McCain’s face filled the screen to concede the election. He was flanked by a perfectly coifed Cindy McCain in a yellow suit and flawless red lipstick. McCain wasn’t my candidate, but when he put his hand over his heart and bid his supporters farewell, sobs from way down deep pressed forward, racking my whole body. Into our new red chenille blanket, I cried for poor John McCain as if he were my most beloved friend. I could not stop crying, no matter how much I tried to convince myself that McCain would one day know happiness again.
The next thing I remember is John shaking my shoulder. “You’re going to want to see this,” he said, turning up the volume. I lifted my head—where the hell was I? “You were crying about McCain, and then you fell asleep.” We stared in awe as Obama spoke. Again, tears streamed down my face. This time: pure joy.
The next night, I fell asleep right after dinner again, only to find myself staring at the bedroom ceiling at two in the morning. John stirred and opened his eyes. I told him I had to pee. “While I’m there, I’m taking a pregnancy test.” He laughed and wished me luck as if I was joking.
I squatted down and rifled under the sink for the purple box with the generic drugstore pregnancy test. We’d had unprotected sex on the fourteenth day of my cycle, so it was possible. But so many women I knew were struggling to conceive while on Clomid that I didn’t think there was any chance I was harboring a fetus. My ob-gyn warned it might take a while because I was over thirty-five. I peed on the stick and then crawled back in bed.
“So there’s a bun in the oven?” John asked in a good-natured but mocking tone.
“Probably twins. We’ll need a bigger place.”
After three minutes, I elbowed him. “Go check.” I wasn’t getting out of the warm cocoon of sheets and comforter to confirm a negative pregnancy test. I flipped my pillow and laid my cheek on the cool side. I heard John pee, and then: silence. He stepped into the doorway, his head backlit by the bathroom light, his face obscured by the shadow.
“I think there may be two lines.”
“Ha-ha.” I wasn’t even positive my period was late—I’d lost track because October had been busy with out-of-town settlement negotiations on a new case with Jack. I snuggled deeper under the covers and waited for John to join me, but he stood in the doorway, staring at the pee stick. He was serious. I threw off the covers and lunged at the stick.
Two lines, bright as peppermint stripes, showed through the little circle.
I screamed and danced with joy. A baby! A baby! A baby!
Lucky peppermint stripes. Lucky us.
41
You’ve been to a wedding. You’ve seen pearl-colored dresses, black ties, bridesmaids in jewel tones. You’ve heard string quartets and heartfelt vows. You know the drill: a procession with music, readings, vows, and a pronouncement on behalf of the state.
Here’s what I want you to see from our wedding:
See me and my six bridesmaids, four of whom were Rosen-patients, running through Chicago’s Millennium Park so the photographer could snap pictures of us in front of “The Bean” before the sun faded across the western sky. See us dashing across the lobby of an office building with cool hexagonal mirrors on the ceiling, laughing still, and filling in the bewildered photographer: “We are going to see my therapist!” See me, six weeks pregnant in white strappy heels and a dress tight across the bodice from all the first-trimester carb loading I’d been doing.
See Dr. Rosen in his smart gray suit and shiny black shoes opening the door to a chorus of seven screaming women treating him like a rock star we’d been escorted backstage to meet. See Dr. Rosen smile and usher us back to the room I knew better than any other space on the planet with its fritzy light in the back corner, the coffee stain by the window, the askew mini-blinds. See that he’d arranged the chairs in a circle—just like for a session—except it was a Saturday night, ninety minutes before my wedding. See him take a seat in his usual chair and ask us where we’d been. See him ask me if I was ready. Yes, I’m ready. See me close my eyes and take in a deep breath as first-trimester nausea roils through my body. Hear me exclaim with a twinge of panic: I forgot my crackers! See Dr. Rosen disappear through the door and return with a red plastic cup full of milk and cereal. Muesli. Hear me say, Is this what you eat before morning sessions? You seem more like a toast guy.
See me and John standing together in a side room before the ceremony. See us embrace and hold the moment between us. See how much love my scored heart holds within its swollen boundaries. See me and John walk together down the aisle—there is no giving away, only choosing, accepting, showing up. Hear us promise to build a home and life together with the support of the people who love us. Hear us speak our family into being.
See us vowing before our witnesses. See me resting my palm against my belly, where our baby’s heartbeat clocked in at one hundred and seventy-five beats per minute.
You’ve also been to wedding receptions. You know all about centerpieces, chair covers, and calligraphied place cards. You’ve tasted appetizers with mushrooms and Brie, dry champagne, and buttercream frosting. You’ve heard toasts to the new couple and the opening bars of “Brown Eyed Girl.”
Here’s what I want you to see at our wedding reception:
See table five, where Dr. Rosen and his wife sit flanked by Max, Lorne, Patrice, and their spouses. See table six ringed with the women from my Tuesday-afternoon group. See table seven, where Rory, Marty, and Carlos pass pasta and fish to one another. See each of them embrace me throughout the night, wishing me well, and holding me tight—just as they always have.
From the miracle department, please see Reed and his wife, Miranda, weaving through the crowd toward me after the second course. Congratulations, they say. See me hug them both, dumbfounded at what the human heart can do, how it can surprise and delight, how it can rejoin, regenerate, forgive, and connect across oceans of hurt, canyons of loneliness. Thank you for coming. It means so much to me.
Most weddings are a blending of families like my Texas Catholic clan and John’s Jewish family from the West Coast. Every dance floor at every wedding is a blur of bodies, some that belong to one side and some that belong to the other. As John’s family members scooped me into a chair and lifted me above their heads for the hora, I saw our reception from above. My parents and siblings gamely clapping along on one side, absorbing a custom that didn’t belong to them. Dr. Rosen and his wife amid a throng of his patients, linked arm in arm as they circled us, singing the words they knew by heart. Jeff’s brother, parents, and cousins waving their napkins in the air. As “Hava Nagila” played on, the chaotic, joyous scene below me became a collage of loving faces and arms holding me and John up.
In the weeks leading up to my wedding, I asked Dr. Rosen if we could share a dance during the wedding. I wanted to honor the work I’d done with him in group that made my life with John and our baby possible.
“I don’t want to step on your father’s toes.”
“Don’t worry, of course my father will get his own dance. Ours can be later. A traditional, mid-reception, therapist-patient waltz.”
“Talk about it in your groups.”
The more I discussed it, the more I wanted to dance with Dr. Rosen. I wanted to commemorate that I’d showed up for hundreds of therapy sessions and was no longer the isolated young woman with nothing but billable hours in her future. After all the crying, gnashing, rending, and screaming, it was now time to dance.
I wanted to dance.
Right after John and I got engaged, Clare asked me if I would have eventually ended up with John even if I hadn’t gone to group all these years. I said, I doubt it, but what I really mean to say was No fucking way.
Hear the opening bars of the iconic song from Fiddler on the Roof—the one the father sings about the swift passage of time and the blossoming of seedlings to sunflowers. See me leading Dr. Rosen to the dance floor from his seat next to his wife. See him twirl me left and then right, and then no more twirling because of the surging,
first-trimester nausea. See the dance floor ringed with my group mates, past and present, who knew exactly what this meant to me and perhaps to Dr. Rosen. When the music ends, hear him give me one more mazel tov. Hear me say, Thank you for everything. I’ll see you Monday.
Because this story doesn’t end with a wedding.
The next day, John and I hugged our families good-bye and sent them to the airport. Snow flurries swirled all afternoon, and the late-November sun didn’t even pretend to shine. At home, John and I sank into bed, surrounded by presents and leftover cake. John’s heavy eyes succumbed to sleep, but I couldn’t settle. I picked buttercream roses off the cake and popped them into my mouth. I called Rory and then Patrice.
“Now what?” I asked them. “I feel weird, and yes, I know weird’s not a feeling.” I loved John and was happy to be married, but I also felt lonely and exhausted and anxious. Weird. Kind of like I wanted to bawl into my leftover wedding cake.
They both told me what I knew they would. “Bring it to group.”
* * *
Everyone was in their usual seats. My body still trembled with excess adrenaline from the weekend filled with family, friends, joy, and cake. I was still in shock that I was pregnant and dizzy in love with our little fetus.
Max opened the session by asking why the DJ made such a production out of my dance with Dr. Rosen. Patrice asked if my sister enjoyed the jaunt to Dr. Rosen’s office before the ceremony. Brad and Lorne teased Dr. Rosen about the cut of his suit, and Grandma Maggie praised Dr. Rosen’s wife’s merlot-colored gown.
And then, just like that, we moved on. Lorne reported on the latest with his ex-wife and the kids, and we debated whether Max should follow up on a lead for a new job. Dr. Rosen transferred his gaze from member to member around the circle while the rest of us did our best to offer our whole selves to one another. I felt my heart beating—its scored surface protecting the chambers, the ventricles, the atria, the valves, the aorta. I held my hands close to my chest and listened to the music of my group.
POSTSCRIPT
Ten Years Later
Before I sneak downstairs, I kiss my daughter’s head. She stirs and whispers, “Bye, Mama,” without opening her eyes. “See you tonight.” Her little brother in the room next door continues to sleep deeply even as I tussle his hair and kiss his cheek. They don’t expect to see me on Monday mornings. They know I have an early appointment with Dr. Rosen. They’re old enough to be curious. “Why do you go there?” “What do you do?” “Do you ever wish you could have Dr. Rosen all to yourself?” I don’t know what they picture when I tell them I sit in a circle with Dr. Rosen and my group mates—people they’ve known all their lives—and we talk and listen, and sometimes cry and yell. And no, I would never trade individual sessions for my group. Sometimes, on Monday nights at dinner, my kids will ask about Patrice or Max. I laugh to think of my children holding the images of my group mates in their heads just like I do.
In the kitchen, I throw my lunch in a bag and then race out the door to catch the six fifty-five train. As the train lumbers downtown, I think about what issues I’ll discuss in group. I should probably tell them about the spat John and I have had the past two times he’d returned home from a business trip. As he wheels his suitcase into the foyer, the kids besiege him with hugs and requests to show him their art projects, their spelling tests, their new dance moves. He slips out of his coat and gives them his full attention. Oohing and aahing. Beaming the full bright light of his love on them. From the kitchen, where I’m washing dinner dishes or prepping lunches for the next day, I love hearing them reconnect. I know those hearts; they belong to me and to each other. The fight comes later, after John has read to them and checked their math homework, and they are fast asleep. It happens when we collapse into bed, and I launch into a story about a grievance at work or a perceived slight from a friend. John strains to keep his eyes open, but he’s been up since five, attended various meetings, traveled across the country, and then parented through the bedtime gauntlet. His drawn face tells the story of the miles he’s traveled. Intellectually, I understand how weary his bones must feel, how sleep drags him by the ankles into sweet respite. But I also want him to listen to me. I want him to save some of his bright-light energy for me. Dr. Rosen will ask me how this makes me feel, and I’ll say, “Lonely for John and ashamed that I’m jealous of my kids.” Max will smirk and say, “This is the life you wanted, remember?” Then the group will offer suggestions on how John and I can reconnect when he comes home without ignoring his physical limitations or the kids’ needs. Someone will probably suggest that John and I schedule a sex date for the day after he returns.
I can also let the group know about the conversation I had with my supervisor at work on Friday. I surprised myself by saying, “I work really hard and do a good job. I don’t need more money or a corner office, but I would like a thank-you.” I’d filed a record number of briefs in the past thirty days and wanted acknowledgment. Brad will give me a thumbs-up, and then push me to ask for that corner office. And the raise. Patrice will high-five me for asking for what I want. At work, I struggle to set boundaries and say no when asked to take on thankless tasks with no discernible upside, but at least I spoke up to ask for acknowledgment.
The group will also get a kick out of the meltdown that happened at my house over the weekend. My kids had a piano recital, an activity they ranked behind teeth cleaning and flu shots. When it was time to head to the recital hall, the kids protested by putting on raggedy shorts and pajama tops. John and I explained that the event called for slightly more formal clothing, emphasizing that we should respect the other students, the teacher, and all the work they’d done to prepare. “Think of dozens of times you practiced ‘When the Saints Go Marching In.’ ” They reacted by stomping and slamming doors. They refused to walk down the street next to us. I was sure I’d get a handwritten letter, like the one I got when I wouldn’t let them buy Skittles in bulk: Dear Mom, Thank you for ruining our lives, but there was no time to take pen to paper. I’ll report to group that I managed to celebrate my kids’ intense emotions, instead of insisting they stuff them back into their little bodies. I’d actually channeled Dr. Rosen for a good twenty minutes before I lost my composure and hissed at them to get it together through gritted teeth. We arrived at the recital late, each of us fuming.
It still scares me, other people’s anger, but I know it’s part of intimacy. I know it’s okay to let it be. I breathe through it the best I can.
All my basest impulses still live inside me, lying in wait. Impulses to keep my ever-wacky relationship to food a secret. Impulses to demonize John for making the reasonable decision to put his energy into parenting after a few days away. Impulses to dive into unremitting despair instead of taking a breath and feeling whatever emotion is trying to surface. Impulses to suck up frustration and invisibility at work instead of having a measured conversation about what I’m thinking and feeling, what I want and need. Impulses to do anything to keep other people from feeling angry at me. I still need help overriding those impulses. I need help figuring out what two-syllable word best describes my feelings. Telling the truth of my desire, even when I’m ashamed of it. Tolerating other people’s intense feelings. Tolerating my own.
Sometimes I run into former Rosen-patients. “You’re still with Dr. R?” they ask. “Yep, I’m one of the lifers,” I say with an impulse to explain that it’s not that I’m hopelessly fucked up or stuck in crisis mode. I have the attachments I craved when I first crawled into Dr. Rosen’s office; now I need help deepening them. And I’ve dreamed new dreams. A more creative life. An intimate relationship with my two children as they pass through middle school, high school, and beyond. A graceful path through the impending corporeal chaos of menopause and the stress of caring for aging parents who live three states away. Dr. R and the group guided me through my early adulthood issues. Why not the middle-aged stuff? Don’t I still deserve support, witnesses, and a place to bring my confusion and in
ner turmoil, even if I no longer pull out my own hair or drive around hoping for a bullet to the brain? And what about my love and attachment to Dr. R and my group mates? Why would I cut that off just because our pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps culture says therapy should get you up and out in thirty sessions or less? Dr. R offers us tenure if we want it. I do.
When the train pulls into the station, I walk two blocks west to Dr. Rosen’s office. Up ahead, I see the new guy who joined our group a year ago. He’s in his midthirties, a brilliant physician who speaks six languages, and is sick and tired of being alone. He has no close friends in Chicago to hang out with on the weekends, and his specialty is falling for women who ghost him after the second date. In group, he despairs that nothing will change his lifelong patterns. He fears he will never have a family of his own, that it’s too late for him. I borrow the moves of my group mates, who consoled me for so many years. I pat his arm when he shares the pain about yet another woman who won’t return his texts. I say soothing things when he reports doing something he didn’t want to do to win the affection of a woman who isn’t available. I’ve been there. I did that too. Have you heard about the dirty dick I sucked? I answer his calls on Sunday afternoons or Tuesday nights when he buckles under the weight of his loneliness. I tell him I have no doubt he is in the process of transforming his life. In group, when Dr. Rosen assures him that coming to group and sharing himself is enough, he looks at me, and I nod my head.
“I promise. It’s enough.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When I was writing this book (and the four others that live in my computer), I thought of “the publishing industry” as a group of terribly fancy New Yorkers with Anna Wintour bangs and clothes from Barneys or boutiques I’d never heard of and could not pronounce. I never pictured the faces or bodies or hearts of the people I hoped would one day open the gates for me. Now I will never picture publishing without thinking of the hearts and minds that have touched this book and changed my life forever. Their minds are sharp, their hearts generous. And they poured them both into this book during a harrowing, uncertain time for the entire planet. They also have names. Thank you to Lauren Wein for the thoughtful editing and all the ways you saved me from some very poor choices, particularly in the sex scenes. Thank you to Amy Guay, Meredith Vilarello, Jordan Rodman, Felice Javit, Morgan Hoit, and Marty Karlow for bringing your hard work and expertise to the book.
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