x
Sept. 28, 1978
Janie –
I really did get the letter you wrote last May, but I’ve been on an extended vacation since Christmas, which is about to end this weekend…After residency, I worked in LA for Kaiser from July thru the end of the year. April and I stayed in Venice at the beach all summer, dodging roller skates, impersonating burned-out hippies, and enjoying our last months of LA madness. Venice is a unique place – every single type of person in the world is represented there, mingling down where the cosmos meets the sand – Ocean Front Boardwalk. Heterogeneity rules in Venice, the melting pot by the sea. A great contrast to where I am now.
April left LA about a year ago to study midwifery at the U. of Utah in Salt Lake City for 2 years. I moved into a rent-free shack, comforted only by a water bed and stereo, in the backyard of a close friend’s house in Manhattan Beach. It’s really senseless to try & live in LA unless you’re by the ocean. All summer, I went to work, saved my money, & rode my bike every morning on the beach-side path, in preparation for my grand, open-ended vacation starting Dec. 31st.
We bought an 80-year old house in the oldest part of SLC, on a hill overlooking the 20 x 10 mile plain housing most of Salt Lake, ringed by mountains, crowned by the Wasatch rising 7,000’ on the eastern edge. It’s an awesome sight, and I see it all from my front porch. Convenient though it is to the city, I came to ski every day. Little Cottonwood Canyon, home to Alta and Snowbird, is like Boston to a marathoner, Broadway to a theatre-lover, Hawaii to a surfer, the Himalayas to a mountain climber. [Here he goes on an extended rhapsody about winter, powder snow, and skiing. A small sample follows]
…Skiing is like an Apache dance with gravity. I have to implicitly trust my body, that it knows much better how to ski than my conscious mind does. After all, it’s the nerves and muscles that do all the work; why not let them run the show, rather than some ephemeral evolutionary anomaly like consciousness, created by an overactive and at times unnecessary cerebral cortex? My most enjoyable moments skiing seem to come why my mind is just part of the audience.
The audience! Yes, that was my trepidation on this day at the summit of Alta. I knew, although I couldn’t see them yet, that once over the lip into the chute, I would be the single object of attention for all those coming off the Germania and Sugarloaf lifts. People standing around, idly wondering which run to take, casually adjusting buckles, gloves, and goggles, would look up and be forced to follow my every move. As my predecessor finished his run, invisible below me, I actually heard applause and whistles. In a way, I hoped it wasn’t for him, for that would mean people were warming up to the show, and I was the next one down.
At these times in skiing, it is important to clear one’s mind, to say one’s mantra, whatever it is. Some ski freaks will shout at this point, screeching like a psychedelic cowboy or crazed Swiss yodeler. I prefer to simply repeat the obvious truth that, at this point, there is only one way to go, and that is DOWN.
Storming into the head of the chute, my mind empty at last, I fight a few turns through the spray left by the previous three skiers, and then lock onto a virgin track right in the middle, heading straight down. I am dimly aware the, yes, I actually can ski this stuff, and then the exhilaration starts to build as I focus on the incredible feel of the snow beneath, no, around my feet. Not dry and fluffy Utah powder, but fresh and buoyant nonetheless; my Haute Routes sink in ankle deep, the tips riding free on the surface. Knees locked, feet together, arms pumping, hips rising and falling, I imagine that I am skiing through something incredibly dense and yet quite fluid, like mercury. My body working perfectly, my mind is totally free to feel the luscious endless depth beneath me. I am totally alone, the entire mountain deserted, completely mine.
Too soon, too soon, the Sugarloaf-to-Germania traverse appears below, signaling the end of my run. Usually, I don’t feel a burning need to look at my tracks, but in this case I know I have to. Leaning forward on my poles, I look back up. To me, the line seems perfect, completely symmetrical. If you’re gonna put on a show, I say to myself, you might as well do it right. I rest a minute, trying to freeze the feel of the snow and the sight of my tracks into my memory forever. A transcendent moment, putting me utterly at peace…
In May, I went job-hunting – Denver, Seattle, the Bay Area. The outcome: this Monday I will start working in Oakland. I’m going to spend the next nine months there while April finishes her school here. I’ll probably be able to spend 4 to 10 days a month in Salt Lake, so we should be able to keep things going. We have to, ‘cause we got married August 25th, outside, at the end of Little Cottonwood Canyon, past Alta.
I know, it might seem a little weird, a midwife and obstetrician getting married. Both professions derive from the same sources, and of course serve the same ends, but their means and attitudes are quite divergent. Those differences, however, are subordinated in our family to a more over-riding concern. At least half the time, one or the other of us may be called out at any moment to attend a birth.
It’s not the commonness of birth which characterizes us, it is the acceptance of disruption. A large part of our work is fundamentally unscheduled. Most unscheduled events are frowned upon: tornados, auto accidents, wars. We seem to schedule our celebrations: birthdays, graduation, marriage, Christmas, the 4th of July. But birth remains unscheduled, yet inherently joyful. We relish this ceaseless disruption of our lives…
Mike
xi
“Sarah?”
Howard’s familiar baritone came through clear, static-free, as if he were calling from the room next door.
“Howard? Where are you?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, but after all our time together, politeness came naturally. “I haven’t heard from you in…years. How are you?”
“Actually, I’m here, in Boston. Somerville. Thought I’d take a holiday for a bit, see the old school, friends, you know?”
“So, I’m on your list? After the way we left it?”
He chuckled. “You’re the first, Sarah Jane.” He left that dangling, as if afraid to go on.
“Well, I suppose I should appreciate that, should see you.” My life was full, this January, a frenzied struggle to polish my dissertation for submission to my thesis committee and a reputable journal. On this snowy Saturday, I decided I deserved a distraction. I gave him my address, asking him to wait two hours while I finished up my work.
By the time he showed up, I already had on my puffy coat, muffler and gloves in hand, ready to whisk him out the door to dinner. I didn’t want him in my apartment, afraid of how that might feel. “It’s such a mess in there, I wasn’t expecting anyone…”
By the end of dinner, he’d caught me up on his last year or two. He was engaged, to a Palestinian girl in the process of converting to Judaism. He was managing the finances of his kibbutz, which had become a powerhouse in the growing Israeli wine industry.
“We’re specializing in that new grape, Shiraz,” he said. “A real money-maker over here, for some reason. American Jews are enthralled with buying anything we make. Gives them a feeling they’re helping to defend the homeland.”
“I hope it’s better than that sweet stuff my parents always had,” I said with a smile.
“How is your family, anyway?”
“Mom’s still the same as always. You’d think she had a son who was a doctor, the way she talked about me the last time she was here. When she found out I have to take a board exam to start practice next summer, the first thing she asked was, ‘What’s the highest score you can get, Janie?’ But my dad – he seems to be slowing down. He’s put on a little weight, won’t stop eating all those steaks, despite what his doctor says. Even wheezes now when he goes upstairs. They had to move to a one-story place for him.”
The evening went on like that, catching-up, superficial pleasantries, a quick return to the easy camaraderie we’d always had. By the time we got back to my place, I felt safe enough to invite him in. He reached into the back seat for a box, embossed with the logo of his winery, clusters of gapes on a background of rolling fields, Sea of Galilee in the distance.
“I know you don’t care for wine, but please, just for me, try this? It might change your mind.”
Once inside, I found two dusty goblets, rinsed them off, and set them on the kitchen table. “Here. For old times’ sake?”
He lifted two bottles from the box of four, saying, “You’ll like this. I’ll leave the rest, you can give it as a present if you don’t want any more.”
Howard went overboard that evening, soaking up one bottle and half the other, while I found myself surprisingly sleepy after two glasses. At first voluble, full of himself, by the time he was half way through that second bottle his eyes drooped, his words slurred, and he kept blinking at me, saying, “Sarah…we had…you, me…such good time together. We should have…you.”
I knew I couldn’t let him drive home like that. I gathered up the glasses, rinsed them out, then found a clean sheet and spare pillow, draping them over the living room couch.
“Howard.” It sounded like he was snoring. “Lehrman!” I shouted. He started, weakly lifting his head and staring up, eyes at half-mast.
“Umpf?” was all he could muster.
“Come on, get up, over to the couch. You can leave in the morning.”
Acting as his rudder, I managed his shuffling walk to the sofa, where he plopped akimbo, one leg still dangling to the floor. I slipped off his shoes, not bothering to move his leg. I didn’t really want to touch him any more.
That night, I had one of those flying dreams, where I start jumping up, and up, feeling almost weightless, bounding with high arcs that seem to last forever. Each time I rose further, until the wind started to buffet me, stronger and stronger. Now falling, my legs and arms splayed out, uncontrolled, until…
I awoke, finding Howard on top of me in mid-climax. Screeching, I pushed him away, howling, “What the hell are you doing! Get out of here! Get the fuck out of here!”
“I’m sorry, sorry…” he mumbled.
“Sorry’s not the word for it – you’re pathetic! Don’t ever, don’t ever come back, or call me, never, you hear.” I scrambled up, raced into the living room, grabbed his shoes and coat, throwing them out into the hall. He stumbled after them, and I slammed the door behind him, bolting it twice and throwing the chain for good measure.
Shaking, I raced to the bathroom, washing, scrubbing, pulling out the Massengill pack, squeezing it over and over inside. My breathing came in spasmodic bursts, which led into sobs, Shaking, I covered the toilet seat with a towel and sat down, trying to think. “What just happened?” was all that came through my mind. I closed my eyes, and tried to remember, had I done anything, said anything, that led him to believe…? I felt embarrassed, ashamed, like it was my fault.
“That’s not fair! It’s not fair!” I shouted. Not fair, that whatever power I had built, all my self-esteem, could be ravaged, tarnished in an instant. By someone I had trusted.
I imagined calling my sister, telling her. I heard her say, “Well, your ex-boyfriend, you let him in, two bottles of wine, what did you think was going to happen?”
xii
Sunday, I alternated between anger and depression, fuming first at Howard, then myself. I feared calling anyone, afraid of their reaction, or maybe my own, the imagined words of my sister echoing in my thoughts all day. Finally, after dinner, I called Lauren, and spilled the story.
“I’m so sorry, Sarah, that happened to you. You’re right, it’s not fair. Not fair, to you, not fair to us, to women. What are you thinking? What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know. I can’t see straight, I just want to smash his face. Or hide my own, I don’t know.” I started crying. “Besides,” I said through sniffles, “What can I do? Just wait, I guess, see what happens…”
“I’ve heard if you take two birth control pills, the old kind, the strong ones, now, and then again in the morning, that sometimes works.”
The thought went through my chest like an electric shock. “What do you mean, like an early abortion?” I shivered, thinking of facing another man, a doctor, to explain and ask for a prescription. “I couldn’t do that, not now.”
“Why not?”, she pressed.
“Seeing a doctor, I can’t handle that right now…”
Lauren suggested calmly, “Wait a minute. Didn’t you tell me about Esther, that grad student who did a circle thing with you and your friends, the mirror thing? You said she helped out at the Women’s Health Collective, right?”
Lauren’s thought pulled me away from my enraged emotions, re-triggering the analytic part of me. “Yes. Yes. The ones who did that book, Our Bodies… “
“Right, her. She might know what to do.”
After I hung up, I dug out my copy of that thick paperback, found their phone number, and called first thing in the morning.
“Yes, there is a good chance doing that would prevent implantation. Not 100%, but better than 50-50.” Esther explained after I’d re-introduced myself and we caught up a bit. “It is a prescription, unless you know someone who would share a pill pack with you.” She paused, and I heard distant voices in the background. “Oh, yeah…they’re starting to try an IUD to see if that works. Put in a Copper-T, that’s supposed to prevent implantation, which doesn’t happen right away, you know. But you’d have to be sure, you don’t want to make a bad situation worse. And they don’t know for sure about any side effects on the baby if it doesn’t work. Nobody’s been willing to study it yet.”
Her hesitance convinced me. Deep inside, I knew this wasn’t right. “I don’t have to decide now, about anything. Who knows, the odds are I’m not even pregnant, right? And I can always do something later, can’t I?”
All February, the deadline for my thesis submission overpowered the fear and anger I’d felt that first weekend. By the end of the month, I had finished it to Julia’s satisfaction. We sent it off the the American Journal of Orthopsychiatry for peer review, and scheduled my oral defense with the committee in mid-April. She took me out for a celebratory dinner..
“Have you decided on what you’ll be doing, once you graduate?” she asked.
I glanced down at my salad, covered with thin strips of salmon, and felt a little queasy as I replied, “I’ve put in for a fellowship at Beth Israel, with the medical school…”
“Back to Harvard, eh?” she commented with a twinkle.
I nodded. “The Department of Psychiatry is starting up a program in consultation liaison. They need a research director.”
“Interesting. What’s that entail?”
‘I’m not sure yet. I’ll be meeting with Dr, Silverman…”
“The medical education director? Wow, must be a big deal.” she enthused
“I guess so,” I said with a sigh. “It’s something, to keep me busy. I hope I’ll like it. I can’t really start practice until after I pass my boards.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, you’ll do fine, Sarah.”
I said nothing, still wondering why I didn’t feel like eating.
Dr. Klein noticed my discomfort. “What’s up? You don’t seem very excited about being done, with the thesis and all, and finally stepping out into the real world.”
All those years, those meetings with her, her guidance, support and honesty, helped me to confess, “I’m late. Julia. I think I’m…”
She put her fork down, reached across the table and gently took my hand in both of hers. “What is it, what happened?”
I managed to get through the whole story without crying. “I’m numb to it now, that night with Howard. Now, I’m wondering about the future, my future.”
“Have you been talking with your analyst about it?”
“My new one? I’ve only seen him twice since then, it’s been all about what happened, not what I’m going to do. Besides, I don’t know if I want to talk that over with a man, especially one I’ve only known for a few months. Can he really understand? I know he’s supposed to have professional detachment, but I don’t feel safe, yet, to talk about a pregnancy with him. It’s not just my feelings. It’s about…my life.”
“Your life?”
“You know the phrase, ‘biological clock’? It’s not only time ticking away, whether a woman can get pregnant. It’s also about when in her life a women can be pregnant, can have a baby. Raise it, love it, give her, or him, all the attention they deserve. If I have it now, what will it do to my work, I don’t even have the assurance of a stable job, to say nothing of a man, a husband to help me out.”
She nodded a bit ruefully.
“You don’t have to keep it, you know.”
I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. Even though I hadn’t been thinking about this, I instantly knew the answer. It started pouring out. “Intellectually – and politically – I believe in it. ‘My body, my self.’ But the last six years, I’ve watched mothers and their newborns, bonding, loving, so many times. All those girls I saw, the teen-agers, they seemed so happy, so ready to be a mother. And yet, they had so little – still in school, most of them, no job, no money, even those with a boyfriend, he didn’t live with them. I’ve got so much more, my degree, my experience if only because I’m nearly twice as old as they are. And then there’s…love is the only thing I can call it. I don’t even know for sure I’m pregnant, but already I love my baby, I never want anything to harm her. I’d do anything for her.”
“Anything? Raise it alone, juggle your time at work, give her to someone else eight hours every day?”
“All I know is, I have to make it work. It’s the only way I can be me. It’s what I’m supposed to do.”