Twenty-Two April 1998
TWENTY-TWO
I once had a teacher tell me that time speeds up the older you get. One day you are eighteen and then suddenly you wake up forty. Of course, back then I dismissed it as the nonsense of old people, but now I know what she meant.
As my pregnancy progressed, I felt bigger, rounder, older each day.
The morning sickness passed, but then my lower back and my feet began to ache.
I made an ointment to relieve my aches and it smelled noxious.
I found the card and realized I’d forgotten the lavender oil to help with the scent.
I took the recipe cards out of the box and each day I tried to commit one to memory.
I wasn’t as successful as I wanted to be since the pregnancy had been messing with my ability to remember.
I didn’t dry the chicory long enough and it took on mould.
Without Kiju’s wisdom, I was alone in my mistakes but also alone in my successes, which I felt more keenly.
I wished she were here, to see her proud of me.
Sally tells me she was, and is, but I suppose I will never really know.
I could only hope that this tiny human I was growing would be proud.
I think there is something truly spiritual about growing a person.
It’s as if there is a fire that is ignited inside you.
Maybe it’s hormones, but I think it goes deeper than that.
I now feel a need to protect what I hold sacred, to protect it so that my own daughter can experience it.
I need to do something that I can point back to in the future and say, I did that for you. And the tree is what became my mission.
Each morning, unless it rains, I wander up to the tree and clean away any debris. There is less garbage there now. The fence has helped. I think the people so opposed to the preservation of the tree have moved on to other things to be offended by, especially small things that mean little to them.
Susan, Miriam and I paid to have a tiny stone plaque installed at the base of the tree, not where the women used to birth but off to the side.
I couldn’t imagine placing something in the same spot where they spilled their birth water and warm blood.
The stone says The Birthing Tree, simple and elegant.
For those who have a connection to the tree, they need no other information.
In the museum in town, the same one I went to on school trips to learn about the town’s white history, there is now a small exhibit complete with a picture of the tree and the stone and a description of its historical value to the community.
I was surprised at the lack of protest when I asked that the tree be included in an exhibition at the museum.
The new volunteer curator was younger and not from around here.
He’d moved here with his husband and kids when his husband accepted a job as an instructor at the local college.
Unlike the locals, he found the story of the birthing tree interesting and offered the dedicated space.
He has plans to expand the exhibit now, to tell the larger story of the people who have always been here.
I don’t know if anything will come from it, but it’s nice to know that someone may actually care, that someone understands our importance to this community.
There is no lock on the new fence, only a clasp, easily opened, but what little garbage I find is generally outside the fence.
I gather it up and take it home, separating it into trash and recyclables.
The cans and bottles collected are returned to the recycling depot and I donate the change to the museum for the upkeep of the Birthing Tree exhibit.
Miriam came by a couple times a week to check on me.
Blood pressure, position of baby, glucose.
Sometimes she forgot I am a nurse and tried to explain things to me that I already knew, and I let her.
I found comfort with Miriam, and while Susan had welcomed Miriam as a friend, she was not as comfortable with Miriam overseeing my pregnancy.
“I think you should see a real doctor. This is a geriatric pregnancy, Aliet. There is so much that could go wrong.”
“I don’t want to have this conversation again, Susan. And please stop using the word geriatric. I already feel old.”
“Miriam, I know you know what you’re doing, but you have to admit there is a chance of something going wrong.”
We were having dinner at the Chinese restaurant. Heartburn was new to me, and I ordered white rice, not fried, and Chinese vegetables with soft white chicken breast scattered throughout. I drank only water.
“If I thought anything was wrong, I would be the first to send her to the hospital. Don’t worry, Susan, we got this,” Miriam said, as she pushed an entire chicken ball into her mouth.
Susan made a face and I laughed.
“Please just humour me and go to the doctor to make sure everything is okay.”
“Everything is okay. Like Miriam said, if something was wrong, I would be on my way to the hospital. Now drop it, please.”
It was of no use to remind Susan of Miriam’s extensive qualifications. She liked Miriam and trusted her, to an extent, but she believed “modern medicine is superior.” This wasn’t the first time we’d had this conversation. And from the look I got across the table, it probably wouldn’t be the last.
“You know that this is exactly what Kiju and I fought against—pressuring women into hospitals when there were other options.”
“You are not allowed to make me feel bad for caring. This is different, it’s a geria—”
I cut Susan off. “Nope, not that word again. And I am a nurse, Susan, don’t forget.”
“Okay, you two, simmer down,” Miriam said with a chuckle.
Susan nodded in resignation.
Two against one.
When I fell down the steps on my way to check the mailbox, Susan finally had her way.
It was a wet April day. The rain had woken me up that morning as it beat against the bedroom window, and it continued all day.
I was concerned that the roof repairs wouldn’t hold, but they did.
I was watching the water roll down the window, reaching up every few minutes to wipe the condensation away, when I saw the mailman stop at the little mailbox at the end of the driveway.
I had been cooped up in the house all day and I needed some fresh air, so I put on my rubber boots and rain jacket and opened the front door.
I stepped off the first of the three steps and my foot slipped.
I felt as though I was in slow motion as I reached out to grab the railing, but missed.
I landed hard on the first step and sat there, soaked, and considered my next move.
My back throbbed and my wrist, where I had tried to soften the blow as I fell, began to swell.
For a moment I wasn’t sure I could even stand.
“You idiot,” I cursed myself as I rubbed my belly. It took a few tries and a few grunts, but eventually I was on my feet again. I managed to drag myself back inside.
I called Miriam and she was there in minutes. She found me sitting on a pillow on a kitchen chair, everything around me soaking wet. I still had my boots and jacket on. Her face held a mixture of amusement and concern.
“Come on, we are taking you to the hospital,” she said as she moved closer to help me.
“I look like a drowned rat.” I shifted my weight to alleviate the pain in my backside.
“No one cares. Let’s go.” She helped me up from the chair.
In the emergency room, the same one where I worked, the doctor checked me over and pronounced me bruised but fine.
My wrist required only ice and rest. The baby failed to notice the fall and was also fine.
Susan rushed in, and the look on her face made me and Miriam burst out laughing.
In the end, she had got her way, I saw a doctor.
I stayed the night for observation and then went home.
Susan came with me and stayed to cook and clean and take care of me until the bruise on my hip started to fade.
“Go home. Take care of your family. I’m okay,” I said after a few days.
“They can take care of themselves. It’ll be good for them to see what their lives are like without me.”
“Go home or I will kick you out,” I said, laughing.
She packed her stuff and left, promising she’d see me the next day with library books and groceries.