotel. He doesn’t need to ask, she already knows what it is. He wants her not to say anything about the baby. He wants to keep it a secret until he’s convinced. “Please don’t say anything about your being pregnant. Okay? It’s David’s night…”
“Sure.” She rests a hand on his and feels him stiffen at her touch.
Harry’s two brothers and their wives are already at the bar waiting. There’s hugging and kisses and the smells of perfume and cologne and giddy chatter. Tonight feels like an exact replica of a dinner they had three years ago when Harry turned thirty-eight. Ellen was thirty-five and pregnant for the first time, the baby still alive inside her. When the bar bill is paid, they move to a table in the main dining room. And as the waiter takes the drink order and David’s wife, Catherine, asks for a club soda, everyone looks at her.
“Well, it’s not like we could have kept this in much longer. Sooner or later you all would have noticed.” She reaches for David’s hand and he winks.
“What can I say, my boys are good swimmers,” he shrugs.
Everyone laughs until Catherine remembers. Catches herself and lowers her voice. “El, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…I thought…” she looks to David who looks at Harry.
“It’s fine. I’m happy for you. Besides, Harry and I have some news as well.” She can’t help herself. Before she’s even aware, the words have left her mouth. Harry shoots her a glance that starts off as anger and quickly morphs into pleading. “We’re expecting, too,” she says, gripping her menu.
David’s right hand shoots up and hangs in the air, waiting to be high-fived, but Harry doesn’t move.
“Dude, that’s great,” says the youngest Thompson boy. “We’ll keep it on the low down.”
The women nod, smile sweetly. “It’s all good. No more talking about it until you’re comfortable, El.”
“We all have our superstitions,” Catherine continues. “I’ve not announced it to any of our friends yet. Just you guys, and my mom.”
Hours later the six wait for the valet to appear with their cars.
“I thought you looked heavier, but I didn’t want to say anything,” Catherine says. She squeezes Ellen’s hand. “If I went through the hell you did, I wouldn’t say anything to anyone until I was pushing the child out of my vagina.”
The women chuckle but several feet away the men do not, and Ellen sees Harry has on his serious face: jaw clenched, brows furrowed. His head is shaking side to side, his hands are in his pockets. Both brothers are frowning too, looking at her, then away. David rests an arm around Harry’s shoulder. All El
len can think is how stupid they’ll feel when the baby comes in five months, five days, and four hours. When she pushes out the small, pink head. What would they say then? That they were sorry for doubting her? And she would understand and forgive them once the umbilical cord was cut and the baby had taken its first breath, cried, and was placed in her arms. She would forgive everyone.
A month goes by. Then another. There’s still no period. Her bras no longer fit. Her shoes are snug and she must purchase new ones half a size bigger. Her stomach seems enormous to her and the scale shows she’s maintaining a healthy weight for someone in her condition. Having successfully entered her second trimester, she picks up baby books and anti–stretch mark cream at Barneys, orders a stroller, and purchases maternity clothing. She’s not made it this far along before. Both babies died during her first trimester. She doesn’t want an amnio for fear of risking the baby’s health. She’s heard and read horror stories about this. No sonogram either. The medical industry has done nothing but disappoint her. Now that she’s entering her sixth month Ellen starts investigating Lamaze, looks into birthing doulas as well as hospitals she’d like to deliver at.
While getting a tour at the clinic in New Haven she spies on a Lamaze class where several couples are working together. Each man is sitting behind a woman, laughing, smelling her hair, rubbing a large belly, whispering encouraging words like, “Stay focused Hon” or “You’re so brave. You can do this.” She wonders if Harry ever loved her the way these men seem to love their wives. All she can picture is her husband telling people his wife’s a liar. “It’s all smoke and mirrors. Even her gyno won’t see her.”
Tonight, while rubbing lavender-scented oil over her round stomach she feels a slight, almost imperceptible movement inside her, like a swishing or fluttering. She’s desperate to share this with Harry. Wishes he were here massaging her swollen feet, resting the heating pad on her lower back. Or just holding her until the fears she has, which are growing like the baby inside her, subside. She’s tired all the time now. She naps during the day. Her weird cravings continue. Yesterday it was chopped apples and peanut butter in vanilla ice cream.
