Searchterm Entry #2: Stillborn
The second entry to our Search Term Challenge, a heart-wrenching tale of a struggling marriage. For details of the challenge, and to see other entries, click here.
The author of this entry is Allan T. Michaels, whose other writing may be found over on his website.
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Stillborn
“Stillborn,” the doctor announced, and my heart broke. I sobbed over and over, the tears flowing down my cheeks. This was our miracle. Or at least, it was supposed to be. I could still remember three years ago when Dr. Golightly gave us the devastating news. It appeared that we were infertile. I never blamed Timothy for his low motile count. I loved him; had since high school.
Despite the bad news, we’d continued trying. We were determined that we’d be parents. Of course, adoption was always an option, and one we seriously explored. But I could tell from the sadness around Timothy’s eyes that he really wanted a son of his own. Someone to carry on the family name, someone to whom he could give his grandad’s cufflinks.
He’d be a whiz with the ladies, Timothy having taught him all his tricks. (I never had the heart to tell him that my friends all thought him terribly cliché and silly – but I loved every one of them). The kind of boy who could play for the football team, but would rather join the debate team. He’d also know how to treat a girl. He would be concerned with who she was as a person, and wouldn’t always be trying to get into her pants.
I wanted a daughter. Someone who I could play dress-up with, who I could catch trying on my shoes and makeup, someone I could give my hope chest to. And she’d be the apple of her father’s eye. She’d have him wrapped around his little finger. He’d act tough and nonchalant, but would melt when she called him “daddy” and be overprotective when a boy first came to take her out on a date. I would laugh at the image of Timothy, standing with arms crossed, doing his best to intimidate some sixteen year old boy, insisting that he have her home no later than ten o’clock.
She’d be beautiful and smart, popular and funny. She’d be the kind of girl who runs for student body president, never forgets a birthday and writes longhand thank you notes to those of her friends who came to her slumber party. She’d marry a sweet and charming boy, like her father, and Tim would cry as he gave his toast and then danced the father-daughter dance.
So we never gave up hope that, like Sarah and Abraham, we’d be blessed with our own little miracle. I won’t lie; the extra sex was great, at least at first. So many married couples seem to peter out when it comes to their libidos. Not us. We fucked like rabbits for weeks at a time.
At first, it was great. But as month after month passed, and I kept getting my period, the sex took on a desperate edge. It was no longer an expression of love, or even a chance to have fun. It became a chore, and with each failure, I could feel Timothy draw further and further away from me, blaming himself for our continued inability to conceive.
The day I proposed a stop date, I saw him cry. I was so heartbroken, I just couldn’t stand to disappoint him. So I started researching on the internet. I went to all the medical websites and then, expanded my search parameters. I thought outside the box, looking for anything that might help us have our baby. There was nothing I wasn’t willing to try. Sexual positions, special underwear, change in diet.
I even began looking into old wives tales and sideshow fables, tales of strange births and freaks. I certainly didn’t want a freak, but if our daughter was destined to be a bearded lady, at least she’d be our bearded lady. Anything to take the sadness out of Timothy’s eyes, to make our lovemaking a thing of beauty and joy, instead of a loveless ritual, practiced more out of habit than desire. I don’t want to make it sound like it was all his fault. I was just as bad, when it came to our personal interactions.
After a while, Timothy even gave up making jokes, stopped displaying the sense of humor that had made me fall in love with him in the first place. He used to say things like, “Look at the bright side…at least the house will be quiet. My mother still complains about all the noise made by my bellowing bastard brothers.” I’d try and smile, but it was hollow.
And then, one day, a miracle. I was late! I ran to the pharmacy section of the local grocery store and bought one of each kind of pregnancy test they had. I had more lines and blue sticks than I knew what to do with. I called Dr. Golightly and scheduled an appointment for the next day. Having worked with us for over two years, he accommodated my request for an appointment immediately.
I had never been so nervous sitting in a doctor’s office in my life. Time seemed to slow as I sat in the waiting room, anxiously awaiting my turn. I’d bite my lip in anticipation every time I heard the door open. Finally, they called my name. I practically sprinted to the examination room, beginning to unbutton my blouse to change into the paper robe, even before the nurse closed the door.
I endured the examination with a surprising amount of patience, in my opinion, although I think Dr. Golightly could sense my fidgeting. “Good news,” he announced. “You’re pregnant.”
I wept with joy.
Now, I was weeping with a deep grief. I had failed. After months of rising hopes, our dreams had been dashed on the harsh rocks of reality. Something had gone terribly wrong in my womb. It appeared that God did not want Timothy and I having a baby. Being happy. I had no idea what I’d done wrong.
All I knew was that there was nothing left. No hope. No happiness. Nothing left for us but a dirty house.
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