TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 205

[Tobie Shapiro]

April 22, 200000000000000000000000000007


Dear manifold blessings,

	Oh, woe.  My meds haven't kicked in yet. 
So I'm sitting here, listless, tired, still with 
sleep hanging around my eyes.  I jest.  The kind 
of meds I take don't, "kick in," they build up in 
the bloodstream over a period of weeks and swarm 
around at their intended level, doing their 
business quietly, stealthily.  What kind of meds 
would that be?

	Well, I think the day that villainman 
walked out on us, I called the neuropsych and 
asked for an appointment.  My thought was that my 
imperative was to be a good mother, and I didn't 
see how I was going to do that without 
pharmaceutical intervention.  The good doctor and 
I experimented with what seems like a hundred 
different psychoactive drugs to find what I could 
tolerate and what helped.  We found the cocktail 
and I took it dutifully.  It's not like my tears 
dried up, but there was a resoluteness that I 
became capable of.  And that resolve is what 
drove my engine.  Now, at last, we are coming up 
to some sort of finality with the divorce 
settlement.  The meeting with the judge is 
Wednesday morning.  I'm scared.  My fears are 
real.  I don't know how I'm going to make ends 
meet after the agreement is enacted.  How will I 
support my two children (adult children)?  How 
will I be able to maintain Meyshe's therapies? 
Feyna's therapies?  College for the both of them? 
Will I be able to buy a house for us?  Or is that 
beyond possibility?

	I intend to stay on my medication until I 
am surviving this final stage.  Then I can wean 
myself off of them and find out what's going on 
underneath.




                                           ©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©
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The Night Shift

	When David and I found out from the ultra 
sound technician that it was twins, or rather, 
when David found out and my premonitive dream was 
verified, we were in San Francisco.  We poured 
ourselves into our car and drove directly to 
where my parents were attending a laboratory 
equipment convention.  They were at the Sheraton 
Palace Hotel.  I don't remember the drive.  I 
don't remember parking the car.  I don't remember 
walking into the Hotel, finding the convention, 
or looking for the LABINDUSTRIES booth.  I just 
remember standing there with tears streaming down 
my cheeks, telling my mother that it was twins, 
and I was scared.  How could I manage?  Could I 
take this on?  I didn't worry about doling out 
the love.  I knew there was ample store of love 
in me, that I would give it just as generously to 
two babies as I would to one.  I worried about 
the sheer labour, the work involved, the 
overwhelming arrival of two new human beings 
where I'd only envisioned one.  What about the 
psychology of twins?  What about the effect on 
our family with David's boys already gagging on 
the complications of their parents' divorce, 
feeling the terrible conflict, and suffering from 
the jealous anger and sickness of their mother? 
How would two new members of the family, 
squalling and squirting, have an effect on them?

	I cried openly, standing there, facing my 
mother.  I hugged her, right there among the 
stiff scientists, linear, objective, brilliant, 
unemotional, buttoned down and boarded up.  She 
put her arms around me like she did when she was 
holding me as a child, and she stroked my unruly 
hair.  We parted to look at each other.  She 
smiled and said, "I can't help but like the 
idea."  That had never occurred to me, the 
unexpected adventure of two vibrant new lives, 
the personal miracle of all the growing and 
learning, the sudden addition of two that would 
multiply, exponentially, the complications of 
human interaction.  I tried to see it her way.

	But I was still scared.

	She stepped aside and had a discussion 
with my father.  She came back and promised to 
provide as much child care as we needed, for as 
long as we needed it.  She knew it was already a 
monumental task raising Alex and Ben, and that 
the twins would commandeer my spent life, carry 
me away to the limits of my capabilities.

	I dried my tears, trying to imagine how 
this would play out, given as much child care as 
I needed for as long as I needed it.  I dreamed 
of being able to take a nap, curl up and eat a 
fig, read a book.  I promised myself I would 
re-perceive this whole trajectory, how the arc of 
my life story would be altered forever.  I told 
my mother I would think about it.  And of course 
I did.  And of course I decided to take this on. 
I had two embryos implanted in the walls of my 
uterus.  We let them grow.  During the last 
stages of the pregnancy, I sought out referrals 
for nannies, for child care, at first round the 
clock, and then in a number of weeks, phasing it 
out as I grew stronger and braver.  I was very 
concerned about the night shift.  I didn't think 
I could survive the nights, in the middle of the 
nights, pacing back and forth, nursing endlessly 
on top of that.  I got a solid referral at the 
hospital from a maternity ward nurse for a woman 
who specialized in twins.  I spoke to the woman 
on the phone and arranged for her to do the 
eleven to seven shift.

	I got a weird feeling about her as soon 
as she spoke.  But I discounted my instincts. 
Aren't we supposed to be free of instincts?  We 
are homo sapiens, sentient beings who could make 
choices based on evidence, data, demographics, 
references, objective judgments.

	Besides, I was desperate.

	Margaret Archuletta arrived the night of 
the day we returned from the hospital.  She set 
up shop in the long, narrow study that shared a 
common wall with our bedroom.  When the babies 
woke up to nurse, she could knock three times on 
the wall and I'd get out my dual breasts, ready 
to be milked.

	Margaret Archuletta had a strange affect. 
She spoke as if she were reciting from a book. 
She had an unplaceable southern accent.

	"Mah sweet husband has dad and left me 
with his estate.  I have ev-ery convenience a 
person could have, includin' an Olympic sazzed 
swimmin' pool, and a show case house.  I could 
not want for anythin'.  Yet, Ah am the loneliest 
woman alahv, and wish to throw mahself off the 
bridge."

	Uh oh.

	I disregarded the warning sign.

	"Mah babies love me.  They love theya 
Margaret.  Theya ah some parents accused me of 
takin' away theya children.  Now, whah would Ah 
wish to take away anyone's children when Ah have 
all the comforts Ah could possibly want, and an 
Olympic sazzed swimmin' pool?  All my physical 
needs ah taken caya of.  I do not need theya 
children.  Ah had a twin sistah who dad and left 
a ho-el in mah haht.  She will nevah retuhn, 
nevah grace mah life again.  Ah have taken on the 
special caya of twins, only twins, to honuh huh 
memory.  It is God's plan faw me.  Praise Jesus. 
May Ah leave at faw o'clock tomorrah mawnin'?  Ah 
hate the nat shift so!"

	This was a pile of words I didn't want to hear.

	"No, you can't leave at four o'clock.  We 
agreed that you'd stay until seven."

	She grimaced and shook her head, muttered 
under her breath.  "Vera well, then.  Ah'l stay 
until seven.  But if the babies ah sleepin' and 
mah wuhk is done, may ah slip out at fahv?"

	"No.  I really need you till seven.  We'd agreed on that."

	She gritted her teeth, stamped her foot, 
then went about her business, setting up the 
changing table.  I went to bed.  At two o'clock, 
Margaret knocked on the wall and brought Meyshe 
and Feyna in to me.  I was all ready with the 
double nursing pillow, the back rest to prop me 
up, the special nightgown with the two slits in 
front where I could yank out my breasts.

	She handed me one baby, then the other. 
I positioned them on the pillow and they latched 
on to my nipples for their two o'clock feeding. 
Margaret told me to knock on the wall when I was 
done and she'd come fetch them.  Meyshe sputtered 
and cried at the breast.  He had colic.  Feyna 
was fine, sucking away, drinking her fill. 
Finally, I knocked on the wall.  Margaret came in 
and told me she'd heard one of the babies 
complaining.

	"Ah don't lahk to say this, but it is 
possible that yaw milk is bad.  Ah think ah 
should bottle feed them."

	I told her Meyshe was fussy, but Feyna 
had no problem.  There was no way that one breast 
was issuing rotten milk while the other issued 
good.  Then, when I switched the babies to the 
other side, the bad milk somehow followed Meyshe 
to the other breast.  Did she see that logic?

	"As you wish, Mrs. Shapiro.  But ah feel that ah must tell you."

	I told her not to bottle feed them 
because they would find that so easy that they 
might abandon the breasts for the bottle.  I'd 
read about this somewhere.

	"Vera well," she said, and carried my children back to the study.

	About a half hour later, I got out of bed 
and went into the study.  She was sitting in 
front of the heater that she'd turned  up all the 
way.  It was sweltering in there.  And she'd 
gotten Feyna and Meyshe bundled up in three 
layers of clothes and blankets.  She was feeding 
them bottles.

	I turned down the heat, took off a couple 
of layers from my roasting babies, took away the 
bottles and told her that I didn't want her to 
feed them by bottle.

	"Ah just thought ahd give you a break."

	I went back in my room.  I just felt 
uneasy, though.  Archuletta was too strange.  I 
returned to the study.  She had put the two 
additional layers of clothing on them, had turned 
the heater back up, and had a bottle in each of 
their mouths.

	I repeated my correction.  "Don't do 
that.  I'll come back and check on you.  Let them 
sleep."

	"You know wuht is best," she murmured.

	At four in the morning, I heard her come 
out of the study and leave through the back door. 
I started to look for someone to take over for 
Margaret.  I put in a call to the nanny service. 
Help me!

	The next night, Margaret showed up at nine  instead of eleven.

	"Ah'v come uhly to prepaya faw the twins. 
Since Ah'm heah at nine, may Ah leave two owahs 
uhly?"

	"No, Margaret.  I didn't tell you to come 
two hours early.  And I need you until seven."

	Meyshe screamed at my breasts again.  I 
wondered if this would make an indelible 
impression on him.  Perhaps he would yell at 
breasts for the rest of his life.  The 
pediatrician had given me some Belladonna drops 
for Meyshe to settle his stomach.  Two drops 
every four hours.  I instructed Margaret.

	In the middle of the night, she brought 
the twins to me.  They were both groggy, inert, 
unresponsive, limp.  I was alarmed.  They 
couldn't nurse.  They were too unconscious. 
After Margaret took them back to the study, I 
came in five minutes later.  I turned the heater 
down and took two layers of clothing off of them. 
I slept in the study.

	She left at four, sneaked out from under 
my nose.  I fumed.  Meyshe and Feyna were still 
in a dead sleep.  I went over to the changing 
table and found a note pad that Margaret had been 
writing in.  The printing was angled, disjointed, 
erratic, the pressure inconsistent, and here was 
a great graphological sighting:  she was writing 
in the tablet backwards.  Red flag!  Red flag! 
Then I noticed the bottle of Belladonna.  It was 
near empty.  She had drugged them to get them to 
sleep so she could snooze.  I got on the 
telephone and called the nanny service.  Help! 
Emergency!  I called Margaret Archuletta in the 
afternoon and told her that we had all come down 
with a terrible flu and the doctor had 
quarantined us.  She couldn't come.  Best not to 
come.  Don't come.  She argued a little, offering 
to take care of all of us.  But I reminded her of 
the strict quarantine.  She lapsed into summoning 
Jesus to bless all owah heads.  We finally hung 
up.

	Every nerve in my body was juddering. 
The adrenalin rose in waves.  The nanny service 
called me that evening.  She was sending over a 
woman named Wyda McDougal.  She promised me I'd 
be pleased.  Wyda arrived on the front porch 
wearing slippers with holes in them and a loose 
house dress.  She introduced herself and asked to 
see the babies.  I showed her.

	"Just tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it," she laughed.

	Wyda was real, solid, responsible, warm, 
funny, smart and unflappable.  That night, both 
babies were crying.  We paced with them.  We 
rocked them.  We patted their backs.  We sang to 
them.  Nothing worked.

	"Got any other ideas?" she asked.

	"Well, I heard that if you throw a 
knotted towel in the dryer and put the baby on 
something soft and cushiony on top of the dryer, 
the rhythm of the towel thumping the insides of 
the dryer, and the warmth coming up through the 
machine will sometimes calm a baby.

	"Ain't never heard of that before," she said.  "Let's try it!"

	We tried it.  Both infants were put on 
warm fluffy towels on top of the dryer.  The 
knotted bath towel thunked around rhythmically 
inside.  The dryer vibrated under Feyna and 
Meyshe.  Wyda and I started talking about how 
awful President Reagan was.  Then we talked about 
Wyda's family of nine children growing up in 
rural Georgia.  I told her I was a city girl, a 
neurotic city girl.  Half an hour went quickly 
by, and we realized that there were no babies 
crying.  It had happened without our notice. 
There was no mother crying either.  We were saved 
all the way around.

	I gave Wyda a raise.

	Gratitude.  Gratitude.



                                           ©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©©
                                  ÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂÂ
 
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-- 




Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net