The Story of Us: 5 Weeks

“Gdansk to Olsztyn, please.” I indicated to the woman sitting behind the ticket window. I’d been wandering around the station for the last several hours, waiting for the next train and also waiting for the ticket line to die down so I wouldn’t have to stand in line for so long.

“I’m sorry, first class is all sold out.”

“I’ll take any class.”

“The only tickets left are standing.”

Standing? I thought about the journey: 2.5 hours across the Polish countryside standing? I tried and failed to imagine a more miserable circumstance…

“I’m sorry, are you sure there isn’t anything available? You see, I’m pregnant.” I made an arc over my belly with my hands in case it was lost in translation.

“I’m sorry, no. The next train is at 7:45 and has seats available if you want to go on that one.”

I looked at my phone. The idea of spending another three hours in the dingy station repulsed me even more than the two and half hour standing train ride.

“Ok, I’ll stand. Thanks.” I passed my card through the slot and trusted I’d figure something out.

“Talk to the conductor when you get on the train,” the woman advised, handing me the ticket with a conciliatory nod that fell just short of being empathetic. “Platform 2.”

It couldn’t be too bad, I figured. I was only 5 weeks pregnant. Too soon for some women to even notice. I didn’t even notice myself most of the time, until I felt a tug in my lower abdomen gently reminding me.

I made my way to the train platform and the sight of the crowd overwhelmed me. After ten minutes of inching my way towards a strategic on-boarding spot, the train arrived and I let the crowd lift me onto the carriage. I hoped the luck of the traveler would once again steer me safely to my destination.

I found a spot standing by an open window and tucked myself up against the wall while others filed in behind me, pressing close and looking for nooks of their own. I stuck my head out of the train window to separate myself from the scene at my back. The sky was overcast and the air cool and misty against my cheek. I knew the Baltic Sea must only be a few kilometres away.

***

A week earlier I’d been asleep in bed when my eyes darted open and I sat up, threw off the covers, and as if compelled by some innate knowledge, I walked straight to the bathroom, opened the sink drawer, and fumbled through tubes of mascara and eyebrow brushes until I heard the crinkling plastic of the pregnancy test. I opened it and tossed off the cap, sat down on the toilet, and peed on the stick.

Two lines.

Pregnant.

I placed the test on top of the sink, went back to my room, and climbed in bed. I looked at my phone — 4 a.m. — I had to be at Heathrow Airport in 3 hours. If I closed my eyes now, I could get thirty more minutes of sleep.

***

That particular week I was headed to Bucharest for work and the 3 1/2 hour flight gave me plenty of time to think. Our relationship wasn’t one for drama, which I’d always assumed was the English in him. I’d need to be sure I was pregnant before I told him. I made a mental plan to go to the doctor to confirm the pregnancy first thing Friday morning when I returned. Then, with the facts in hand, I’d tell him that evening over dinner.

***

The work trip to Romania came and went as planned and on Friday morning, I got up and headed for a clinic in Belgravia just down the road from his flat on Cadogan Square in Knightsbridge. It seemed like a reasonable choice given it was only about a fifteen minute stroll from my flat further west in Chelsea.

The Knightsbridge and Belgravia neighborhoods around Sloane Square are among the poshest residential areas in London. The streets are lined with white stucco townhomes and garden squares. The restaurants are all upscale and alongside exquisite furniture and wallpaper shops. I had learned that during the revolution, a significant number of Iranians immigrated to London and that Belgravia was a neighborhood of choice for many families, including his own. It was far too easy for me to imagine us strolling the storybook streets while pushing our baby in a peter pan pram.

***

When I arrived at the clinic, I noted that the waiting room was rather full for a Friday morning. The administrative nurse behind the counter greeted me warmly and asked if I had an appointment. I shared that I did not but that I’d like to see a doctor to confirm a positive pregnancy test.

“Oh, ok, I see. Congratulations!” she said with a bit of glee.

“Thank you,” I said, as a smile creeped across my face to match her own. It occurred to me that this was perhaps the first time I’d smiled like that since I learned of the news myself.

“You need to fill out these few forms; you can have a seat over there.” She nodded towards the waiting room. “Do you have a national insurance ID?”

My accent had given me away, but I was prepared, “Yes, I do.”

I dutifully filled out the paperwork, placed it in the bin, and returned to my seat. About ten minutes later, I heard my name called and I headed to the counter, prepared to learn when I might see the doctor.

“I’m sorry, but can you please confirm your address for me,” the nurse asked.

“Elm Park Gardens.”

“I see.” The woman punched a few keys on her keyboard and then proceeded to unfold a large map the size of an atlas on the counter for us both to examine. I could see that a particular area around the clinic was demarcated in yellow highlighter. She scrolled her finger across the page until she landed at Elm Park Gardens. The yellow highlighter ran right over my flat.

“I’m sorry, but it seems that you’re just outside of our zone of service.” Bewilderment sank in and she graciously explained, “When the baby is born, the midwives and doctors need to be able to travel to your flat for health checks in those first few weeks. That’s why each clinic has a zone. You’ll need to find a clinic in your zone so that the midwives and doctors can travel to you as needed.”

I saw my carefully laid plans disintegrating. I had to see the doctor. He and I were having dinner tonight. I had to know that I was pregnant. I had a speech planned. Tears began to well up in my eyes.

“I would just like to confirm that I am pregnant. I’m on the yellow line, I’m not out. I’m in. Look here.” I pointed to the yellow line as tears began streaming down my face. The others in the waiting room shifted in their seats with discomfort, desperately wanting me to keep calm and carry on.

The English nurse behind the counter seemed like she didn’t know what to do with the distressed young American woman either, so naturally, she relented,

“We are all booked today but I’m making you an appointment for next Friday morning at 8:45 a.m. Will that time work for you?”

“Yes,” I sniffled, “thank you.”

“Ok, one more thing…” she indicated as she pulled out my paperwork and pointed to an entry I had made, “we have to have a UK number to enter in our system, you can’t use your American number.”

My UK phone wasn’t on me that morning and I had no idea what my number was. I pulled out my American iphone, looked up his number, and read the digits aloud to the nurse. It was just as well, reaching him would be akin to reaching me going forward.

I left the doctor’s office a bit disappointed that my plan would be delayed, but what did a week really matter?

***

Later that evening he came by the flat and as soon as I opened the door, he met my cheeky grin with one of his own as he hoisted me up like a fireman and carried me back to the bedroom.

The next morning, we laid in bed chatting about our plans for the day.

“Are you traveling again this week?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m heading to Poland tomorrow, actually.”

***

The trip to Poland included a whirlwind itinerary of four cities in four days — Gdańsk to Olsztyn, then back to Gdańsk, then onto Warsaw and Krakow, before heading back to London.

When I arrived in Olsztyn, I called to let him know I arrived safely. He called me back while I was in meetings and then tried again while I was at dinner. I tried him after dinner, but he must’ve been at dinner himself. He called once more after I’d fallen asleep.

Sorry about phone tag, he messaged.

After our meetings in Olsztyn, my Polish colleague offered to drive us back to Gdansk, suggesting it would be more convenient than the train. Given my prior experience on the train, I was just happy to be in good company.

The drive across the Polish countryside was pleasantly surprising. It hardly seemed like the same country from the day before. Where once there was cold, dark rain, now I saw luscious green farmland, golden fields, wildflowers, and cow pastures with animals happily grazing. We pulled off to the side of the road to have lunch at an agri-bistro. Seated at the outdoor table on the patio, overlooking the fields, I felt such serenity and couldn’t help but think that this country, this land, was such a hidden gem. I could live here, I thought.

My moment of Zen was interrupted by the unpleasantly artificial sing-song of my iPhone. I looked down and realized that it was the clinic in Belgravia. It occurred to me that they were going against their policy by calling my American number, so I excused myself from the table and stepped off the patio and into the garden.

“Ms. Moats?”

“Yes, this is she.”

“Hi, this is Dr. So-and-so from the Belgravia/Knightsbridge Medical Clinic.” His voice was quivering.

“Yes, hello.”

“Well, I’m, I’m very sorry. You see, as we were entering your paperwork, it was clear that you are out of zone for this clinic. The nurse called the number you left us to reach you at and spoke to your husband.”

“Oh, I see.”

The nerves in his voice only escalated as he went on to explain, “Well, it was the number you gave us to contact you and the nurse explained to your husband that the midwives would be making wellness visits to check on you and the baby after you give birth, so you really must find a clinic that services your zone…. You may want to call him…”

I looked out over the fields which swayed in delicate contrast to the anxiety on the other end of the phone. I couldn’t tell if the staff were more rattled at having shared my news themselves, perhaps in violation of some patient privacy act, or if it was the reaction to that news that unnerved them.

“Yes, of course. I understand. Thank you.”