Chapter Twelve #2
“Ahh,” Doctors Kim and Blankman said together. They looked sorry. At least, she did.
“That’s not how it works, I’m afraid,” she said. “The language is vague.”
“Purposely vague,” Alice put in.
“And determined on a case-by-case basis.”
“Based on serious, immediate threat,” Dr. Blankman added.
I shook my head. I didn’t know what that meant.
“At least in practice, you have to be …” Dr. Kim began, then paused and had the good grace to blush. “… already undergoing a medical emergency before the decision can be made and any action taken.”
“Practically dead,” I translated.
“Look.” Dr. Kim took a deep breath, let it out again slowly. “I still feel confident this pregnancy is not viable. I still expect you to miscarry and to do it soon and safely.”
My children looked relieved, but I was not. “If that’s true, if it’s not viable, why can’t we just put a stop to it now?”
“The law is very clear that—” Dr. Blankman began.
“Fuck the law.” It is occasionally necessary to remind people that little old ladies aren’t as little or ladylike as you think we are. I wasn’t as old as they imagined either, but in no language did there exist a word strong enough to make this point better than being pregnant. “Why would we wait?”
“Miscarriage has to happen on its own,” Dr. Kim explained, “in order to—”
“Surely early is better than later.” I didn’t want to interrupt, but this was so important. “Surely controlled and in your office is better than unpredictable and at home.”
“You’re right. But unfortunately, that’s not our call.”
“What if I bleed too much?” There was, I knew, I remembered, blood.
“As soon as it starts, you’ll go to the hospital.”
“Where they won’t even believe me. Maybe it’s never come up before, but I think we all know what happens if a seventy-seven-year-old shows up in the emergency room claiming to be having a miscarriage.”
“She bleeds to death in the waiting room,” Darcy supplied. “Or maybe in the psych ward.”
“It’s actually worse than that,” Alice said. How could it get worse? “They won’t be allowed to help her. She’ll be at significantly increased risk for excessive bleeding, right? Or catastrophic infection. And they’ll just send her home.”
I closed my eyes, took that in, then pled, “It’s only eight weeks. I’m barely pregnant. You said we were lucky to catch it early.”
“You didn’t catch it early,” Dr. Blankman said sharply, though I hadn’t been talking to him. “It’s not cancer.”
“No.” I felt all the breath push out of my lungs at once.
I felt winded with it, dizzied. “No, if it were cancer, you’d cut it out.
When I had a tumor whose cells were dividing and multiplying, you got rid of it.
Right away! You didn’t say, ‘Let’s wait and see if it practically kills you.
’ You said, ‘If we leave it where it is, it’ll keep growing, and if it keeps growing, it will destroy you. ’”
“A baby isn’t a tumor,” said Dr. Blankman.
“An embryo isn’t a baby,” said Dr. Kim.
“Be that as it may”—his voice was professional, even patronizing, but tinged with growing impatience—“abortion is illegal in this state. When the law says there are exceptions for the life of the mother, it doesn’t mean you.”
“Who does it mean?” I tried to sound impatient too rather than helpless.
“It means women who will die without one.”
“That’s me! No one should be pregnant at my age.” I gestured all up and down myself. “At my age, all sorts of things can kill you. Catching a cold. Forgetting to turn the toaster off. Yoga. But pregnancy? Pregnancy kills young, healthy women.”
Dr. Blankman shook his head. “You are not dying, I’m sorry to say.” I waited for him to apologize, say that wasn’t what he meant, and rephrase. But he didn’t. “When you are, then we can, if necessary, have a discussion about termination.”
Moth cleared his throat. “Won’t it be too late at that point?”
It seemed Dr. Blankman hadn’t noticed Moth was there until that moment.
“Ahh,” he said. “You’re the father?” He came around and perched next to Dr. Kim on her desk.
“I am not a father.” Moth looked down at his own clasped hands.
“Not a father. The father. The father of this child.”
Moth blinked. “My understanding is there is no child. Won’t be any child.”
“That is not at all clear to me, frankly,” Dr. Blankman said.
“I can’t explain it, and we’ll keep investigating, and naturally, in any pregnancy, anything can happen.
” That didn’t sound right to me. It seemed to me that the things that could happen were in fact fairly circumscribed.
“But this pregnancy appears healthy and on track at the moment.” Then I watched him decide to replace impatience with condescension.
He reached forward and put a hand on my shoulder.
I flinched. “Cheer up, everyone. In my profession, a healthy pregnancy, a healthy baby on the way, is always good news. Do you know how many patients I see who would give anything for what you have right now? Every baby I deliver is miraculous, but this? This is a miracle of a higher order. Even if you were somewhere abortion was still legal, terminating this pregnancy would be …” He whistled.
“Someone has gone a long way to make this baby.”
I looked at Moth.
“Not him.” Dr. Blankman pointed at the ceiling. “Him.”
I was speechless.
Alice was not. “We’re Jewish.”
“Same guy upstairs,” he said smugly.
“Can we …” Moth started then stopped, turned to Dr. Kim. “You said … I mean, do you no longer think …”
I knew what he meant and took over. “You prescribed time. You said ‘good news’ and ‘treatable condition’ and for sure it would end soon. Terminate. Miscarry. Is that”—my voice broke—“no longer true?”
“I still think that’s true,” she said.
I wanted to hold on to “true.” I wanted to hold on to “still.” But I said, “Think?”
Dr. Blankman grinned. “We’re in uncharted territory here, Mrs. Mills.” Actually, everything Dr. Blankman said he said smugly. “Uncharted, miraculous territory.”