Аманда Палмер - The Art of Asking; or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Let People Help

The day of the abortion itself was a nightmare: I don’t remember it very clearly. I lay in a hospital bed in Edinburgh, having taken the pill I was prescribed. I threw up and slept, then woke and threw up again, feeling powerless, my whole body and heart in pain. I didn’t know what to feel.

Neil sat there beside my bed the whole time, holding my hand and saying nothing.

Then I hid away and spent a few weeks in bed with a hot-water bottle on my abdomen, trudging out for rehearsals and shows and trudging back to bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling like an empty shell of a person.

Neil was just as sad as I was, possibly sadder; he withdrew from talking, he got quiet and distant. My usual life of colorful online back-and-forth became anemic. I told the band, and told a few of the friends who were staying with us. But I didn’t want to tell the world. I wasn’t ready for that. Keeping it seret made everything feel even lonelier. I wanted to reach out to everybody I knew online, I wanted to blog and tweet the entire, harrowing story to my fans, but there was no way I was going to do that. I just stopped doing anything, feeling more and more broken.

And, as the days wore on, I got more and more upset with Neil. I knew that he was having a hard time, but I was the one stuck in bed, bleeding, nauseated, and weak. He brought me Scottish-style hot-water bottles, and things to eat and to drink, but he was really quiet. I didn’t need a selfless faucet of sympathy, but I wanted him to stroke my cheek, ask how I was feeling, give me a good cuddle. He stayed silent. With every passing day, he felt further and further away.

I started wondering if I’d made a horrible mistake, getting married. What had I been thinking? Who was he anyway? Didn’t he care? He was physically there, but he felt like a ghost. I knew what I needed, but asking for specific emotional things felt impossible and obnoxious. He was a human being. He should just instinctively know how to take care of an emotionally exhausted, sick, post-abortion wife.

He ought to just know , I thought.

I shouldn’t have to fucking ask .

Once, in London, at the very beginning of my relationship with Neil, I had decided to do a ninja gig because my official show at a church had sold out. There was a pub called The World’s End near John and Judith’s house in Camden where we were staying, and one of the bartenders was a fan. It had a concert space in the basement. Perfect. I asked if they’d be game to host a secret free show, which I was eager to do since my official show had sold out. They giddily agreed to do a lock-in.

I twittered a teaser photo of the secret late-night location the morning of my official show. The ninja gig filled the basement to its capacity of about five hundred, and I showed up with Neil, high from my success at church. (I’d played Bach! On a big pipe organ!) The bar staff all came down and pulled pints for the collected crowd. A violinist friend from Ireland who’d seen the announcement on Twitter joined me onstage, plucking out improvisations for a song or two while the room cheered her on. An artist named Robin hopped on the stage with a terrifying life-sized Amanda-Doll he’d made and gave a puppet lip-syncing dance routine while I played requests. The puppet’s head came off. Everybody was riotous and drunk on cider and the magic of being hidden underground, singing, sweating, and making new friends.

It was one of those nights where I felt my heart open and stay stuck open, like it had grown a size bigger. There was a backstage dressing room but no security, given the nature of the night, and the guest musicians, random friends, and puppeteers had left their shit all over the tables and couches. We left at four a.m., tired and happy. As we walked out the door, it dawned on me.

Someone had stolen my red ukulele.

I was crushed. I loved that ukulele. And I loved that ratty trumpet case it lived in. It was the very first ukulele I’d ever bought, and it had traveled the world with me for four years. It had resisted theft on the beach in Los Angeles. I had even started writing songs on it, regularly. It was MAGIC, that ukulele.

The heartbreak wasn’t so much in the loss of the object, it was in the fact that someone in Our Crowd had crept off with it. I’d seen and talked to, hugged and kissed, sweated on and toasted every single person who’d been drinking in the dressing room. Who would do such a thing?

I wept a little on our late-night walk home, feeling my flowering faith in humanity wither, and then slither, lifeless and trampled, into the London gutter. I was a fucking fool. People sucked.

Neil soothed me, reminding me that everyone had been very drunk, and that people do stupid shit when they’re drunk.

I know , I said. I’ve been one of those people. But I still can’t believe it. You were there. We were all in love. What the hell? Did someone think it would be funny?

You’ll ask Twitter tomorrow, darling , he said. I bet it’ll turn up .

I woke up. I twittered.

I AM REALLY SAD. SOMEBODY TOOK MY RED UKULELE AT THE NINJA GIG IN CAMDEN LAST NIGHT. IF YOU KNOW ANYTHING, TELL ME.

A few hours later, someone twittered back. They knew who took it. The thieves were sorry, this person said, and they wanted to give it back. My heart soared. I direct-messaged my phone number to the intercessor via Twitter, and the thieves texted me soon after, to arrange a drop-off. I told them not to be scared; I wasn’t angry. I just wanted my ukulele back. I texted the address of the friends’ apartment where I was staying, and waited.

A few hours later, the doorbell rang, and there stood two British teenagers, a boy and a girl, looking like the two most frightened people I’d ever seen. They started babbling:

Oh my god oh my god Amanda we’re so so so soooooo sorry

We were really drunk

We love you so much you’re our favorite musician

We thought it would be funny

We were really REALLY drunk

I shushed them. I hugged them. I told them to come inside for a cup of tea.

We sat down.

I have done some very stupid stuff while drunk , I said. I have had meaningless sex. I have gone to strange people’s houses when I shouldn’t have. I have drunk dialed ex-boyfriends and ruined perfectly cordial breakups. I have stolen the CDs of my favorite band when I was selling their merchandise as a teenager, which took me ten years to confess to them, and they laughed and totally forgave me. And I totally forgive you. Okay?

They looked at me.

Oh my god. It was so stupid .

We’re so so sorry .

We can’t believe you’re not madder at us. Oh my god .

It wouldn’t help anything , I said, being mad. Now hug me and go home and please. Try not to steal any more ukuleles .

We won’t. It’s really cheeky but, um… can we give you our CD? We’re in a punk zydeco band .

And I took their CD, and they hugged me and I closed the door behind them, and I looked at my ukulele, and I watched my faith in humanity not only crawl back up from the gutter but blossom a new little flower I’d never seen before.

For our wedding anniversary, Neil and I decided to spend a low-key, romantic night in New York City. We were both in town for work and staying in a hotel.

It was two nights after New Year’s Eve. We walked through the cold, dark streets of SoHo to a little sushi restaurant and lingered there, reflecting on our life, marriage, the abortion, our friends, writing. The summer and fall had been painful and turbulent, and we were just starting to settle down and heal.