Unwanted Read online

  Grace laughs, probably realizing why I’m in so much awe over something so simple, since everything else has been fucking uncomfortable in every way. Before I can get any more comfortable, she says, “Emma, I know you have told this story repeatedly…” She counts down my chart. “But it looks like you have had three doctors since your baby’s birth and have been admitted to three inpatient clinics. I’m not doing this to you to punish you, but I can gather a lot of your experience from your tone and the words you use. It helps me to gauge it better. We don’t have to go through it all at one time. But I need to understand where it went terribly wrong.”

  I start to talk because I can tell her when the shit hit the fan, but she stops me. “I know you think you know where it went wrong, and, sweetie, that is quite possibly the problem.” I nod my head in agreement as she continues, “So let’s just discuss your pregnancy for now, and if you’re ready to continue with the birth and the aftercare, then we continue. If not, we’ll start tomorrow.”

  “I’ll see you every day?” I had been told this, but I didn’t quite believe it.

  “For now, you will. And Dr. Lazer, you will see him twice a week for counseling. He’ll go over what we discuss, what works for you, and manage your medicine. I want to get to know you, and I feel I can’t treat you without a little bit of backstory.”

  I stare at a nail hole in the wall. Something must have been hung there because it was as if the back of the picture was dragged across the barrier separating Grace’s office from the outdoors. I’m fixated on this hole and wonder if Grace will interrupt this peaceful time. She says nothing to me and waits while she zones in at what has my attention. I look around the room, trying to figure out what picture hung there. Regarding her diplomas, I see the one from UCLA, and I smile. I love my alma mater. “Did you go to UCLA for your undergrad?” I ask.

  “I did, along with medical school.”

  “But I thought you were just a therapist?” I say, trying to find her MD certificate. “Oh, I’m sorry, wow, that sounded like a bitchy thing to say. It was just that I didn’t know you were a medical doctor.”

  “You know what’s odd. You are the first person I’ve ever told. And not for any other reason than you asked. I find that when we ask direct questions, we get a direct answer.” I stifle a laugh, nothing applicable in her words. I love the sarcasm in my head because I never sound like a bitch when I think it to myself. “And technically, I’m not an MD. I never took my finals. Three years and seven months of school, with the idea I would specialize in psychiatry, and I quit. The best decision I made.”

  I lean back in my chair, confused. “Why would you do a stupid thing like that?”

  “Life circumstances being what they are. But that is enough about me for now. I’ll open up more, I promise. I’ll reveal stuff about me. You are the only one who has asked these questions, which tells me something about you. You think of others more than yourself or you are trying at least.”

  “Or I’m just fucking nosy,” I say, and she doesn’t flinch at my words.

  “True, but I think it is more of you regarding others first. So are we going to discuss your pregnancy?”

  Back to the one thing I want to avoid but I can’t, so I might as well hit it with all I have. “First, it took me forever to get pregnant. I found out four years before we finally conceived that a traditional impregnation was very unlikely. However, we tried for years to get pregnant by other options, and then we decided on IVF. The first round was not successful, but I got pregnant with the baby the second time. I guess I took in everything about the pregnancy, but to get pregnant was a bitch. My emotions from the medicines were all over the place, but I seemed better when I knew I finally had what I wanted with the positive pregnancy test. I’m sure I was a bit hormonal, but I wasn’t going to let anything ruin this time, knowing it was probably the only time I’d carry a baby.”

  I stop, and Grace doesn’t say a word. She only waits for me to continue, and somehow, her eyes are almost magical, giving me the energy to push forward.

  “I did everything right. I mean, I read all the books, slept at least eight hours, ate organic, walked, stayed away from processed foods, and I even talked to the baby. “

  “Did you know what you were having?”

  I laugh at this story because it is one that has some of the best memories of any trip we’ve ever taken. Then remembering it all overwhelmed me. Grace lets me have a few moments to relive a wonderful time in my life.

  After the first IVF failed and before the second round, Tyler took me to Colorado to go skiing in Aspen. I knew that another failed IVF was not an option. I mean, it took its toll on both of us and on our marriage. In my heart, fate couldn’t be so cruel to a couple who wanted a baby so badly. I stop at those words because fate has been cruel to us in a different way. Anyway, while we're in Denver, I talked about this being our time to conceive. Obviously, the baby would not be conceived in the normal way. But I needed normalcy, so I told Ty one night that this trip would bring us the baby we so desperately wanted, and when we got pregnant next month, we would name the baby after our trip in Colorado. Regardless, this baby would be made in love, so we spent all vacation “trying,” which is the fun part, after all, and hell, we needed fun. He was the one who suggested Aspen for a girl, and I suggested Denver for a boy.

  She is staring blankly at me when I am yanked from this particular recollection. “Ah, sorry, Grace, I was thinking of fond memories.”

  “Can you share it?”

  I nod my head and start spilling all the details of the trip. Grace listens intently, not writing anything down. “That is a sweet story, and you had every right to want normalcy.”

  “Ty would always say this baby was still made in love. It may not be the way we thought, but this baby exists because we love one another.”

  Leaning forward, she places her elbows on her knees and asks, “He seems like a smart man. But do you still love Tyler?”

  “Oh, probably even more.”

  “How did he react when you tried to kill yourself?”

  At her words, I’m dizzy; it’s almost as if I’m watching myself from a corner of her room, like an out-of-body experience. “At first, I was mad that I didn’t succeed. Ty was upset, scared, worried. If it were an emotion, he wore it on his face. But mad—I think he was mostly angry with me.”

  “And you said you were mad that you survived?” Her tone is calm, not accusing, and neutral.

  “It wasn’t until a day or two later; probably when we got home from the hospital.” I remember our time together, and it’s magical. By the smile on my face, I don’t have to say much more. “We spent some time with one another, and in his arms, I knew why I lived; it was for him. But when my stepfather came to take me to LA, I saw something in Tyler that made me break. I realized as I’d be lost without him, he’d be lost without me. So that is when I began taking ownership of my recovery, for him.”

  “But not Aspen?”

  Reaching my hands up in the air, as to stretch, it gives me time to think of an honest answer that Grace is able to work with. Figuring out how to relate to this baby when her birth almost killed me has been the bread and butter of my treatment. “I wanted this baby.” My tone this time has no feeling behind it.

  “Then tell me, Emma; you’ve been living through this broken bond with Aspen for so long; what do you think happened?”

  Putting my head in my hands, I need a second when she isn’t watching me to answer her questions. Looking up after a moment, I only say, “When I went into labor, the pain didn’t bother me. I remember I was nervous that something would happen to this baby. I mean, she was the only chance I had at being a mom.” Taking a deep breath, I say, “The next thing I know, I’m being wheeled back to the O.R. My water broke in the waiting room, and I started screaming because the pain was so intense. Of course, I’d never been through labor, but it hurt like fucking hell. I felt like I was being murdered. Then the doctor came in, yelling stuff and tell
ing Tyler to get out of the room. He was refusing, and I was in and out of it. I remember the doctor saying, “We are losing the mom.” I thought I was dead then because when I woke up, I was different. I didn’t care about the baby, didn’t ask about her. They told me my woman bits were gone, but I didn’t care. Tyler was next to me and tried to show me the baby, and at the time, I called her the monster who almost killed me.” Panting as I remember this time so vividly—the worry on Tyler’s face is etched in my mind, and I can’t seem to catch my breath.

  As my breathing quickens and my head spins, I am back in the O.R. that day with Aspen and Tyler is yelling for me. He is saying one of our many taglines. “You are a fucking badass, Ems. You will pull through.” Then it hits me that he has seen me almost die twice in a span of six months.

  Now, I am hyperventilating. Grace takes my hands in hers, her voice low and monotonous as she speaks. “Emma, let’s breathe through this, honey. Take long, deep breaths and count. Just like they taught you in birthing class. Take a deep breath, count to three, and then let it out with a count of three. It is okay, Emma. I’m right here.” I’m breathing like she says. With her holding my hand, I feel safe—as if someone gets it. She’s listening to me without spewing what she thinks is wrong.

  As I continue to calm myself, she says, “First off, that is what I would call an anxiety attack. It is normal to have them, and when you do, breathing exercises is one way to combat them. At the retreat, we use the time-out sign as they do in sports to ask for a break from something when you feel one coming on. If you need help, you let us know by snapping your fingers, and one of the staff members will come over and help you. The idea is for you to learn to soothe yourself. That way, you are one step closer to entering the world again.”

  Still shaky, I continue taking deep breaths as she asks, “I know most doctors and counselors are slinging around the big word of postpartum psychosis. A lot of research exists about this matter concerning this diagnosis. And well, I have no doubt this may be an issue, but Dr. Lazer and I have spoken concerning this. We’ve worked with many people to overcome postpartum. It irritates me. Technically, postpartum isn’t a medical diagnosis, but as is anything in the mental field, the United States puts mental care on the back burner and then everyone wonders why such horrible shootings and violence exists.” She pauses. “I’m sorry, I’ll get off my soap box.” Smiling, I understand what she means.

  “Anyway, I feel the success rate with the strategies I have learned have been some of the highest. But has anyone talked to you about post-traumatic stress?”

  “No, they label me with the severest of postpartum, medicate me, and make me go to group therapy and meet with me maybe once or twice a week,” I say plainly. The sarcasm in my voice lets her know I’m not a fan of group therapy.

  “Group therapy has its place and is vital to both you and what I have outlined for your treatment, but there is more to it. Just like there is always more to the diagnosis. You asked me why I didn’t finish medical school. Well, as you were looking at the nail hole that has been empty for some time, I’ll say, I took down my doctorate in psychology. I stopped just shy of becoming an MD because I wanted to focus on recovery using nontraditional methods.

  “I have always been a bit of a loose cannon. I know that sounds stupid, but my parents about freaked out when I dropped out so close to graduation. There is more to the patient than the typical treatment plan. The only reason I wished I’d finished my MD is to have more validity in the findings of success at our little commune. Anyway, long story short, your treatment is built for you and you alone. Sure, dealing with postpartum plays into your lack of empathy when it comes to Aspen, but postpartum and PTSD have continued to hit you from every side.”

  “So what now?”

  “We’re going to work on the trauma, too. I don’t think it was the birth, per se, but the trauma of you hearing that you were dying. You are blaming the one person who resulted, your daughter, and we need to work on placing the blame somewhere else.”

  “Grace, I’m a smart person. In my mind, I know it was not a little baby’s fault, but relaying that to my heart is another matter.”

  Grace stands. “That is good to know. That means we have one obstacle behind us. Tomorrow, I want you prepared to talk more about how you felt when you woke up. I know this takes a lot out of you, and hell, my methods have been questioned in the past, but let's work together, Emma. I want you home with your husband and daughter.”

  As she gives me her hand to help me up, I give her a weak smile. “I want that, too.”

  After only three days at this new facility, what they call “The Retreat,” I’m optimistic for the first time since my first near-death experience. When I ask Grace if we can work slowly toward group therapy, she reluctantly gives me a reprieve for a few days. Thank fuck because she has honestly put me through the wringer, and I really don’t think I can handle a group of women right now. Hell, I can’t normally handle them when I’m mentally well, so how the hell will I handle them when I’m not?

  Pushing the door open, I hear a slight muffled noise and am surprised to see Jolie lying on her bed. She appears to be crying. I’m not a girl’s kind of girl. I have my sisters and a couple of friends from college, but I’ve never bonded with many women on my own. I’m sure I exude this bitch-like exterior, but I have Ty and my dad and the handful of ladies I mentioned, and I’m fine with the small group I’ve aligned myself with. I’m not sure how to proceed with Jolie. I thought she had therapy with Grace this afternoon and an appointment with the retreat’s doctor.

  I’m much older than she is and should really be good at this, but I’m not. How can I offer comfort to her? Hell, if I did, I’d try to comfort myself. I finally say, “Jolie, I’m back. I didn’t mean to scare you, sweetie.”

  Looking at me from her pillow, she’s surprised to see me. Wiping away her tears, she sits up, though I know from experience, it is hard to do. “Jolie, you don’t have to talk to me, but are you okay? Can I get you something? Do you need Grace or the doctor?”

  “No, I’m fine. Just overwhelmed by everything, that’s all.”

  She must be like me. I’m reluctant to open up although I’m surrounded by a bunch of women who share everything, and I mean everything. Jane and Lila go into detail concerning their sex life, and Rose tells me about every cramp she gets with her periods. Lila, too, is open, even more so than Jane. Rose talks about every feeling from the tip of her nose to the bottom of her toes and every emotion in between, but I’m not sure how to help Jolie. Especially since she’s so much like me.

  “Is your baby okay?”

  With a little smile crossing her face, she says, “Oh, yes, the baby is good.”

  Jolie seems to brighten at the thought of her child, so I continue with that route. “How far along are you?” She looks like she can pop any day.

  “I’m thirty-one weeks.”

  Holy hell, she has nine more weeks to go. How’s that possible? Before I can say anything, she starts, “I know, I look further along. I’m as huge as a whale.”

  I’d never say that to a pregnant woman. I was asked several times if I was having twins. I always wanted to slap those idiots and say, “Don’t you think that is something I would have led with, fuckpickle?” Though I never did, the temptation was great.

  “You want to discuss what’s bothering you? I have been known to be a good listener.” I must be, to get a word in edgewise with my three sisters.

  “My parents can still legally make me go home if the judge doesn’t allow me to stay here. I met with a lawyer, but I can’t expect the retreat to pay for it. My parents tried to get me to have an abortion. I’m not going back to them. This is not what I wanted, but the baby is alive inside me. How can they make me?”

  “Why are they still fighting this? The judge let you come here, right?”

  “No, I didn’t take the chance, so I ran away. I wasn’t going to let them take this away from me. Sure, I’m young, and this is
not what I want for my life, but this”—she points at her belly—“is a part of me. If they take my child from me, they might as well kill me.”

  Oh, how I remember feeling that same way. I clarify. “And your parents wanted you to abort your child?”

  Jolie has her hands laced together, looking at them aimlessly just as I had looked at that fucking nail hole in Grace’s office. I wonder what she’s thinking? As Grace did, I let her wait until she is ready to speak.

  “This baby was not conceived in love but in hate. The father is a bad man, and they feel I’m bringing a monster into this world, but I have to think this baby is a part of me. I’m not perfect, but my goodness, if I raise him or her right, that should count for something, don’t you think?”

  The words are too awful to even conjure up on my tongue. After being raped—that’s what she’s telling me—she still wants this baby. She’s trembling as if reliving that fateful day. “Jolie, of course, that counts for something.” I truly believe this. We can debate nature vs. nurture all day long, but in the end, I’ve always felt in my gut the nurture wins. I want to ask her so many questions, but it’s not my place, and it’s certainly not the time. So I grasp her hands in mine and sit on the bed to consider her bright green eyes. They are so innocent, and for this reason, I truly believe this young girl will make a good mother. It goes against everything I’ve believed in the past, but maybe, just maybe, Grace knew what she was doing when she put Jolie and me together.

  Two weeks later, I’m still meeting with Grace every day, and during our last session, she talked me into calling my dad and Ty. Because I know them both so well, I scheduled a time with Ty because maintaining the baby’s schedule is so important. I almost insisted on it when I was pregnant. It’s funny how the things that mattered to me so much then don’t now, but I’m touched he’s doing what I wanted. However, with my dad, if I were to give him a chance to really think about what he’s going to say to me, I’m not sure the conversation would go as well.