The Rosie Effect (10 page)

Of course I could have used a computer spreadsheet or calendar application. But the wall was much bigger than my screen and filling in my scheduled research meetings, martial-arts training and market jogs for the first four weeks induced an unexpected sense of wellbeing.

The morning after Gene’s arrival, we travelled together on the subway to Columbia. The journey from our new apartment was much shorter and I had rescheduled my departure time accordingly. Rosie had not yet adjusted her daily routine and took an earlier train.

I used the time to talk to Gene about his family problem. ‘She rejected you because you cheated on her. Multiple times. After you lied to her about stopping. Therefore she needs to be convinced that you are no longer a cheat and a liar.’

‘Not so loud, Don.’

I had raised my voice to emphasise these critical points and people were looking at us—and Gene particularly—with disapproval. A woman stepping off at Penn Station said, ‘Shame on you.’ The woman behind her added, ‘Pig.’ It was useful to have my argument reinforced but Gene attempted to change the subject.

‘Thought any more about fatherhood?’

I had not yet included any baby-related activities in my new white-tile schedule, although they had been the original motivation for creating it. It was possible my mind was responding to an unexpected event by activating primitive defence mechanisms and pretending it did not exist. I needed to do two things: acknowledge the upcoming birth by stating it out loud to others and undertake some actual research.

After installing Gene in his office at Columbia, we had coffee with Professor David Borenstein. Rosie joined us, in her role as my partner, rather than as a medical student. David had been extremely helpful in supporting our visas and relocation. ‘So what’s news with you, Don?’ he asked.

I was about to give David an update on my investigation of genetic predisposition to cirrhosis of the liver in mice, which was nearing completion, when I remembered my earlier decision to acknowledge my impending fatherhood.

‘Rosie’s pregnant,’ I said.

Everyone was silent. I knew immediately that I had made an error, as Rosie kicked me under the table. It was obviously ineffective; the statement could not be retracted.

‘Well,’ said David. ‘Congratulations.’

Rosie smiled. ‘Thanks. It’s not really public yet, so—’

‘Of course. And with my faculty hat on, I can assure you that you’re not the first student to have some disruption to their studies.’

‘I’m not planning to let it disrupt my studies.’ I recognised Rosie’s ‘Don’t fuck with me’ voice. It seemed inadvisable to use it on the Dean.

But David did not detect the tone, or chose to ignore it. ‘I’m not the person to talk to,’ he said. ‘When you’re ready, have a chat to Mandy Rau. You know Mandy? She’s the counsellor. Make sure you tell her you’re covered by Don’s medical plan.’

Rosie was about to speak again, but David raised both hands in a double ‘Stop’ signal and the subject changed to Gene’s program.

David declined a second coffee. ‘Sorry, I have to go, but I need to speak to Don about the cirrhosis research. Walk back with me? You’re welcome to join us, Gene.’

Gene, despite having no interest in my research, joined us.

‘I gather you’ve finished the component of the study that needs a visiting professor,’ said the Dean.

‘There’s still a vast quantity of data to be analysed,’ I said.

‘That’s what I meant—it’s mainly legwork. I thought you might like some assistance.’

‘Not if it means applying for a grant.’ It is generally less time-consuming to do work myself than to get involved in the paperwork required to get help.

‘No, you don’t need to apply for a grant.
In this specific instance
.’ He laughed and Gene joined in. ‘But I’ve got a post-doc researcher, strong on statistics, on loan to us—it’s a bit of a personal favour to a colleague, but there’s
got to be meaningful work. Not least in case they audit the visa.’

‘Take him,’ said Gene.

Gene’s publication list was populated by work performed by such people under his notional supervision. I did not want my name on papers I had not written. But I owed it to David Borenstein to not waste my time on tasks that could be performed by a more junior person who would benefit from the experience.

‘Her name’s Inge,’ said David. ‘She’s Lithuanian.’

Gene left us, and the Dean and I walked for a while without speaking. I presumed he was thinking—a pleasant change from most people who regard a gap in the conversation as a space that requires filling. We were almost at his office when he spoke again.

‘Don, the counsellor is going to suggest Rosie takes time off. That’s sensible. But we don’t want to lose her. We like to keep our students and she’s a good one. The timing’s not great. She’ll probably need to defer the first six months of her major clinical year, then have the baby and come back second semester, or the following year. I’d say take the whole year. It’ll give you time to work out the care arrangements, which will probably involve you.’

I had not thought about this practical issue, and David’s advice seemed sound. ‘Some women take a month or two off and come right back, and arrange to pick up what they’ve missed in the vacation. I think that’s a mistake. Especially for you two.’

‘Why specifically us?’

‘You don’t have local support. If you both had parents or siblings living here—maybe. There’s only so much child care you can contract out. I’d say, defer the whole year. Or the baby will suffer, the study will suffer, she’ll suffer. And let me tell you from bitter experience, you’ll suffer too.’

‘Seems like excellent advice. I’ll tell Rosie.’

‘Don’t tell her it came from me.’

The Dean of Medicine, our sponsor, an experienced parent. Could there be anyone with greater authority to offer advice on balancing medical studies and parenthood? Yet I suspected he was right in recommending I not mention his name. Rosie would instinctively reject the advice of an older male in authority.

My prediction was correct.

‘I’m not taking a year out of the program,’ Rosie said when I presented David’s advice that evening without citing its source. We were having dinner with Gene, our new family member, who was making use of one of the surplus chairs.

‘A year out is nothing in the long term,’ said Gene.

‘Did you take time off when Eugenie was born?’ said Rosie.

‘Claudia did.’

‘Then just equate me to you rather than Claudia. Or is that too big a leap?’

‘So Don’s going to look after the baby?’

Rosie laughed. ‘I don’t think so. I mean, Don has to work. And…’

I was interested to hear what other reasons Rosie
might cite for my not being able to look after Bud, but Gene interrupted.

‘So who’s going to look after it?’

Rosie thought for a few moments.

‘I’ll take her—or him—with me.’

I was stunned. ‘You’ll take Bud to Columbia—to the hospitals?’ By the time Bud was born, Rosie would be working with actual patients—people riddled with infectious diseases—in situations where a baby underfoot could cause life-threatening disasters. Her approach seemed impractical and irresponsible.

‘I’m still thinking about it, okay? But it’s time they considered the needs of women with children. Instead of telling us to go away and come back when the baby’s grown up.’ Rosie pushed her plate aside. She had not finished her risotto. ‘I need to do some work.’

Once again, Gene and I were left to talk. I made a mental note to replenish the liquor stocks.

Gene selected the conversation topic before I could mention his marriage.

‘Feeling any better about being a dad?’

The word ‘dad’ sounded odd, applied to me. I thought of my own father. I suspected his role in my life when I was a baby had been minimal. My mother had resigned from her teaching job to manage three children while my father worked at the family hardware store. It was a practical, if stereotypical, allocation of the workload. Given that my father shares some of the personality traits that give me the most trouble, it was probably advantageous to maximise the amount of input from my mother.

‘I’ve considered it. I suspect the most useful contribution is to stay out of the way to avoid causing problems.’ This was consistent with the assessment of me given by Lydia during the Bluefin Tuna Incident and in keeping with the medical maxim:
First do no harm
.

‘You know, you may get away with it. Rosie’s a rusted-on feminist, so philosophically she wants you to wear a skirt, but she also thinks she’s Superwoman. Independence is an Australian female trait. She’ll want to do it all.’ Gene drained his Midori and refilled both glasses. ‘Whatever women say, they’re biologically bonded to the baby in a way we’re not. It won’t even recognise you for the first few months. So don’t worry about that. Look ahead to when it’s a toddler and you can interact.’

This was helpful. I was fortunate to be able to source advice from an experienced father and head of a psychology department. He had more.

‘Forget everything you hear from psychologists. They fetishise parenthood. Make you paranoid you’re doing something wrong. If you hear the word
attachment
, run a mile.’

This was
extremely
helpful. Lydia doubtless belonged to the group Gene was describing.

Gene continued. ‘You don’t have any nieces or nephews, right?’

‘Correct.’

‘So you’ve got no real experience with kids.’

‘Only Eugenie and Carl.’ Gene’s children were almost familiar enough to be included in my list of friends, but too old for toddler orientation.

Rosie emerged from her office and walked towards the bedroom, making hand motions which I interpreted as
You’ve had enough to drink, both of you, and it’s time to come to bed instead of sharing more interesting information
.

Gene started to get up and collapsed back in the chair. ‘Here’s my last bit of advice before I fall over. Watch some kids, watch them play. You’ll see they’re just little adults, only they don’t know all the rules and tricks yet. Nothing to worry about.’

9

Rosie was sitting up in bed when I joined her.

‘Don, before you get undressed—could I ask you a favour?’

‘Of course. As long as it doesn’t require mental or physical coordination.’ Gene’s topping-up of my glass had resulted in an accidental overdose of alcohol.

‘What time does the deli close? The one where you got the smoked mackerel?’

‘I don’t know.’ Why did I need to remain dressed to answer the question?

‘I’d really love some more.’

‘I’ll buy some later today.’ It was 12.04 a.m. ‘We can have it cold as an appetiser.’

‘I meant now. Tonight. With dill pickles. The ones with chilli if you can find them.’

‘It’s too late to eat. Your digestive system—’

‘I don’t care. I’m pregnant. You get cravings. It’s normal.’

Normal had clearly been redefined.

I predicted that finding smoked mackerel and pickles after midnight would involve significant effort, especially as my intoxication precluded the use of my bicycle, but this was the first opportunity I had been offered to do something directly related to the pregnancy.

Random jogging in an unfamiliar neighbourhood failed to uncover any smoked mackerel. The streets were still busy and my directional choices were being influenced by the need to dodge pedestrians. I decided to proceed to Brooklyn where I knew there was a well-stocked all-night delicatessen on Graham Avenue. Statistically, my expected time to find mackerel was probably lower if I continued to search Manhattan, but I was prepared to pay a price for certainty.

As I jogged over the Williamsburg Bridge, I analysed the problem. It seemed likely that Rosie’s body was reacting to some deficiency, the intensity of the desire magnified by the importance of proper nutrition during pregnancy. She had rejected the mushroom and artichoke risotto but wanted mackerel. I made a provisional conclusion that her body required protein and fish oil.

As with the management of my increasingly complex life, I saw two possible approaches. An on-demand sourcing of nutrition, driven by cravings which probably occurred only after the deficiency was recognised by her body, was going to be disruptive and inefficient, as my search for
mackerel was demonstrating. A planned approach, recognising the specialised diet required for pregnancy and ensuring all ingredients were on hand in a timely manner, was obviously superior.

When I arrived home at 2.32 a.m. in the City That Never Sleeps, I had run approximately twenty kilometres and acquired mackerel, pickles and chocolate (Rosie always craved chocolate). Rosie was asleep. Waving the mackerel under her nose did not stimulate any response.

When I woke, Rosie and Gene were already preparing to leave for Columbia and I had a headache again, this time doubtless due to lack of sleep. The correct amount of relatively undisturbed sleep is critical to optimum physical and mental functioning. Rosie’s pregnancy was taking a severe toll on my body. Purchase of pregnancy-compatible food in advance would at least obviate the need for midnight excursions. As a short-term solution, I took a day’s leave to concentrate on the Baby Project.

I was able to use the freed-up day productively, first to catch up on sleep, then to source further information on Rosie’s statement about the link between cortisol and depression. The evidence was convincing, as it was for the link with heart disease. It was definitely important to minimise Rosie’s stress levels in the interests of both Bud’s health and her own.

I allocated the remainder of the morning, after completion of scheduled body-maintenance tasks, to researching nutrition in pregnancy. The time I allowed turned out to be manifestly insufficient. There was so much conflicting advice! Even
after rejection of articles that helpfully advertised their lack of a scientific basis by the use of words such as
organic
,
holistic
and
natural
, I was left with a mass of data, recommendations and recipes. Some focused on foods to include, others on foods to avoid. There was substantial overlap. A commercial but impressive baby-oriented website offered a Standardised Meal System for each trimester, but its meals included meat, which would be unacceptable to Rosie. I needed more time, or a meta-study. Surely others had faced the same problem and codified their findings.