A New Life (2 page)

My mother sighed and sat in the glider. She was muttering to herself about not being needed when something warm trickled down my leg.

There was a red stain on the carpet next to my foot. Blood snaked down my ankle leading to it. My mother saw it a split second after I did. She jumped up and literally pushed me out of the way. “I’ll finish this. You call the doctor now.”

I cleaned up and grabbed the phone. It was 10:14 p.m. I felt a bit foolish dialing the emergency line. The doctor got right back to me, though. “What have you been doing?” he asked.

When I told him, he explained very slowly, like I was an idiot, that if I didn’t lie down, I would end up in the emergency room and quite likely back in the hospital. “You won’t be able to take care of your son, your house, or anything then. Call me immediately if you saturate more than a pad an hour or if the bleeding doesn’t slow when you lie down.”

I lay down, but brought Henry with me to nurse. Zach put him in the bassinet at midnight and he woke at 1:03 a.m. to nurse again. My mother came in when he woke. “Please let me give him a bottle. Look at you, you can’t even open your eyes. You need to sleep. Give him some formula,” she begged.

Hamlet was rattling his cage to come out too. Hamlet was the one who trained us to wake up in the middle of the night when he wanted to play, which was every night until recently. He’s the one who trained Zach and me to take care of something small and helpless. I put drops in his tiny nostrils and swabbed his eyes with antibiotic ointment for ten days when he was sick just a month earlier. I felt so guilty ignoring him. Zach kneeled in front of his cage, said, “Hey buddy,” and took him out.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Henry was wailing. My mother brought him to me.

My father came in then. The crying had wakened him. “Your mother’s right. The other girls fed formula. Why can’t you? Denise didn’t even feed the baby a bottle herself until he was a week old. She rested and had your mother and the baby nurse take care of him. Paula adopted and she had a baby nurse. Why you didn’t get a baby nurse, I don’t know.”

My head was too heavy to reason. I couldn’t explain that if I gave him formula now he wouldn’t breastfeed successfully. I couldn’t explain that I didn’t care that my sisters both formula fed and had baby nurses. I chose to breastfeed and change diapers myself. Paula didn’t have a choice, and Denise had postpartum depression. My nipples were cracked and bleeding, my head throbbed. Henry was screaming and boom…my milk came in.

“Get the hell out,” I hissed. “He’s my child.” I immediately felt guilty. They traveled hours to get here the day he was born, but it was too late.

“At least we’re here,” my mother said, her voice cracking. “Not like the others. If you want us to leave though, we will.” At her words Zach put Hamlet in his exercise ball and left the room, not saying a word.

****

Four days before my due date Zach had announced that his parents were leaving for a vacation in the Florida Keys the next day.

I snorted. “Very funny.”

We had a running argument for days over whose mother would get to help the most the first few days with the baby.

“I’m not joking,” he said. “My dad said they need to get away, so they’re going for two weeks. One week if it’s a boy, I guess, so they won’t miss the bris.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” I couldn’t believe they would skip town just before their first grandchild was due. It was my parent’s fourth and they called every night to see if I was having regular contractions, so they could get on the road for the five-hour trip. They already had directions to the hospital, their bags packed and the car gassed. And Zach’s parents were a two-day car ride away, at best.

They called once in the hospital—just returning Zach’s call the day Henry was born. I will never forget the hurt in Zach’s eyes when he asked me why they weren’t calling, or even turning around and coming home. “Don’t they care?” he implored. Becoming a parent was supposed to be the happiest moment of his life, and he felt abandoned by his own parents. Was it any wonder I agreed with my mother on this one thing?

“Go tell him you’re sorry,” I said anyway. “He’s really hurt by this.” She nodded and left.

After Henry nursed, I stumbled into the bathroom. The bleeding had slowed—one good thing.

In the morning, my parents were too polite. “Time to nurse,” my mother said cheerfully when Henry began wailing fifteen minutes after he finished. “He must not be getting enough if he has to do it so much. He should be satisfied for at least a few hours.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s called cluster feeding and it’s perfectly normal. The nurses at the hospital told me all about it.” I sounded much more rational than I actually felt. When I changed Henry’s diaper though, I was horrified. It was stained orange, one of the warning signs under the
When to Call the Doctor
section in my discharge papers. A sign of dehydration. “Stay calm,” I told myself, but my hands were shaking fastening the fresh diaper. I held up the old one, it was no bigger than a doll’s diaper, and rubbed it between my fingers. Was it wet? I couldn’t tell. I just couldn’t tell.

The pediatrician reassured me that it was probably just a chemical reaction with the diaper, if he had no other signs of dehydration. “Just watch him,” he said, like I could do anything else.

His next four diapers were definitely wet and he had two diaper blowouts. I recorded this information in a small green notebook under the heading
Henry’s Poops and Pees.
I was amazed that I found another’s bodily functions so endlessly fascinating.

My mother came into my room and sat next to me while I was nursing again. I was surprised at my lack of modesty, I had no shame baring my breasts in front of her or any other female, related or not. “You’re doing a great job, Gracie,” she said, quietly. “Really, I’m very proud of you. Your father is too. Your sisters never got right into it like you.”

“Thanks,” was the last word I said before I fell asleep holding Henry to my breast.

****

One week before Henry was born, Zach and I had walked around the marina by our apartment. I was contracting pretty strongly before we stopped to rest and eat our ice cream cones. I leaned back into Zach as we sat on an iron bench. The Boston skyline winked at us from across the water. “Well,” I sighed. “Any day now our lives will be turned upside down.”

Zach rubbed my shoulder. “Maybe our lives won’t be turned upside down, but right side up.”

I held this thought in my heart, when Henry was three and a half weeks old and he smiled at me for the first time. He had reflexive smiles before, just his little rosebud mouth turning up at the corners at nothing in particular, but this, this was a real smile.

“Henry,” I cooed. “Mommy loves you.”

Suddenly, his face changed; it lit up. Every feature smiled. His eyes twinkled, his nose crinkled and I fell madly in love all over again. I tried to get him to smile again, cooing and tickling under his chin. Miraculously, he did, even bigger than the last.
Maybe he loves me as much as I love him
, I thought and my heart almost split. Maybe our lives were turned right side up into a new life.

I was broken out of my reverie, by Zach’s cries, “Grace, get in here now. There’s something wrong with Hamlet.” When I walked into the bedroom, Zach was kneeling in front of the cage. “He’s just lying there crying. He fell over when he tried to get up.”

I never heard a hamster cry, but it was a heartrending sound. Half squeak, half whimper. “Take him out,” I said. “Hold him.”

Zach took him out of the cage and wrapped him in a t-shirt, he stopped crying and fell asleep, his little paws twitching. “Maybe he’s just tired or slipped or something,” Zach said, hopefully. “Maybe he’s okay.”

Zach held Hamlet all night, while I held Henry who, for the previous two weeks, only slept on my chest. I half slept propped up by pillows while Henry nursed on and off all night. He screamed in protest each time he tried to nurse on the left side, so I kept switching him to the right. This happened almost every hour.

Hamlet woke when Henry did, cried a bit then fell back to sleep. When Zach placed him in his cage in the morning, he walked stiffly into the corner and fell into a fitful sleep. “Get some peanut butter,” I told Zach. Hamlet licked a bit off, but refused the water Zach offered him.

I was desperately trying to get Henry latched on to my left side. The more I tried, the more he howled in protest. I felt like I had a cement ball wrapped in fingers of fire in my breast. Just cupping my breast to nurse hurt like hell. My face was burning up and everything ached.

“Oh my God, Grace. Hamlet just fell over.” Zach’s voice had a desperate quality I had never heard before. I stood up slowly and crossed the room, not wanting to see what I knew I would: a scene that a four weeks postpartum, delirious woman should never see. I handed Zach Henry. Sobbing, I reached for the phone to call the vet. I knew the number by heart. Hamlet had been in three times in the past two months.

“Bring him in,” they told me. “He’s a very old hamster. We’ll put him to sleep humanely.”

I hung up the phone and whispered, “But he’s only two and a half.”

****

Zach had brought Hamlet home for me a few months after we got engaged. I had crashed on the couch after staying up all night to make a deadline for the magazine I wrote for, when I heard tiny squeaks and scratching. “I have someone I’d like you to meet,” Zach whispered in my ear.

I sat up and rubbed my eyes. He held a small blue box with air holes. “You didn’t bring me a rodent, did you?” I asked hazily. “I told you I wanted to get a kitten.”

“You know we’re not allowed to have cats or dogs here. Come on, just meet him.” Zach opened the box and held it out to me. “His name is Hamlet, because you love Shakespeare. I know you really want something cute and furry to come home to, especially when I work late. Just give him a chance—don’t think of him as a rodent. Think of him as a pet.”

That tiny, furry gray and white body, that little pink nose, those earnest black eyes all conspired to steal my heart. I cuddled him all weekend. He eased my stress while I prepared to interview one of my favorite musicians from my college days, in Boston on tour. I stroked his fur, while we listened to the CDs in preparation. I sang into his little pink ears and kissed his nose. One slow song always calmed him. I put it on now. We were preparing to say goodbye and the song just fit.

“Let’s take him to Angell Memorial, instead of our regular vet.” Zach said. “It’s the best in the city. We owe it to him.”

I nodded; my head and my breast were burning up. I took my temperature. It was 102.4. Right after my doctor told me I had mastitis and should go to the emergency room since it was Sunday, Hamlet started crying again.

I took a couple of Tylenol and made a split decision to take the hamster to the vet instead of going to the emergency room. He was more than a $6 hamster; he was our pet. Hamlet traveled with us to a resort in Lake George, an inn on the Cape (three times), a motel in Connecticut and countless trips to my parents in New York. At the inn we were known as
the hamster people
and the no pets rule was lifted. Every morning we were there Hamlet was invited down to breakfast where he had some cantaloupe and Cheerios before we put him back in his cage.

During our wedding ceremony, the rabbi told our guests, “Zach and Grace are great parents, just ask Hamlet. Imagine when they have real babies.”

When I did go to have a
real baby
, I kissed Hamlet goodbye. A picture of him was even my focus object during labor. But for four weeks I barely paid attention to him. Zach made sure that he played with him and stroked his fur, but I had been too tired and preoccupied to do much more than call out hello.

I peeked into Hamlet’s cage. “Hi baby,” I cooed. He didn’t even lift his head. I turned back to Zach; his eyes were rimmed red. “I know,” I whispered as he handed Henry to me.

The phone rang. Zach answered it. “We had a little delay. Hamlet is sick. We’ll get there when we can.”

“My mother?” I mouthed. To make everything worse, we were supposed to be in New York for Rosh Hashanah—the Jewish New Year and a High Holy Day—before sundown. Zach handed me the phone even though I waved “no” with my free hand.

“Are you going to miss dinner?” my mother asked.

“Ma, Hamlet is really sick. I think we need to put him to sleep.” She sucked in her breath. I knew she was remembering the day she called me in tears, just having put our 15-year-old terrier to sleep. I tried so hard not to cry. “Listen,” I said quickly. “I’ve gotta finish packing. We need to get him to the doctor now.”

On the way, we played his favorite song, and I held him on my lap. Henry fell asleep when we got in the car. I’d nursed him before we left, just the right side, I was too tired to try the left. He woke up, screaming, as soon as we walked into the emergency clinic. While Zach checked in Hamlet, I sat in a corner and draped a blanket over my shoulder. It was the first time I nursed in public and I kept checking, side to side, to see if anyone was looking. Rather than risk his screaming, I offered the right side again. Henry fell back to sleep before Zach returned with a diagnosis sheet that said
Hamster Flat Out
at the top. He tried to hide it from me, but I saw it anyway.

“Flat out? What the hell does that mean?”

Zach just shook his head. The room was drenched in that hospital smell. I closed my eyes, and it was just four weeks earlier and all was right. Henry just arrived; Hamlet was sleeping snuggly in his cage. For a moment I forgot where I was, then the door swung open. A man walked in carrying a white dog wrapped in a towel, his coat stained bright red with blood. “He was dragged behind the car,” his owner cried.

“How can you let that happen?” I wanted to scream. But, I kept my mouth shut. Hamlet was still crying. “Why aren’t they taking him? Maybe I should go ask.”

Zach put his hand on my leg, “No. I don’t think it’s going to make a difference now.”

It was an hour before they took us, and I just watched Hamlet wasting away, but when the vet, Dr. Wilson, examined him, Hamlet squirmed and struggled to get out of her grasp. She held him up and said, “I don’t think he’s dying. He’s dehydrated and undernourished, but I think that’s because he has a cyst in his stomach, I feel it.”