May 6, 2014
Oddly, I think, that
during my stay in the hospital, and until Andrew was delivered two weeks early
on January 8, 1981 by a Pitocin induction, I never had a sense that he would
die. Despite hearing repeatedly told that there was a 99% chance that he would
not make it, that never seemed possible to me. John told me, after Andrew was
born, that he had arranged with the undertaker to handle things. He felt that I
was in denial and he did not want to upset me further so he stepped in to
arrange for a stillbirth. When he told
me this later, I was stunned—first that
John and I were so far apart in our
sense of the outcome and second that John had acted alone so as not to upset me
by confronting what he thought was my denial. Is it denial, or do we know more
than we know we know? Does the body have an awareness of what is not always
available to consciousness?
I continued to gain
weight as Andrew took on more fluid while his body tried to dilute the impact
of my antibodies. I was almost 200 pounds by Christmas. I could no longer pick
up Marnie or Lou. I usually had to sit down and rest mid-flight when I was doing
the stairs. The slightest bit of
exertion and I was short of breath. I could not lay flat without having a
feeling of suffocation. My lungs were forced into an ever-smaller area as my
uterus increased in size and began to compromise my thoracic cavity. I had only
one maternity outfit that still fit me and the only shoes I could still get my
feet into were my boots.
More tomorrow
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