What I Thought I Knew: A Memoir (6 page)

“I hope our baby isn’t the six-billionth,” I say, contemplating the terrible possibility of giving birth in the next few weeks, considering my options.

“Yeah, I’m with you.” Michael sighs, surfing stations. He turns off the radio. We drive in silence for a while. I watch scenery fly by. The trees in Massachusetts are beginning to turn color.

“I’m performing at that conference in Cleveland this week.”

“When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow!”

“I know, the timing is terrible.”

“Yeah.”

I look out the window and mope. We drive a bunch of miles.

“Michael ...”

“What?”

“You’re going to have to do something besides touring.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If we have a baby, you can’t be on the road so much.”

“That’s how I earn a living.”

“I know, but I get the feeling you expect me to stay home and take care of the baby full time while you keep touring. Is that what you’re thinking?”

“Thinking? I’m not thinking. I’m reacting. I’m dealing with the fact that you’re very pregnant and very confused about it. So I’m sorry I haven’t been planning a career change in the last two weeks, I’ve had other things on my mind.”

“I can’t raise a baby alone, with you on tour all the time.”

“What do you suggest I do instead?”

“I don’t know. Something closer to home.”

“Okay. No more touring, ever,” he says in his most sarcastic voice.

We drive for miles in silence. The green blur of trees is punctuated with flashes of red.

“I’ll just get an office job and sit in a chair until I die.”

“—I’m not saying you have to get an office job.”

“Of course you want me to get an office job. It’ll be really good for our family. Hey, my father worked at an office job he hated for forty years, and then he died. No reason I can’t do that too. It’ll be great—”

“You don’t have to get an office job.”

“No, of course not. Because you know exactly what job would be right for me.”

“Stop it.”

I turn on the radio and surf channels. All I can find is a religious station.

“—President Clinton twice vetoed the bill, but Republicans on the Hill are preparing for a new fight and plan to reintroduce Partial Birth Abortion Ban legislation in Congress next month. Republican presidential candidate George W. Bush is proving himself a great friend to the Christian Right because of his outspoken support for the bill and his unwavering antiabortion—”

“Ugh.” I turn off the radio. “I hope abortion isn’t illegal by Tuesday, or it’s the coat hanger for me,” I say, in an attempt at gallows humor.

Michael doesn’t say anything. I shouldn’t have said anything about the abortion, certainly not a joke. We drive in silence. I imagine myself at home with a baby—a single mother in practice, if not marital status—Michael on the road, calling home now and then.

“You say you really want this baby. But you can’t just say that and then go all over the country all the time.”

“I’ll never leave our apartment again.”

“You want complete freedom to go wherever you want, whenever you want, and that’s been great up till now. You don’t want to grow up, it’s who you are, I’ve always loved that about you. But it makes me wonder if you’ve really thought about what it means to be a father, and if you really want this, because you can’t have complete freedom
and
take care of a baby.”

Michael starts to speed up. “I’m trying to support my family!”

“I know that. If you could just find something that doesn’t take you away from us so much of—”

“Like what? I have no idea what else to do!” His foot presses heavily on the pedal. “Tell me! Tell me! What? Obviously you know. Tell me what I have to do!”

“I don’t know!”

Michael is driving really fast, aggressively passing cars on the highway.

“Pease slow down. We’ll talk about this later.”

“Later when? Later after Wichita or later before Wichita?”

“Tonight. As soon as we get home.”

He’s driving so fast, I’m scared we’ll crash. I cover my face with my hands.

“Slow down!”

He does. We drive a bunch of miles in silence. Connecticut, the Constitution State, welcomes us with a blue highway sign. I turn on the radio and we listen to NPR for the rest of the drive.

Scene 3

The Wichita Women’s Health Center telephone receptionist, with her friendly midwestern voice, explained the late-term abortion procedure. “Yes, ma’am, first they’ll anesthetize the fetus so that it won’t feel anything. You’ll be sedated during this. Then the doctor will inject the fetus with a lethal drug—it will be painless to the fetus, ma’am. In order to make the delivery safer for you, the surgeon might sever the arms and legs of the fetus, of course after the lethal injection has taken effect. It’s not a fast process, you have to be prepared for that, ma’am. It can take up to five days. Your cervix will be dilated over a one-to-four-day period. Then the doctor will induce labor, and the delivery will take place under sedation. . . . Yes, it’s most likely that you will deliver a dismembered and stillborn fetus. . . . Yes, I know this is not easy to hear, Ms. Cohen. Then we dispose of the remains, unless you wish to make alternate arrangements. Some women choose cremation or burial.

“I do need to inform you, as well, ma’am, that there is antiabortion hostility directed at our center. There are protests outside the center every single day. We have had some violent incidents. I must advise you to make reservations at the one hotel in town that is safe and secure for our patients. You should reserve a room right away, while you are contemplating this decision. And there is only one taxi service in town that will be safe and secure to take from the hotel to the women’s health center. You will stay in the center for two to five days and then stay at the hotel for another two days to recuperate. During that time, you can come into the center to be seen by our doctors and our counselors.

“We recommend that you have someone come with you, Ms. Cohen. It can be painful to go through alone—physically and emotionally. But if you don’t have someone with you, our counselors on staff will be available to talk to you before and after the procedure. We accept virtually all insurance policies. . . . Yes, even the Oxford Liberty Plan. . . . You can change your mind, even the same day. We are here to serve the needs of our patients.”

 

 

“I wonder what I would do if I were in your shoes,” said Dr. Rosenbloom, while looking at the sonogram on the video screen. “You and I are the same age. I have no idea what I would do. By the way, I can see why you didn’t feel any kicking. The placenta is positioned at the front of the uterus, so it cushions the baby’s kicks. You probably thought you had gas.”

She told me to cancel all of my performances and avoid any physical exertion and to let her know of my decision.

“You’ll do whatever you want to do. Let me know what you decide,” says Michael, assaulting his suitcase with neatly folded business suits, costumes, and props. “If you abort this baby, I guess I’ll move somewhere in the middle of the country and work at a 7-Eleven or something.” He picks up his bags and leaves for the airport for a week in Cleveland.

 

 

My sisters Madeline and Jennifer stay close by me for the next few days. They don’t want me to make this decision alone. They both advise me not to have an abortion. They won’t go with me to Wichita, for practical reasons, they say—too short notice, busy at work—but they’re protesting this abortion. Madeline and Jennifer are both staunch advocates of abortion rights, and I’m surprised not to have their support.

“You’re too far into the pregnancy now,” said Madeline.

“Michael will be such a great father,” said Jennifer.

“I hope you have the baby. I have a feeling everything will work out,” said Madeline.

I don’t want to lose Michael.

I don’t want to have a baby.

But my baby has already waved at me, so I guess she thinks it’s a deal.

“You’re such a mommy,” said Jennifer. “You love children so much. Think about how much you love Julia. If you abort this baby, for the rest of your life you won’t know if you did the right thing.”

And if I don’t abort this baby, for the rest of my life, I won’t know if I did the right thing.

 

 

It’s Monday, the last day of summer. I’ve booked a flight to Wichita tomorrow. I would have to go out alone. I am terrified of the physical procedure. I’m afraid of the angry mob of Kansans. I’m scared of what will happen to me physically, psychologically. I’m terrified of being in Wichita by myself for this horrific ordeal. I’m terrified of what will happen physically, the dismembering and—the killing of the fetus. The killing. The killing of what might be a viable baby. Not knowing for the rest of my life if I did the right thing.

I cancel my flight to Wichita and my appointment at the Women’s Health Center.

I hang up.

My mind is racing, projecting a rapid-fire slide show of everything that’s happened in the last six months. I start to hyperventilate, try to calm myself.

I close my eyes and talk myself into breathing slowly.

I lift my shirt and run my hands over my belly, the skin stretched tight over the newly globe-shaped center of my life, which rises and falls with each long inhale and exhale. Then something new. A small tremor, directly under my right hand and also deep inside. It’s subtle. . . . Another. . . . I feel the baby kicking.

 

 

The phone rings. It’s Michael in Cleveland.

“Please don’t go to Wichita.”

“I’ve already decided not to go.”

“Thank God!”

He cries for a while. Then we’re both quiet. Then he says, “Last night, my friend Beverly said, ‘There’s a reason God makes human gestation take nine months. It takes that long to get used to the idea of having a baby. You guys missed out on the first six months.’ ”

“Yeah, we did.”

“We’ll catch up.”

“I hope so.”

“I love you. I have to go. I perform in ten minutes.”

 

 

I’m having a baby.

I don’t know what will happen after that.

I buy three pairs of maternity pants, with elastic stomach panels.

 

 

The next morning I walked Julia to school. It was the second week of school. None of the other parents, many of whom were friends, knew I was pregnant. Even at six and a half months I was barely showing, so nobody asked.

Julia’s school was only two blocks from our apartment. As we crossed Broadway, holding hands, I had a contraction and was doubled over in pain in the middle of the street. I made it to the median and told Julia I would watch her walk to school from there. She nodded seriously, carefully looked both ways, and crossed the street. It was the first time Julia had ever crossed a street by herself. When she reached the sidewalk, she turned around and waved, looking for encouragement. I waved back and blew her a kiss. She ran down the long block and I held my breath as she waited for the crossing guard to help her cross Amsterdam Avenue, even more treacherous than Broadway, a thunderous river of trucks and cabs.

Scene 4

Dr. Rosenbloom prescribed bed rest for the duration of the pregnancy. “Drink at least two quarts of Gatorade a day. Keep hydrated to prevent contractions. No sex. Only get out of bed to go to the bathroom, have a meal, or go to an appointment that is essential for your health.”

“What about editing my theater journal? I can’t afford to lose this job.”

“Edit it in bed on your left side.”

“What about teaching my college course on Monday nights?”

“Only if it’s essential for your health.”

“It’s essential for my mental health.”

“Then cab to and from your class. Take elevators, not stairs. Sit the whole time. Line up a sub and tell your class you probably won’t complete the semester.

“Another thing, Alice. You know I don’t accept your insurance plan. I’d like to keep you as a patient, but I understand if you prefer to see a doctor in-network. I can try to find somebody good for you. But frankly, I don’t know anybody who accepts Oxford Liberty.”

“I don’t want to change doctors.”

I canceled all my performances through the end of the year. Canceling twenty-five public library performances in South Jersey wasn’t too painful, except for the lost income, which was alarming. The call to the Tampa Bay Performing Arts Center was really hard. I’d loved performing at TBPAC three years earlier, and the theater had contracted me to perform my new solo play in their experimental theater, and one of my family shows on the main stage.