The birth defect has a zero-percent survival rate and annually affects 1,206 pregnancies in the United States. Once the doctor discovered that her child had virtually no chance of surviving upon birth, the essay explored how futile a doctor’s role is made in this situation by U. “You wait for the patient to break the silence,” the doctor wrote. You talk to the obstetricians because eventually, it will end. She returned to the hospital where the doctor and his team helped her through the birth of a dead, headless child. Grotesque is all you can think, but you cannot say it. Because everyone is upset.” The essay continued, “Some of the nurses need you to fix it, to save this baby with the magic of medicine.This first-hand account, titled The harrowing account described the woman, already far along in her pregnancy, visiting a doctor for the very first time quite late in her pregnancy because it simply hadn’t been possible for her to seek medical advice earlier in the current U. “The baby’s heartbeat trots through the monitors while you softly hold her gaze. “The baby is born with no skull, eyes like gumballs too big for their sockets,” the doctor wrote. Thinking it calms you inside so you can calm everyone else. You remind them that he is very premature, that he has no brain, that he cannot survive. You encourage the mother to hold her child, but she does not want this bond.” “She cannot see the deformed creature she birthed, because once seen it cannot be unseen.” The essay is certainly difficult to read but highlights the importance of giving women across the United States safe, affordable, and legal access to professional abortion services in dire cases such as this one.
But now that I was pregnant, I was sometimes too tired to concentrate on her brainy and luminous afternoon lectures on Moby Dick.
In a moment too obviously symbolic to include in any piece of fiction, the snaps of my winter coat literally burst open one night as a friend and I walked home from one of Robinson’s readings, immediately turning our conversation away from writing and toward talk of the baby.
It was around this time that I learned that the ovaries of a female fetus already contain all the eggs she will ever have in her life. I could no longer say whether I was asking these questions because I was a mother who was about to meet her mysterious baby or because I was a writer who was writing a book that was, in part, about the enigmas of sleep and dreaming.
What a wondrously strange idea, I thought, that I was carrying not only my daughter but the seeds of her future children, too, and that a wisp of my daughter had been traveling with me ever since I was a baby in my own mother’s womb. There it was in the dimly lit ultrasound room: my brain, working through an “intellectual stimulation.” I soon became obsessed with the weird science of fetal development: the slow unfurling of organs and limbs, the arrival of eyelids and lips and fingernails, and how, after a certain number of weeks, the eyes begin to see and the ears begin to hear. When I was 38 weeks pregnant, my daughter’s heartbeat began behaving strangely during a routine doctor’s appointment.
I could no longer stay up late drinking with the workshop writers.
As the weeks passed, I began to feel less like a writer among writers and more like the pregnant wife who skipped the after parties to go to bed early.
“Her hips loose and large will force her pants to tug.
She will struggle with her gait for weeks, punctuating loss in the waddle of each step, until, gradually, she retires maternity pants and her steps become firm, upright, forward.” Ultimately, the essay expressed how the doctor’s job is quite often to heal the parents, to provide the grieving adults with compassion, rather than an effective treatment to prevent permanent that trauma in the first place under our current legal system.
But now that it was happening — my body busy building a child while my mind was busy constructing my second book — I was not at all sure how the combination would go, or what one pursuit might cost the other.
There’s a familiar idea in our culture that working too much is bad for a woman’s children, but there’s a newer idea, too: that having children might be bad for one’s work.