Elizabeth Crane - The History of Great Things

Double-checking the calendar, this year’s with the unfortunate image of a top-hatted Baby New Year on it, you see that your monthly time was due yesterday. Surely everyone is late once in a while, yet signs indicate otherwise this time. You haven’t felt so much as one cramp thus far, and you’ve never had a period yet without at least one day beforehand when murder seemed comprehensible.

Three days go by. Still no cramps or twinges of any kind, nor so much as a drop of blood. On the fourth day, you make an appointment with a gynecologist, but they can’t get you in until the seventh day, at which time you are given a test and told that they’ll call with the results in a week to ten days. You refrain from noting that you’re now already a week late, and that in a week or ten days you expect to be sure one way or another, extremely clear on what the results will say. But denial can be an intoxicating lover. There could be some good medical reason you haven’t gotten your period. Maybe you just need to eat better. Maybe you have some minor medical condition. Could be a million explanations, really.

The eight days that follow have extra hours in them. There is no possible way that these eight days have not gotten progressively longer, twenty-five hours at first, you could have slept through that and not noticed, but it feels like thirty hours on the second and forty on the third and so on, until, on the last day, looking at the clock, you see that the second hand is clearly moving in increments of a minute at a time. Finally a nurse from the doctor’s office calls and makes an appointment for you to come in for your results.

The doctor says Congratulations ; you burst into tears. You get up to leave. He asks if you don’t want to go ahead and schedule a series of appointments. All you can do is shake your head and go.

You’re pregnant and single and you earned about four thousand dollars last year. You couldn’t afford another child even if you did think you wanted one; nor is it an option to announce your single motherhood to the world. The world still hasn’t forgiven Ingrid Bergman for getting pregnant out of wedlock, you don’t imagine they’ll be easier on you — not that you could ever tell your mother, or father, or best friend, and definitely not Stan, who effing did this to you. That guy would freaking beg you to marry him. Putting the baby up for adoption is the only option, and that’s going to fuck up your next six months pretty royally. Maybe, for the first few months, you can say you’ve gained a little weight if anyone asks. Your career has hardly even begun. You’ve failed.

Another few days of crying go by before you remember a conversation with that woman Evelyn, the aspiring model you’d met at the Barbizon. She’d couched it in language you hadn’t really understood at the time, or at least, hadn’t wanted to. Evelyn had spoken frankly about not wanting kids, said that she took care to make sure that didn’t happen because she knew what her options were if she were to find herself pregnant. That was more or less the extent of it, but you recall being struck at the time by the tone of what she was saying, that there was a vague implication that there might be options you weren’t aware of, even if they weren’t terribly desirable.

You call Evelyn immediately, leave a message with her answering service to call at her earliest convenience. When she calls back later that evening, you catch up briefly before telling her the real reason for the call. She gives you an address in Queens. You’ve never been to Queens. You ask for a phone number. Evelyn says There is no phone number. What kind of doctor’s office doesn’t have a phone? you ask. It’s not exactly a doctor’s office. There’s a doctor. Every lick of good sense in you says this can’t be right. This is how it is , Evelyn says.

You study your subway map, tell me you’ll be out for a few hours, that the babysitter will take me to the park; you take the IRT to almost the end of the 7 line, which takes nearly two hours. You’ve got a paperback book, a romance, but it’s hard to focus. You might have considered that romance wouldn’t take your mind off things today. Everyone on the subway looks like they need things taken off their minds. You get out of the subway in an unfamiliar land, notice a deli outside the subway stop called Flushing Foods. Flushing? Honestly? That seems like a cruel joke. You find your way to the address Evelyn gave you. It’s a nondescript two-story residential building on a side street. You enter into a waiting area that was once a living room, walls lined with wooden folding chairs, not so much as a tattered magazine or a sad clown painting to look at. One of the women waiting points to a clipboard on the wall, tells you to put your first name at the bottom of the list. You sit down on one of the chairs, feel a splinter pulling at your skirt. The mood in the room is a level of somber that’s new to you. Almost every woman here is alone, silent. A couple of them are crying, a couple of them look terrified. One looks to be about sixteen, the rest around your age, women of every imaginable kind. One by one they are escorted into another room; the waiting room fills with still more young women. Two hours in, an unshaven man in a lab coat comes out and calls your name. Why didn’t he shave? This strikes you as the worst impression a doctor could make — until you are taken into the back room, which looks like someplace a kidnapping victim would be held. One wheeled stool for the doctor with a rip in the vinyl, one table for the patient, one small sink, one metal tray with one long, sharp-looking metal instrument. The unshaven guy — is he even a doctor? — asks you a few questions. Are you married. How many sexual partners have you had. How often do you have sex. Have you ever been pregnant before. Is this your first procedure. No, but this is your first time hearing the word “procedure” used in such an ominous way. You spy blood in the sink. There will be no proceeding here. You leave. You’ll sooner have another baby.

You call Evelyn back, describe what you’ve just been through, she says she’s real sorry you had to go through that, can only imagine , says she may know one more person who has a contact, she’ll call back later with a number. Tell them you’re calling about their special services , Evelyn says when she calls back. Nothing about this seems special to you.

You do as instructed and receive an address for a clinic in the West Village. The clinic is not marked as such; it’s on the ground floor of a brownstone that looks like any other residential brownstone. Four other women are waiting, looking as nervous as you do. One of them is visibly pregnant. A receptionist hands you a card to fill out with relevant medical information, again asking for only your first name. Previous pregnancies—2, Miscarriages—1, Major illnesses—0. Emergency contact — none. You hand this back to the receptionist; she glances at it, hands it right back. You have to put an emergency contact. You look at her — doesn’t she know why you haven’t filled that out? She does. You have to put someone on there or you can’t get the services. The services. Now they’re not even special anymore. You put down Audrey’s number and pray to god it’s never needed. In your heart you know Audrey would be nothing but discreet and gentle about it, but this is a secret that will go down with you.

The receptionist escorts you to the back; this time, thank heavens, the doctor’s office looks like a doctor’s office. You’re in good hands , she says. The doctor is female, introduces herself as Joan. You’ve never met a female doctor before, though it’s not news to you that they exist. Your eyes start filling up as soon as she extends her hand. Maybe she’s not really a doctor. Why didn’t you ask anyone before you came here? You are the queen of asking questions. Dr. Joan hands you a tissue, puts an arm on your shoulder, gestures to the table with the stirrups, explains the procedure step by step, asks if you have any questions before she begins. You shake your head, I guess not . Dr. Joan senses that you’re still not sure about any of this. If this were legal, Lois , she says, it would be the same procedure. I’m a licensed obstetrician, even though I am listed as not currently practicing. Some women aren’t so lucky.