This Fragile Life. Кейт Хьюит
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with comfortable chairs and potted plants and up-to-date, high-end magazines. The kind of office I haven’t been to in a long time.
I feel conspicuous in my stained shorts and camp tee shirt, and the receptionist’s silence is eloquent as she hands me a clipboard with space for all the insurance information I don’t have.
I’ve never really thought of myself as poor, maybe because it always seemed like a choice. I love my job, so it doesn’t matter if I don’t earn a lot of money. I’ve never wanted things, clothes or furniture or vacations. I suppose I’ve thought of myself, a bit self-consciously, as a bohemian. Whenever I’ve seenMartha with her power suits and smartphone and relentless drive, I’ve probably felt a little…smug.
Until now. Until pregnancy made me realize how transient and flimsy my life really is, without any foundations or safety nets. And right now I’m floundering, while if Martha brought a baby home tomorrow, she’d be fine. Fine.
Which is why, I tell myself as I fill in my name and address on the form, she’s going to be this baby’s mother and not me.
But maybe there’s no baby.
I gaze down at the spaces for health insurance provider, secondary health insurance provider, policy and group numbers, and put down my pen.
“I thought they didn’t take insurance,” I whisper to Martha.
“I think they just like to have it on file.”
So even when they don’t take insurance, you need it.
I’ve just finished the forms when my name is called. Martha and I both rise, and she goes first through the door and down the hallway to the examining room. It’s comfortable, with more potted plants and tasteful prints. And a table, of course, with stirrups and a sterile white sheet of paper. The nurse glances at the two of us with raised eyebrows.
“Alex Dimmerman?”
I raise my hand. “That’s me.”
“I’m just here for support,” Martha says with a shaky smile and the nurse doesn’t answer. I get up on the table, conscious of the dried blood still on my thighs. When I pulled down my shorts in the bathroom after Jim saw me, I was shocked by the bright red streaks in my underwear. And not just streaks; it had, after all, soaked through to my shorts. It terrified me. It still does.
“So you’ve had a little bleeding,” the nurse says, and I just nod. She takes my blood pressure and temperature; I’m clammy with sweat. She makes a few ticks on a form and then leaves the room with a murmured, “Dr. Cohen will be with you shortly.”
Of course it isn’t shortly. It’s twenty long minutes, and I see Martha check her diamond-encrusted Bulgari at least eight times.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Are you missing some important meetings?”
“That doesn’t matter at all,” she says firmly.
We wait.
Finally the door opens and Dr. Cohen comes in. Somewhat to my surprise, I like the look of her. She has curly dark hair with a touch of gray and wears glasses. I think she’s probably about forty.
“Alex?” She smiles at me. “How are you? I’m Dr. Cohen.” She turns to a little stainless sink and washes her hands, glancing behind her shoulder as she talks to me. “So there’s been some bleeding?”
“Yes,” I say, and haltingly, conscious of Martha right next to me, I describe what’s happened.
Dr. Cohen nods. “Well, some bleeding can be normal in early pregnancy, but it can also be a sign of miscarriage, as I’m sure you know. Do you know the date of your last period?”
“I know the date of conception,” I say, and flush.
Dr. Cohen just nods. “All right, let’s go with that.” I tell her, and she takes out this little color wheel that looks like something from a child’s board game. She turns it and a second later she tells me, “March Twenty-Seventh.” She looks up and smiles, and I smile tremulously back, because even though nothing is certain, everything suddenly feels more real.
“Have you had any cramping with the bleeding? Stomach pains?” Dr. Cohen asks, and I shake my head.
“No, I didn’t even realize I’d been bleeding until…” I stop, and she nods, understanding.
“I think the easiest way to figure out what’s going on is to have an ultrasound.”
Hope breathes within me. “Can you do that here?”
“Yes, I have an ultrasound machine. Why don’t you scoot back on the examining table, and I’ll be back in two ticks?”
I feel self-conscious lying down on the crinkly paper with Martha right next to me. Neither of us speaks. Dr. Cohen comes back with this little machine on wheels and positions it next to me. She asks me to lift up my tee shirt, which I do. My stomach looks as white and soft as a fish’s belly.
“This will be cold,” she warns, and squirts some clear gel on my stomach, before prodding my belly with the ultrasound wand. “Sorry,” she murmurs, her eyes on the fuzzy black and white screen. “I know it’s a bit uncomfortable.”
Martha stands by my head, tense and unspeaking. Dr. Cohen moves the wand around, poking hard enough to make me wince.
“There we are,” Dr. Cohen finally says and I don’t know what she means. “Look.” She points at the screen, and I crane my neck but all I see is fuzzy white shapes and weird black circles.
“Can’t you see it?” Martha whispers, and I shake my head.
Dr. Cohen outlines a little white blob on the screen, sort of shaped like a kidney bean. “That’s your baby,” she says. “And this is its beating heart.” And I can see it then, no more than a speck, pulsing hard with life. Relief rushes through me, makes me dizzy. “Listen,” she says, and she turns up the volume on the ultrasound machine.
The sound fills the room, like a galloping horse, fast and determined. I let out a trembling laugh and Martha presses a fist to her lips. Dr. Cohen smiles.
“So baby looks fine for the moment,” she says. She hits some keys, waits a few seconds, and nods. “Measuring ten weeks, which is right on target.”
I’m so weak with relief it takes me a moment to speak. “And the blood?”
“It looks like you had some uterine bleeding early on in the pregnancy. The blood remained in your uterus here—” she taps at a black circle “—and that’s what you’ve been experiencing.”
“It was bright red,” I offer uncertainly and she nods.
“The color indicates the age of the blood, not the severity of the condition, although of course if you continue to have bright red bleeding and it grows heavier or you experience any abdominal cramping, you should call right away.”
“Is there anything she can do to prevent further bleeding?” Martha asks.
“Well, avoiding strenuous activity and staying off your feet can’t hurt,” Dr. Cohen says, directing her answer to me. She smiles, her attention still fully on me. “Would you like a photo to take home?”
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