by Ashley Pullo
Adam rustles in his chair and releases my sweaty hand. Cool and efficiently, he finally speaks. “Dr. Wong, next Friday will be fine and I assure you Chloe will have help with her recovery. Will she be awake during the surgery?” His question surprises me. And his confident promise that I will have help is almost comical. Mom arranged to be here after her classes finish exams and Kirsten, our babysitter, is just that – a sixteen-year-old girl that occasionally watches Will. Adam has been relatively absent the past nine months with a high-profile client, but I have to assume he has a logical plan.
“Yes, Adam. An epidural will be administered and Chloe will be awake during the entire procedure,” Dr. Wong smiles reassuringly and continues. “So guys, plan the recovery, get some rest and think of baby names. Connie will call you tomorrow with the pre-op schedule and the day of delivery information. Everything will be fine!” Dr. Wong rises to shake Adam’s hand then comes around the desk to hug me. We ask Connie to call us a cab and then we wait quietly on the stoop, neither one of us ready to speak.
“I’ll get you home safely, but then I need to go back to the office.” Adam finally breaks the silence and I burst into tears. He looks pissed, but he gathers me in his arms and embraces me so tightly that it feels like he’s trying to squeeze the fear out of me, or release his. He kisses me on the forehead and puts me into the taxi. I turn back to look out the window as we drive off, hoping to see this romantic vision of my lover crying and running after me, but instead, he’s walking toward the F train.
It’s around seven a.m. and my bladder is summoning me to get up. Will is sleeping peacefully next to me; like he’s done every night for the past month so I slither out of bed like a fat ninja, trying not to wake him. Adam must have come home after I fell asleep last night and apparently left early this morning because he left a damp towel on the floor and a note taped to the mirror.
Everything will be okay, always.
Will and I finish our breakfast together while watching some cartoons and agree we need to go to the park because 1. it’s a beautiful day and 2. he wants to master the swing on his own. He’s my little guy, but he’s dying for some independence. The playground mommies gawk at my large belly and ask me silly questions, like what agency my nanny belongs to and if I have a double stroller. After a few hours, we decide that the swing has been conquered and it’s time for lunch. Will and I grab some of our favorite things from the corner deli and stop by a little toy shop to pick up a Lego fire truck.
When we arrive home, Will runs to his Lego table and I manage to wobble frantically to the second floor bathroom. Seriously, I might have to wear the diapers if this keeps up. As I wash my hands I hear the shower running upstairs and weigh the pros and cons of climbing another set of stairs. Adam always wins.
He’s in the bathroom with the door shut so I stay in our bedroom to hang up his suit . . . and snoop. His cell phone is charging on the dresser and I can’t resist taking a tiny peek. I hate myself for this, but he’s been so distant I just want, no, I need to make sure. There are a few texts from clients and hundreds of phone calls to and from his office number, but nothing incriminating. I check his opened emails and they are pretty lame and boring but then I see one from one of the named partners that catches my attention.
To: Adam Ford
Cc/Bcc: Carl Jenkins
Subject: Paternity Leave
Adam,
Please take as much time as you need. I will personally manage your clients and cases will be handled by Brian Malone and Sara Gonzalez. Please give Chloe our regards.
Curtis Shaw
I scan through his search history and find links to cesarean delivery, cervical cancer and Air Canada flights from Toronto. The shower stops and I nervously place his phone back on the dresser, feeling extremely shameful. He walks out of the bathroom with the towel loosely hugging his hips and a huge smile on his face.
“Hey, babe!” He says it like he’s been away for awhile . . . oh wait, he has.
“Hi Adam. Off from work?” I know my voice sounds condescending and deep down he really doesn’t deserve my nastiness, but I’m hurt. Adam continues to smile as he digs in the closet for a polo shirt and jeans.
“Yep, isn’t it great? I was thinking we could take Will to South Street Seaport tonight and maybe grab some dinner at that place you like by the water.” His towel falls to the floor and I can’t help but stare at his bare ass until he puts on his briefs.
“Okay Adam. What’s going on? We haven’t even discussed next week and it seems like you’re ignoring the important stuff.” The words coming out of my mouth sound so whiny and needy but I do need him . . . I need to hear his rational plan of action.
“What is there to discuss? We are following doctor’s orders and having our baby next week. Kirsten and her mom will look after Will and I’m taking some time off from work. Your mom wanted to surprise you but I’m not good at secrets, so surprise, she’ll be here next Sunday.” He pulls me into him and traces the outline of my lips with his finger, then slowly, semi-nude, lowers to his knees and kisses my belly. With his hands on my hips, he looks up at me, fragile and weary, beckoning for my forgiveness. “We’re okay. This is all going to be okay.” Then Adam closes his eyes and rests his head on our baby.
Having Adam home the past few days managing our family has been amazing. He prepares all the meals, does loads of laundry, reads Will bedtime stories and then crawls in bed with me, massaging my back until I fall asleep. He goes for runs early in the morning and always brings my fat ass fresh orange juice and croissants from the bakery around the corner. He spends the days cleaning the house and building baby furniture and then at night we cuddle on the couch to watch Friday Night Lights, Season Three.
Tonight, Adam has a special surprise planned for me and I’m really hoping it’s the Kate Spade diaper bag I’ve had my eye on. He arranges for Kirsten to babysit Will and instructs me to wear something comfortable and sexy. Ha! I wear a cobalt blue maxi dress and flip flops, very comfortable. We take a cab to Atlantic Center and Adam instructs the driver to stop at the light. And there’s my gift, the red, bullseye Mecca for every woman in her thirties . . . Target!
Once inside, Adam leads me to the baby section and we throw everything remotely tiny and adorable or anything that has an iPod attachment in the cart. Adam selects cute little pink onesies and pink baby booties while I stick to non-gendered yellow. We share a pretzel and a Diet Coke in the food court and discuss baby names. Maybe because I’m fueled by shopping and caffeine or maybe because Adam is relentless in making me feel relaxed, but at that moment, I know everything will be okay.
Today I’m having a baby. I’m having a baby! We arrive at the hospital around 6:30 a.m. and the circus begins before I can change into the gown. I’m asked the same ten questions by thirty different people and syringes and monitor attachments come at me from all directions. I have a high tolerance for pain but my threshold for annoying people is very low. The epidural takes a little longer than expected and the fear of the surgery sets in. After the third attempt, I slowly float into numbness as Adam is ushered in the operating room wearing mint green scrubs. He sits near my head and holds my hand, the only thing that’s not being monitored by some sort of machine. Dr. Wong and a resident enter wearing blue scrubs, say their hellos and start immediately.
“Let’s have a baby! Chloe, you shouldn’t feel anything except a little pressure . . . okay, the incision was made and we just need to move a few things around . . .” Dr. Wong’s voice drifts off into a weird masked mumble and Adam and I lock our eyes on each other, our private connection, like white noise controlling the moment. We’re interrupted by gurgles and a whimper and then a boisterous cry. Dr. Wong heaves a baby above the blue sheeting and we both smile in blissful happiness.
“Congratulations Mom and Dad, you have a perfect little girl,” Dr. Wong announces. I may be completely numb from the waist down, but I can feel everything.
Adam holds our new little Sophie as Dr. Wong
carefully removes the cyst and sews me back together. He looks like a giant compared to her tiny body and the image of that moment will forever be branded in my head. We’re eventually moved to a monitoring room and I get to feed Sophie her first bottle. Dr. Wong is quite pleased with the surgery and I’m amazed that this monumental part of my life took less than an hour. Later in the afternoon, after my time in the recovery room, we move to a newly renovated private room {thank you, Adam} and the initial high is starting to wear off. I lay motionless, memorizing the look on Adam’s face as he rocks our daughter to sleep. And then I . . . must doze . . . off . . .
Early the next morning, I’m awakened by a nurse in pink scrubs checking my vital signs, while another one pumps meds in my IV, tormenting the bruise from the original prick. An arrogant resident with green scrubs and a lab coat barges in ripping the incision bandage off and plucking out the exterior stitches, clearly irritated by her job. She doesn’t even bother to cover my private parts as the maintenance orderly wearing gray scrubs waltzes in to fix my TV. Finally, the poor little medical assistant in maroon scrubs gets the pleasure of changing my economy size sanitary pads that are literally taped to my inner thighs . . . the hierarchy of the hospital is definitely apparent in the color of their scrubs! After all the scrubs have left my room, the hospital’s lactation specialist bounces in with a breast pump and some library-type books. As soon as Adam sees her, he jumps up from the chair and places Sophie in her rolling bassinet.
“Mr. and Mrs. Ford? Hiya, I’m Sheila Carson from the La Leche League. I wanted to meet with you and get you started on some lactation exercises so that you can either start breast-feeding immediately or begin working with a pump.” The poor soul barely finishes her speech when Adam intervenes. I look toward the window in shame, my insecurities flooding back.
“Thank you very much, Ms. Carson but we will not need your services. Chloe is a wonderful mother that chooses to bottle feed and in fact, would you be so kind to alert the nursery that Sophie Ford will be on formula and we will require some additional two ounce bottles,” Adam demands authoritatively.
The lady grabs her pump and cradles her books as if she’s been completely victimized by my husband. She turns on her heels and grabs a marker to write FORMULA in huge script across my room’s white board. I’ve been branded.
“Thank you,” I mouth to Adam.
After several visits from friends and family, thirteen pink flower arrangements, seven balloons and a quick cuddle with Will on Mother’s Day, it’s finally time to go home. I was a model patient and Dr. Wong has released me a day early, realizing that I can’t stand another day without my complete family.
When we arrive in Cobble Hill, Adam carries a sleeping Sophie in her baby carrier as I try to waddle up the stairs. Mom has decorated the stoop with pink streamers and pink hydrangeas and she exuberantly swings open the door to greet us.
“My baby girls! Welcome home Sophie Ferguson Ford,” Mom says excitedly.
The first few weeks at home are fun and adventurous, like a sleep-away camp. Mom and Adam take turns camping out in the living room with me and there’s always a daily visitor with a cute little present or a package in the mail. Even Natalie finds time during her wedding planning to stay overnight. She bought Sophie the most beautiful antique silk christening gown and she brought me my favorite kind of bottle, Grey Goose. We order in take-out food, watch movies and if I ask for anything, Adam gets it, even if it’s a chocolate croissant from a bakery in SoHo. I’ve become a pampered queen and I have no idea it’s all about to go to shit.
At six weeks post-op, after my incision has healed and the stupid polyp was found benign, Dr. Wong gives me permission to drive {my license is expired}, climb as many stairs as I want {oh goody} and have sex {which we may have done last week when the house was empty}. Sophie is flourishing and I can physically handle most tasks so we all unanimously decide that Mom can return to Canada to take care of her big baby, my dad. Soon after Mom’s departure, Adam returns to work full-time and takes on three new clients that have a reputation of being very demanding. It’s just me and my babies and I have a strong feeling Failure would like to pay a visit.
During my twelve week post-op visit, I mention a few of my concerns to Dr. Wong. He assures me this is very common and there’s absolutely no shame in seeking some medicinal help. Funny, all I feel is shame. Dr. Wong gives me some literature on postpartum depression but the pamphlets actually freak me out more than relieve my anxiety. Reading all those sad stories and the scary thoughts the new moms share is terrifying. Maybe there are different levels of postpartum depression and my case is very mild, but it still really sucks and I just want to feel like me again.
Dr. Wong prescribes me Zoloft and I pay to have it delivered to my house because I can’t handle the pharmacist judging me in the middle of the pharmacy. I need to tell Adam, but it’s so hard to get in touch with him and I could do without his patronizing coddling. Instead, I call Mom and bawl my eyes out until there are physically no more tears to shed.
The first few days on medication are okay and I’m doing a nice job smiling my way through the motions. But then Adam decides to first-chair a huge case and I’m stuck at home sometimes for fifteen hours by myself. It starts with a little self-pity then moves to resentfulness. When the anger sets in I get nervous and when I get nervous the anxiety takes control. When the fear governs the anxiety it’s time for another pill. The cycle repeats itself until I’m huddled up in my room, dry tears rolling down my face, Sophie wailing and Will whining, and I hate myself.
But mostly, I hate Adam.
Hurt
August 2009
This is the third consecutive morning I barfed at the mere sight of orange juice. Adam left for work hours ago and Will is playing with his Little People Farm, so I browse some internet forums about a possible summer flu epidemic. Yeah right! We’ve been careful, I think. Wait, did I have my period? Adam is definitely more disciplined than me about prevention but there was that hot night on the stairs last month . . .
Will and I walk to the corner Duane Reade after I promise him a new Matchbox car and some Skittles. It feels very surreal to push a toddler through the feminine aisle in search of a pregnancy test, but as Adam would say, “you obviously have sex.” I decide on the bonus-pack, not sure why, maybe because there is a rewards coupon attached? Strange. Will chooses a tiny Ferrari and a bag of candy and I actually pass on the King Size Kit Kat in exchange for some peppermint gum, it has to be the flu.
When we return home, I’m sweating profusely and my head is feverish. Will dumps his bucket of cars on the living room floor and introduces his new Italian stallion to the other automobiles. I rub his head and tell him mommy will be right back. Will’s bathroom is the closest and I guess I’m in a hurry so I run up the stairs to force myself to pee on a stick. Okay . . . two blue lines to form a plus sign. Wow. That was a quick plus sign. I must be very pregnant. We wanted to wait at least another year, but this could be interesting. I stare at my face in the mirror and convince myself that this is good news . . . yes of course; a baby is always welcomed news.
I’m tempted to call Adam right away because he deserves to know and it’s so hard to keep a secret from him. My feelings and emotions are always right there on my animated face and Adam can read my behavior in thirty seconds flat, but I find a little mischievous delight in actually pulling off a surprise. I come up with this brilliant idea that during my show tomorrow night, I will sing a private song to Adam, the one that I always sing to Will. Yes, it’s a little presumptuous of me to assume Adam will make the connection, and there will be a ton of strangers staring at us, getting a little too personal for Adam’s taste, but I know he will be happy . . . I think.
“Will, mommy will be right down to make some lunch,” I yell down the stairs “as long as it’s not orange,” I mumble to myself.
As I prepare turkey roll-ups and fresh strawberries, I daydream about Adam’s reaction to the baby news in such a spec
ial place. The Rockwood is this dingy eighties landmark that’s launched a lot of popular musicians and bands throughout its history. Every singer without a label imagines being discovered in a low-key venue like the Rockwood because it gives you an excuse to remain artistic and picky. Record companies often scour the hidden clubs of Manhattan searching for that fresh, naive upcoming act. I’ve been around for awhile but I’m psyched that tomorrow could finally be my time.
My set list has to be perfect and Adam has been my rock the past few weeks listening to me play all my options, talk to myself and try on a hundred outfits. He always sits silently like he’s observing me for one of his jury selections and waves “yes” or “no.” Since I’m the pre-opening act, we decide that I should charm the audience with one of my quirky Canadian anecdotes, leading nicely to the first song I wrote in New York, Bright Lights. I will follow with two more of my own songs, sneak in Rainbow Connection for Adam and close with an acoustic rendition of Johnny Cash’s Jackson. I’m completely prepared and I can’t wait for tomorrow night.
On the night of the show, I arrive at the Rockwood around 6:30 p.m. to warm up and check the acoustics. I wear a sleeveless chiffon shirt under a chevron-striped black vest, and my really tight jeans neatly tucked into my black cowboy boots. I’m introduced to the headlining band The Doves, and then we all take a shot of tequila and toast to a great night. The excitement is overwhelming and I keep frantically looking around for Adam. He had to meet with a new client, a friend of one of the partners that has big money, but he promised he would be here by show time.
