CHAPTER 17
Date: 2015-10-07; view: 589.
It is not all that easy to make a baby. I mean, there is a certain irony involved when guys who spend the firstyears of their sex lives preoccupied with not getting girls pregnant (andwhen I first started, condoms were still in) then reverse their thinking andbecome obsessed with conception and not its contra. Yes, it can become an obsession. And it can divest the most gloriousaspect of a happy married life of its naturalness and spontaneity. I mean,to program your thinking (unfortunate verb, "program"; it suggests amachine)-to program your thinking about the act of love in accordance withrules, calendars, strategy ("Wouldn't it be better tomorrow morning, 01?") can be a source ofdiscomfort, disgust and ultimately terror. For when you see that your layman's knowledge and (you assume) normalhealthy efforts are not succeeding in the matter of increase-and-multiply,it can bring the most awful thoughts to your mind. "I'm sure you understand, Oliver, that 'sterility' would have nothingto do with 'virility.'" Thus Dr. Mortimer Sheppard to me during the firstconversation, when Jenny and I had finally decided we needed expertconsultation. "He understands, doctor," said Jenny for me, knowing without my everhaving mentioned it that the notion of being sterile-of possibly beingsterile-was devastating to me. Didn't her voice even suggest that she hoped,if an insufficiency were to be discovered, it would be her own? But the doctor had merely been spelling it all out for us, telling usthe worst, before going on to say that there was still a great possibilitythat both of us were okay, and that we might soon be proud parents. But ofcourse we would both undergo a battery of tests. Complete physicals. Theworks. (I don't want to repeat the unpleasant specifics of this kind ofthorough investigation.) We went through the tests on a Monday. Jenny during the day, I afterwork (I was fantastically immersed in the legal world). Dr. Sheppard calledJenny in again that Friday explaining that his nurse had screwed up and heneeded to check a few things again. When Jenny told me of the revisit, Ibegan to suspect that perhaps he had found the.., insufficiency with her. Ithink she suspected the same. The nurse-screwing-up alibi is pretty trite. When Dr. Sheppard called me at Jonas and Marsh, I was almost certain.Would I please drop by his office on the way home? When I heard this was notto be a three-way conversation ("I spoke to Mrs. Barrett earlier today"), mysuspicions were confirmed. Jenny could not have children. Although, let'snot phrase it in the absolute, Oliver; remember Sheppard mentioned therewere things like corrective surgery and so forth. But I couldn't concentrateat all, and it was foolish to wait it out till five o'clock. I calledSheppard back and asked if he could see me in the early afternoon. He saidokay. "Do you know whose fault it is?" I asked, not mincing any words. "I really wouldn't say 'fault,' Oliver," he replied. "Well, okay, do you know which of us is malfunctioning?" "Yes. Jenny." I had been more or less prepared for this, but the finality with whichthe doctor pronounced it still threw me. He wasn't saying anything more, soI assumed he wanted a statement of some sort from me. "Okay, so we'll adopt kids. I mean, the important thing is that we loveeach other, right?" And then he told me. "Oliver, the problem is more serious than that. Jenny is very sick." "Would you define 'very sick,' please?" "She's dying." "That's impossible," I said. And I waited for the doctor to tell me that it was all a grim joke. "She is, Oliver," he said. "I'm very sorry to have to tell you this." I insisted that he had made some mistake-perhaps that idiot nurse ofhis had screwed up again and given him the wrong X rays or something. Hereplied with as much compassion as he could that Jenny's blood test had beenrepeated three times. There was absolutely no question about the diagnosis.He would of course have to refer us-me-Jenny to a hematologist. In fact, hecould suggest- I waved my hand to cut him off. I wanted silence for a minute. Just silence to let it all sink in. Then a thought occurredto me. "What did you tell Jenny, doctor?" "That you were both all right." "She bought it?" "I think so." "When do we have to tell her?" "At this point, it's up to you. Up to me! Christ, at this point I didn't feel up to breathing. The doctor explained that what therapy they had for Jenny's form ofleukemia was merely palliative-it could relieve, it might retard, but itcould not reverse. So at that point it was up to me. They could withholdtherapy for a while. But at that moment all I really could think of was how obscene thewhole fucking thing was. "She's only twenty-four!" I told the doctor, shouting, I think. Henodded, very patiently, knowing full well Jenny's age, but alsounderstanding what agony this was for me. Finally I realized that I couldn'tjust sit in this man's office forever. So I asked him what to do. I mean,what I should do. He told me to act as normal as possible for as long aspossible. I thanked him and left. Normal! Normal!
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