See disclaimers in part 1
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All Before Noon 2/4
By Lacy
The elevator ride is a blur, except that she clings tightly to me, her
arms around my waist and her head on my shoulder. The waiting room is
deserted when we arrive. Donna touches the bell on the counter to
announce our arrival. A woman, the doctor I assume, pokes her head
out through the door and beckons us beyond the waiting room. She's
diminutive, making Donna look like an Amazon in comparison, and she
wears her brown hair in a short, bobbed cut. She's dressed casually
in jeans and a lab coat.
"I give my receptionist Saturdays off, since they're usually pretty
quiet," she explains. "I'm Sylvia Burgess," she introduces, "and
you're Josh Lyman."
It's strange when people tell you who you are. I'm much more
comfortable when they say 'Hey. You know, you look just like that guy
from....' Then I can inform of them my name. "Josh," I shake her
hand. "Call me Josh."
"You two ready?" she asks, but I get the feeling the question is
largely rhetorical. She leads us to a room with a nameplate on it
that says 'ultrasound'. "Donna, there's a gown for you to change
into." She points to the open bathroom door, with a prepped gown
hanging on the inside hook.
Donna takes the gown and disappears into the bathroom. I notice the
charts and graphs on the wall, each of them proclaiming different
stages of fetal growth and once again, the feeling of being an
enormous fish out of water overwhelms me.
I don't think I could feel more out of place if this were a women's
hair salon. I feel as though I have breached the most sacred bastion
of femininity. Any minute now I'm going to be tossed mercilessly into
the moat, for daring to allow my masculine feet to intrude upon the
most holy of holies.
"You've got the look," Dr. Burgess' voice interrupts my thoughts.
"I'm sorry?"
"That first time Oh-my-God-I-don't-belong-here look," she elaborates.
I consider denial. "Guilty as charged," I confess. "You've seen it
before?"
"At least once a week. Every first-timer gets 'the look'. New dads
really don't know what to do when they come here. In fact, they just
generally don't know what to do."
"I thought it was just me."
"Believe me. It's not."
"So, what am I supposed to do?"
"Sit," she tells me, pointing to a stool next the rather
frightening-looking examination table, that I know can't be
comfortable. I sit. I guess I'm expecting her to sit me down so that
she can launch into an explanation of all the things that an expectant
father is supposed to know and do - but she doesn't. Instead, she
goes about prepping the table and the ultrasound machine in
anticipation of Donna re-entrance.
"Any words of advice?" I prompt.
"Nope," she responds, much to my disappointment.
"You're killing me here, Doctor."
"Okay, then. One piece of advice," she throws me a crumb. "Anything
to get that look of desperation off your face."
I hadn't realized my face looked quite so desperate. I make an
attempt to school my features into something more resembling intense
interest. I'm pretty sure I'm about to crash and burn. "I'm
listening," I inform her.
"I can't tell you what you're supposed to do, Josh. Only she can.
Ask her. Listen to what she tells you, but most importantly, listen
to what she doesn't tell you."
I'm having flashbacks of Dr. Kreskin - I mean...Wilborn. What is it
about female doctors that make me feel like I'm getting advice on how
to be a good Jedi from Yoda himself?
"There is no try. There is only do, or do not," I mumble under my
breath.
"What was that?" she smiles.
"Nothing. Nevermind."
When Donna emerges from the bathroom, having taken her sweet time
undressing in there (and I know for a fact that she can undress a
whole lot faster), I feel like I've received a much welcomed pardon.
She smiles at me, shyly, which is enough to make me feel suddenly
uncomfortable again. My reprieve was a short one, indeed.
"Did you bring a videotape, Donna?"
This captures my attention and my ears perk up. A videotape? Donna
locates her purse, extracts a freshly purchased blank tape from its
depths, and hands it to the doctor. Burgess takes it, unceremoniously
ripping off the cellophane wrapping, and pops the tape into a VCR
attached the machine.
"We get a videotape?" I ask.
"Baby's first picture," she confirms. "The wonders of technology.
I'm going to need you to lie down on the table, Donna."
I take her hand to help her up and she accepts it, even though she
really doesn't need my assistance. Our eyes meet and hold, and I can
see in her blue depths that she's just as nervous as I am. For some
reason, I feel better knowing this. There is an unexpected but
welcome sense that we are in this together.
Once she settles comfortably on the table, I resume my seat without
releasing her hand. Her gown opens in the front, leaving her abdomen
bare for examination. Dr. Burgess shakes out a tube of conducive gel,
before removing its cap.
"This is going to be cold, Donna," Dr. Burgess warns before squeezing
a liberal amount of the goop on to her stomach. Donna recoils
slightly from the cold gel, but makes no verbal complaint. Dr.
Burgess adjusts several knobs and dials on the ultrasound before
picking up the transducer and dangling it over its target. "Okay,"
she announces, "let's see how the baby's doing in here. You ready?"
Donna nods, but it takes me a moment to realize that Dr. Burgess was
including me in her inquiry and is waiting for my go ahead. I nod
too, because an arid patch in my throat is currently preventing
speech.
The fluid and rhythmic swoosh-swoosh sound begins when the transducer
hones in on Donna's solid, but still flat belly. It surprises me how
firmly the doctor must press down. She turns back to the monitor to
watch her progress as she adjusts the transducer for, what I assume,
must be the best angle.
"Hello, there," she says, speaking to monitor.
Well, maybe it's just me, but I can't make heads or tails of it. No
pun intended. I have no idea what I'm looking at, and from the
expression on Donna's face, I can tell she can't either. The monitor
shows an indefinable combination of light and shadow, like looking at
a photograph negative and trying to figure out how the picture would
appear if all the colors were in place.
"Fabulous picture." She seems to know exactly what she's looking at.
"Great angle. Your baby wants to be a star."
The doctor points to a bulbous black and white shape on the monitor
and I suddenly understand that we're looking at the baby's head. Her
finger trails down the monitor, following the length of the spine. My
eyes retrace the spine and return to the head.
The picture is becoming clearer and clearer. Not because the
reception is any better, but because I now have a physical frame of
reference for the baby. I can see now that we're studying the profile
- and in order to understand the profile….
"Is that...a nose?" I ask. I think I know what I'm looking at, but I
could be wrong.
"Good eye," she responds.
"Where?" Donna asks.
"Right here," Dr. Burgess says. "See how we've got a nice profile?
We've got a really clear picture here, so I'm going to turn on the
tape. Okay?"
"Yeah," I reply before Donna has the chance, without taking my eyes
from the monitor.
"We've got some good movement here," the doctor announces with a
smile.
"I don't feel anything," Donna denies.
"You wouldn't. Not for a while yet."
As if on the cue, the 'light' created by sound waves shifts,
illuminating a tiny movement.
"And there's a hand. Looks like you have a thumb sucker."
Words can't describe how it feels to see the first confirmation of a
developing life - a developing life you've played a part in creating.
I scrutinize the grainy image, and what was once indiscernible is now
unmistakable. There's a head, with eyes and a nose and a mouth for
thumb sucking. There's a thumb! A beating heart, and a central
nervous system that tells the hands and feet to move.
"Hands with fingers and feet with toes - tiny knees, and elbows," I
whisper under my breath. Donna hears me over the swoosh-swoosh and
grins at me. "What?" I can't help but grin back.
"You sound like Mother Goose."
I'm making the connection. It's like rubbing your bare feet on the
carpet and then touching the person next to you. There's a fuzzy
static electricity pop that breaks through all the personal barriers.
It smarts a little, but it leaves behind this snapping, crackling
energized feeling. It's truly awesome. I am filled with awe.
"Wow," I breathe. My ability for anything resembling intelligent
language has decided to take a holiday.
"Is everything okay? Our baby's healthy, right?" That's my Donna --
always asking the important questions. She has a unique ability for
getting to the heart of the matter. Also, I think it's the first time
she's referred to the baby as 'ours'. My stomach does an abrupt back
flip, and my hand tightens its grip on hers.
"I won't lie to you," the doctor begins. "I was worried when you told
me about your injuries, but from what I can see there don't seem to be
any long term affects on the fetus. Like I said, we've got good
spontaneous movement," she chuckles. "In fact, if I didn't know
better I'd say the baby's putting on a show. So, for now, relax -
that's the best thing you can do for your baby. Try not to worry."
Dr. Burgess moves the transducer, searching out another angle and the
grainy pictures once again become indiscernible. I miss the beautiful
profile I could understand. The doctor hangs up the transducer and
hands Donna a few tissues to wipe the remaining conducting paste from
her abdomen, before making a few notes on Donna's medical chart.
"Can I go pee now?" Donna asks impatiently.
"Yeah," the doctor laughs.
Donna swings her legs down from the table and steps to the floor,
booking it to the bathroom as fast as her legs will carry her.
"I'll need to see you again in about seven or eight weeks for another
sonogram. At that time we'll draw some blood to test for
abnormalities that can't be visualized at this time."
"Okay," I swallow, surprised that she's including me in Donna's
appointment.
"We should be able to determine the baby's sex at that point as well."
"Okay."
"How's her diet?"
"It's fine, but she could be eating more - I think."
"Encourage her, but do it gently. She'll be prone to mood swings."
"Okay."
"And remember what I said about asking her what she needs."
"I will."
"There are some books you might want to think about reading, Josh.
They're as helpful for expectant fathers as they are for mothers. Try
to understand what she's going through. It could also help to talk to
friends who've been there before - your father, maybe."
"Okay." I don't bother to tell her that my father's been dead for
three years.
She ejects the sonogram tape from the VCR and hands it to me. "Bring
that back next time and we'll add to it."
Donna emerges from the bathroom, looking much more relaxed. "Is that
it?"
The doctor repeats for Donna everything she just told me. I wonder
briefly why she didn't just wait for Donna in the first place, before
it occurs to me that she went out of her way to make me feel a part of
the process.
"We're done," she announces. "Call the office on Monday to set up the
next appointment."
"Thank you, Doctor," I offer, as she leads us to the door.
"Don't worry, Josh," she says. "You'll be an old hat at this in no
time."
"Sure."
"Well, you showed up, and you showed interest. I've seen fathers who
do less - a lot less. You're already halfway there."
I get the impression that we were her only appointment today, because
she locks the door behind us as we exit into the corridor. I drape my
arm around Donna's shoulder as we amble towards the elevator. Her arm
snakes around my waist and her head drops to my shoulder.
"Everything's okay," she sighs, relieved.
"Yeah. I wasn't worried," I reply with false bravado.
"Liar," she laughs. "You were worried."
"I was worried."
I realize that I'm still hanging on to the tape. I hand it over to
Donna for safekeeping and watch as she drops it into her bag. When
the elevator arrives and the door opens, I notice that the florescent
lights inside are flickering. I'm already inside before I become
aware that Donna isn't following. She stands in the hallway, staring
into the dim cabin of the elevator.
I step back, holding the elevator door with one hand. "Are you
coming?" Her eyes grow wider and her breathing shallows out. "What's
wrong?" I demand.
"Can we take the stairs?" her voice is small and tinny. She's afraid,
and I can practically smell her fear. She's afraid of the elevator
and the flickering light that could stop flickering at any moment and
go suddenly and frighteningly dark. She would be trapped - again.
"Yeah," I respond, hopping quickly out of the cabin. "We can take the
stairs." She breathes a sigh of relief when I put my arm around her
again and direct her away from the elevator.
A woman's heart is like a puzzle. She only shows you the pieces she
wants you to see...the pieces she feels safe showing you. Which is
why you can spend years with her and never truly see her for who she
is. You may think you know her, but you only get what she allows you
to know.
Falling in love is about getting all the right pieces. Staying in
love is about coaxing the rest of them out.
Donna's just shown me a really big piece of her puzzle - a
straight-edged piece. We rarely talk about what happened to her, and
to tell the truth, I'm mostly to blame for that. I don't think I'm
ready to hear any more about what happened to her. I'm just not
strong enough yet.
Her strength takes my breath away, but still I often wish she were
weaker. Just so she would lean on me more. I want her lean on me. I
want to show her that I'm capable of being all the things she needs
from me. And if I'm not, I want her to know I'm willing to learn.
When we reach the ground floor, the beeper attached to my belt begins
to vibrate. I unclip it to read the message. It's a 911 from Sam.
TBC
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