I went to the State Fair for the first time in summer of 2009. The day was the kind of warm where your clothing stuck to your skin wherever the two met, made enjoyable only by the sights and sounds of every possible food you could imagine being deep fried. An energy drink had been my only real sustenance of the day, and normally that would have been fine, but on this particular day I passed out in the goat barn. It caused quite the spectacle. Bell ambulance showed up in a golf car and took my vitals, gave me and Capri Sun, and told me to take it easy the rest of the day. We went to one of the dining tents after and I devoured a grilled cheese, perplexed as to why I was suddenly so hungry. Writing it off as a side effect of my caffeine addiction, I never even told the husband.
But a little whisper told me that passing out could mean something else. So a couple weeks later I went to Walmart and bought a two pack of pregnancy tests. Both were positive. I put them back in their wrappers and buried them in the Litter Genie under all the gross cat poop and went to go buy more tests. Two more boxes, to be precise. And I took test after test after test because I simply couldn’t believe I was actually pregnant. As I waited for them to reveal what I already knew, I wondered how to tell him. the husband. What to say.
I went down the hall from the bathroom to his office with a test in my pocket. Coming up behind him, I put my hands over his eyes. “Hi.”
“Hey.” He spun his chair around to face me. “What’s up?”
I took the test out of my pocket and passed it to him. He looked from me to the stick and back again before passing it back. “No.”
I shook my head and leaned against the doorframe, slapping the test against my palms uncertainly as I pondered how to respond. “Yes,” was what I finally settled on.
“I don’t…” The husband’s gaze went almost longingly to his computer before looking at me again. “Our marriage isn’t that great, and I don’t really think this will fix that.”
“You don’t want this.” It wasn’t a question.
I was scared to let him know how much I did, scared to tell him it was baby, not a thing. I knew then that while I might be ready for a child, we weren’t ready. He would never be ready.
The first person I told, after the husband, was the person I’d gone to State Fair with. I called her from the line at the post office while I waited to send off a payment for a speeding ticket. She laughed and said she already had a good idea; we referenced the fair incident. By week thirteen, it seemed fairly safe to tell other people too. I kept working, adjusted to life as an expectant mother, and moved forward with life. It was conveniently the week I was scheduled for my “getting to know you” interview with the church choir. I used that interview to my advantage and told everyone; I was finally starting to get excited.
The husband just…didn’t seem as into the idea as I was. When I started looking through registries on various sites, figuring out all the different baby things we would need, he never helped. I registered for the things I thought we had the best chance of receiving, in a wide enough price range for our friends and family to pick and choose. I created a bookmarks folder on my laptop labelled “BABY STUFF!!!” and dumped all the awesome baby items I spotted into it. But every time I tried to show the husband, he didn’t look. There was always something else to take his attention, something with work or with a band or really, anything else. Everything out there in the universe took precedence over our family. Over me.
By the time I got home most nights, I was too tired after an entire day of work to do anything else. There was an expected chores list as prescribed by the husband: dishes, cooking, cleaning, vacuuming, anything pet related, and anything else he didn’t want to do. Things that didn’t get done: dishes, cleaning, and vacuuming. The cats were my first children, so I took care of them. I cooked because I was hungry, but I frequently complained in my head–not out loud, I didn’t dare–that he should cook for me once in a while. When the chores didn’t get done, the husband would make feel so inadequate I’d cry.
I once chucked a pillow at him and called him an asshole. I was, after all, growing a tiny human inside my body. We fought all the time. He’d accuse me of failing at housework; I’d remind him of my 45 to 50 hour work weeks and my need to sit down.
“Do you want to quit your job then? Is that what you’re saying?” He leaned on our breakfast bar and stared me down.
“I didn’t say that. I just said that I’m tired and need a little rest…”
“I do everything around here,” he insisted, “I pay the bills.”
That was literally all he did. He didn’t have a real job. I was the breadwinner. I also held our medical insurance policy. He was wrong, and he didn’t understand me at all.
I had one job. To grow that baby, to take care of it. And whenever the husband and I would fight, I’d stress that. So when the baby died, I dreaded making that phone call almost more than I grieved what I had lost. I didn’t want to tell him I had failed.