The Atomic Weight of Love (13 page)

“Yes.”

“She’s had some bleeding, too,” Alden said. “Lower down,” he motioned, the physicist who could not bring himself to name parts of his wife’s anatomy.

“How much?” Lowden asked, putting his stethoscope to my belly and listening.

“How much, honey?”

“Spotting,” I said. “Just today.”

“Bowel sounds are normal,” Lowden said. “When’s your next period due?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I write it on a calendar so I don’t have to remember. But I may have missed the last one.”

“Meri, you didn’t tell me that. Why didn’t you tell me?” I saw Alden make a quick fist. “Is she pregnant? Is that it?”

Lowden opened the door to the exam room and called out, “Belle? Belle, will you come in here?”

A statuesque woman with jet-black hair piled under a starched nurse’s cap stood in the doorway. She looked over at me, smiled, and winked. “Hiya,” she said, addressing me before glancing at either of the men.

“Belle, I need her temp and BP.” Lowden turned to Alden again. “How much does she weigh?”

“I’ll bet she knows that better than he does,” said Belle, moving to my side and putting a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Howya doin’, hon?”

“OK,” I said.

“Not particularly convincing,” she laughed. “Tell these old men how much you weigh.” She wrapped the blood pressure cuff around my bicep.

“One fifteen.”

Lowden was making notes. “Height?” he asked.

“Five foot six.” I was getting dizzy again.

“Hold on, hon.” Belle put an arm behind me, braced me in a sitting position. “You gettin’ woozy?”

I nodded, making the dizziness worse.

“Let’s lay you down then, she said, propping my head on a thin pillow. “How’s that?”

“Better. Thanks.”

My blood pressure was slightly elevated, my temperature normal, my pulse seventy-two.

“Any other symptoms?” Lowden asked.

“I don’t think so,” Alden said. I looked back and forth between the two of them, then looked at Belle, who again smiled.

“My shoulder hurts,” I volunteered.

“Which shoulder? Any injuries to it lately? Maybe bump it against something?”

“I don’t think so. My right shoulder.”

He lifted me to probe my shoulder blade. I gasped with another pain in my gut.

“Describe the pain.”

“It’s tender most of the time. But then it’s like it cramps, a gripping pain.”

“Uh-hunh,” he said, easing me back onto the exam table. “Belle, let’s loosen her trousers, let me get a better look at her abdomen . . . Actually, on second thought, let’s get her in a gown. I should do a pelvic.” He motioned to Alden. “Why don’t the two of us step out for just a minute. Belle will let us know when she’s ready.”

I could hear their murmuring voices in the hallway.

“Hell’s bells,” Belle said, helping me unbutton my blouse and then stand so that she could pull off my trousers and panties. Her movements were unhurried, gentle. “That man has the bedside manner of a pea-brained cow.” She held the gown for me and then tied it closed. “He’s used to soldiers, not pretty young women.” She leaned in close and whispered, “And between the two of us, he’s going to be far more nervous about a pelvic exam than you ever could be—he’s probably only ever done about six of them, counting medical school.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” I whispered back, suddenly her co-conspirator. She had crystal-blue eyes, Liz Taylor eyebrows, and I could smell mint chewing gum on her breath.

“Oh, he’ll be fine. I’m just saying that when he turns beet red, you shouldn’t take it personally.”

She looked back at me before signaling to Lowden. “I’ll stay here with you. Anything hurts, you just squeeze my hand, OK?”

I’d never had a pelvic exam and could not believe that he was going to insert that medieval-looking metal thing into me. He’d told Alden to wait outside, and I could see why—it wasn’t something a husband should see another man do to his wife. The metal was cold, the lubricant inadequate. I began to sweat.

“Relax your legs, let them fall open,” he said, and all I could see was the top of his head, a bald spot the size of a softball.

Belle held my hand. “You’ll be fine.” Although she spoke to me as if I were much younger, I guessed that she was about twenty-eight or so. She had pierced ears with little pearl studs and perfectly manicured nails varnished a bright red.

“I see a little bleeding from the cervix.” Lowden’s voice was slightly muffled. He used his hand to move my cervix. “Does that hurt?”

“Yes. But not as much as the pains I’ve told you about.”

“Breasts tender?”

“Maybe a little.” I hadn’t realized that until he asked about it.

“I don’t feel any masses.” He removed his hand and stood, turned to wash his hands at the sink. I saw him look at himself in the mirror.

“Go ahead and sit up, honey.” Belle helped to pull me upright. I dangled my legs off of the edge of the table. I was clammy, getting cold.

“You can go ahead and get dressed, Mrs. Whetstone. I’ll step out and speak with your husband.”

Belle helped me get dressed, and then Alden opened the door.

“All set?” he asked.

“For what?”

“Home.”

“But . . .”

Alden looked at Belle, who had her back to us. She’d begun to clean up after Lowden, shrouding with a white cloth the tray that held the speculum. Alden opened the door for her, and she turned to me.

“You take care, kid,” she said and smiled. “I’ll see if Dr. Lowden needs me to do anything else for you.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Yes, thank you,” Alden said, helping me to stand.

“But, Alden, what’s going on? What’s wrong with me?”

He led me to the door. “We’ll talk about it in the car.”

“But I hurt. I’m not making this up. There’s something wrong with me.”

“Meri, let’s just get you to the car, all right?”

My knees felt as if they wanted to buckle. I held onto Alden, gripping his forearm with both hands. The orderlies reappeared and eased me gently into the passenger seat, closing the door once I got my feet into the car. Alden started the engine and waved his thanks.

“We’ll get you home and into bed,” he said and then paid an inordinate amount of attention to the road, as if we were battling intense Chicago rush-hour traffic, not the sparsely populated roads of Los Alamos during the dinner hour.

“Tell me what’s going on. Please.”

He sighed. “All right, then. Dr. Lowden thinks you’ve got a false pregnancy—pseudocyesis.”

“What?”

“Your body thinks it’s pregnant when it’s not,” he said, pulling into our driveway. He turned off the engine and turned to face me. “He says it happens sometimes, when a woman wants to be pregnant but hasn’t been able to conceive.”

“This is a joke.” I opened the car door and looked over my shoulder. “That man didn’t say ten words to me, and he’s comfortable diagnosing me as a crazy person? A hysterical woman?” I stood but was so weak that I fell into the door, bumping my head against the window frame. I began to cry.

“Let’s get you into bed.”

I slapped at Alden’s hands. “Don’t touch me!” I wobbled to the screen door and threw it open with all of the drama I could muster. Why not? I was a hysterical woman—might as well play the part. When I tried the front door it stuck, swollen with the humidity of recent rains. I kicked at it.

“Stop it. Let me help you.”

“You’ve already helped me plenty. You let a doctor who knows nothing about me call me a liar. A crazy person.”

“That’s not what he’s saying. Not at all.”

“And did he think I was stupid? A moron or something?”

“Of course not.”

“Seems that way to me,” I said, heading into the bathroom and slamming the door behind me. I sat on the toilet. It hurt to pee, and there was more blood. Another cramp took hold of my gut and caused me to cry out. I began weeping, out of control. The weeping made the pain worse.

Alden opened the door and knelt beside me. “What can I do for you?”

“Believe me.”

“I don’t disbelieve you, sweetheart.”

“You didn’t stand up for me with that man.”

“He didn’t do anything wrong. Why are you acting this way?”

“Belle said he’s got next to no experience with women or gynecological medicine.”

“The nurse?”

“Yes, the nurse. You say that as if I shouldn’t trust her.”

“I just think a man with a medical degree deserves a little more respect than a nurse.”

“But maybe she’s right.”

“Or maybe she’s getting you all riled up for no good reason.”

“
She
didn’t get me ‘all riled up.’ The man who thinks that I’m an imbecile, that I’ve lost touch with reality—
he’s
the one who got me all riled up.” I fastened my pants, washed my hands at the sink. The pale woman I saw in the mirror had a red bump on her forehead, hair that flew every which way with static electricity. There were dark shadows beneath my eyes. I was worn out, tired to the core. “I’m going to bed,” I said to myself in the mirror, and over my shoulder I saw the reflection of Alden’s relief.

BRUTAL PAIN WOKE ME
at two
A.M
. I was too weak to stand and must have looked even worse than before, because this time Alden moved swiftly to the phone to warn the hospital we were on our way. He left me in my nightgown, wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, and carried me to the car.

Dr. Schumann had replaced Lowden for the night shift. I heard Alden tell him about our earlier visit and Lowden’s diagnosis. Dr. Schumann stood over me and put a reassuring hand to my forehead.

“Mrs. Whetstone, do you have pain anywhere other than in your pelvis?”

“My shoulder,” I said, my breath coming quickly now, in little pants.

He felt my abdomen. “It’s a bit distended,” he said, looking across my body to Alden. “A little rigid.” He opened the door and called out for the night nurse. I saw Belle appear at the door. “I need the operating room readied. Put in a call to Bingham, tell him we need him for anesthesia.” She nodded and moved briskly down the hallway.

“Mrs. Whetstone, I disagree with Dr. Lowden.” Dr. Schumann was older than Lowden, the stubble on his face was mostly gray, and the curly hair at his temples was salt and pepper. He took my hand and held it. “I think you’ve got an ectopic pregnancy, one that’s ruptured.” He looked at Alden to include him in the conversation. “The shoulder pain indicates that your peritoneal cavity is full of blood. The blood collects in the abdomen under the diaphragm. I need to get in there to stop the bleeding.”

Belle opened the door. “Bingham’s two minutes away,” she said. “I’ll get her ready.”

“And I’ll get ready to operate. Mrs. Whetstone,” he said, still holding my hand, “I’ll take very good care of you. Very good care.”

“Thank you,” I said, and I could hear how weak I was, my voice nothing but a thread.

Alden kissed me on the forehead. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.” I saw he was about to cry. He left the room.

“Well, I for one am glad I worked a double shift,” Belle said, all efficiency. Her hair had come down some from the upsweep she’d worn in the daylight hours, but otherwise she looked no worse for wear.

“Me too,” I croaked. I was nervous but also relieved that at last something would be done to help me. As Belle prepped me for surgery, I handed her my trust, and she made me feel safe.

A Charm of Hummingbirds

1. Hummingbirds display exquisite flight control and are even capable of flying backwards.

2. Various cultures view the hummingbird as a symbol of resurrection, a messenger, or stopper of time.

I was in the hospital for two weeks, including my twenty-third birthday, November 11, 1946. I nearly died from the loss of blood. The pathology report showed infection and inflammation of my fallopian tube where an embryo had mistakenly implanted itself.

Alden came to see me nearly every day. He brought me a bunch of daisies in a green glass vase and a small suitcase with things I’d asked for from home—my own nightgown, a hairbrush, nail scissors, and a hand mirror.

“I should have believed you,” he said on that first day.

“It’s OK.” I recognized his penitence in the bright daisy faces.

“You were pregnant,” he said needlessly and lowered himself into the chair beside the bed.

I’d thought about it, of course—my misbegotten child and the fact that Alden and I would have been parents. And yet, I didn’t feel as though I could mourn the loss of a child, because in my mind there had never really been a child.

“Are you all right?” Alden asked.

“I am,” I said with certainty. There were too many things that came first on my to-do list, before children. I still had Cornell on the horizon, and it wasn’t time for a baby. I didn’t want my plans disrupted any more than they already had been.

For my birthday in the hospital, Alden brought me a gift-wrapped book. Anticipating some treatise on bird behavior or maybe a Darwin first edition, I eagerly removed the paper.

The dust jacket was a sickly whirlpool of green with
The Snake Pit
written in lowercase, yellow letters.

“It’s on the bestseller list,” he said proudly.

I looked at the book description: a woman with schizophrenia and her experiences in an insane asylum. Bewildered, I looked up at Alden.

“The critics love it, and psychiatric experts agree that it’s well done—honest.” Excitedly, he took the book from my hands, read about the author. “It’s part fact, part fiction. She really was institutionalized for a time.”

“Alden,” I said, trying to interrupt his misplaced enthusiasm, but he was undeterred.

“She studied at Northwestern, Meri. Another Chicago girl,” he said, continuing to pair me with a woman who’d literally been put away.

“And here I thought you were sorry,” I said when he finally took a breath and set the book on the blanket next to me. “Silly me,” I continued. “I thought you regretted disbelieving me, characterizing me as a crazy woman. Hysterical.”

“What? That’s not what I’m saying!”

“It’s exactly what you’re saying.”