Love, Loss, and What We Ate Read online

  So, privately, Teddy took a paternity test. Teddy asked Dr. Seckin to tell him directly, so he didn’t have to hear the news from me. He was worried about his reaction if it turned out he wasn’t the father, and he wanted to be able to process the information without fear of upsetting me. The news was not in his favor.

  Teddy got the results while I was in California for the Emmys. Top Chef was nominated again. I was in my suite at the Chateau Marmont, feeling tired as I looked down from my balcony at all the Hollywood revelers in the garden below. The days before the Emmys are a marathon of luncheons and parties. My feet were hurting and I had no enthusiasm for joining in the festivities. I just wanted to know if Teddy was the father of my child. I went back into my room and dialed Dr. Seckin’s cell phone. Low and heavy, Seckin’s voice when he said my name told me everything I needed to hear. The sound of a woman laughing filtered in from the garden.

  I returned to New York that following Monday. In a moment of great sadness and disappointment, Teddy implored me to keep the results between us. He would raise her as his own, he said, whether he and I ended up together or not. But I couldn’t subject my child to that fate, nor could I do that to Adam, however I felt about him. Teddy was broken when I refused. I thought I’d lost him then. Now I needed to tell Adam. His initial reaction just to the news of my pregnancy had not exactly been happy. I dreaded telling him and kept procrastinating. Finally, weeks later, in November when I could stand it no longer, I insisted he visit me in person, so I could let him know he was the father.

  Up until very late in the pregnancy, we couldn’t agree on what we would do. How involved would Adam be in the baby’s life? He had always wanted to be a dad, but he did not at all look forward to being a dad to a child who had her own family. We spent hours on the phone, trying to talk through the different scenarios. I wanted an option where I stayed with Teddy, but Adam would still be a part of the baby’s life and our child would know she was loved by everyone. I didn’t want to lie about who her father was. I also didn’t want to lose Teddy. I had finally realized the high caliber of the man I had before me. I now had to set about making sure I did what was best for the baby, while also making sure Teddy understood how grateful I was that he had stayed by my side. I did not take that second chance lightly.

  Sometime in early December, Teddy went with me to get a sonogram. Generally I went either with my cousin Manu or with a girlfriend. This time, no one was free to accompany me. Usually I could feel the baby kick or move from side to side, but for a few days I felt no movement at all. I felt uneasy going alone. Teddy overheard me on the phone to Seckin saying I was very worried. I had been feeling uncomfortable and getting larger. I hung up and looked at him silently. He was reading the paper, and I could see him trying to figure out in his head whether he was ready for this. The moment seemed very long, with him pondering whether he could actually stomach it and me trying to summon up the courage to actually ask him out loud. I asked halfheartedly, sheepishly.

  Teddy was woefully delinquent in attending his own yearly checkups. He hated doctors and any and all medical stuff. But he was a gentleman above all else, especially when it came to women. And he could rarely refuse helping someone in need. He acquiesced with the same enthusiasm with which one schedules a colonoscopy. His expression told me that for him, the only thing worse than going was not going.

  He met me at Dr. Seckin’s office, around the corner from his apartment on Fifth Avenue. It was awkward at first. He didn’t know what to expect, and I didn’t know what I could expect of him. Maybe he would just sit in the waiting room? When we got there, two or three other women were reading magazines in the waiting area. I was directed to a small examination room, and after a glimpse at the waiting room, every seat full with a woman waiting to see the doctor, he quickly followed me in. To Teddy the only fate worse than being confronted with all the gory details of my condition was being subjected to the curious eyes of all those hormonal women outside. This was the first time Teddy had seen the inside of a fully functioning gynecologist’s office in all his seventy years. The office had been closed when he had his blood taken for the paternity test.

  The exam room was very small, about seven by eight feet, and very brightly lit, too brightly lit. There was a small stool on wheels tucked to the left of the exam table and little floor space for anything else. I lay on the table and pulled my jeans down. I lifted up my sweater and scooched higher up on the table. I had been to these sonogram appointments so often that by now I just skipped the step of putting on the paper gown, to stay warmer in the room. The sound of the crumpling and tearing of the thin paper sheet underneath me seemed obnoxiously loud. Teddy shifted from one foot to the other, visibly uncomfortable. He didn’t know where to stand. He didn’t know where to look. To my left was the sonogram screen. Teddy stood next to it, leaning against the wall by the door. Perhaps he felt this was a safe place for him, since he would have to completely turn away from me to see into my womb on the screen. Teddy suffered from vertigo, and I knew that look, but now he was also suffering from claustrophobia. A tear rolled down my left temple along my hairline and into my ear. He gently grabbed my hand. His hand felt heavy, soft, warm, and large, with calluses at the base of his fingers from years of golf and tennis.

  Seckin came in and Teddy stiffened. He’d gone from trying to reassure me back to stoicism in a flash. Good old Seckin understood the emotional subtleties of men accompanying women in my condition to his office. And of course, Seckin was fully aware of the delicate circumstances, too. He deftly handled Teddy’s presence with wisdom, compassion, and grace. Seckin gently asked Teddy to move to the other side of the exam bed so he could reach the machine and the wand connected to it. Teddy obliged. This time I searched for Teddy’s hand with my right hand. The cold jelly squirted onto my abdomen made a farting noise coming out of the bottle, breaking the tension in the room. Seckin laughed and said, “Sorry,” then moved the sonogram screen, shifting it for better viewing from his and Teddy’s perspective. My eyes were glued to the monitor, but I was also acutely aware of the weight of Teddy’s hand in mine.

  “There! Here we go,” said Seckin.

  Teddy had been looking down at his shoes, but now looked up at the screen. “What is that?” he asked.

  “It’s her heart,” I answered. I squeezed his hand, and we both saw her tiny heart pulsing away on the screen, he for the first time.

  “Alll gooood,” Seckin pronounced in his singsong, Turkish lilt.

  I was scared Teddy wouldn’t be able to handle it. There was a good chance he could walk out of that examination room and out of my life forever. I was also worried that the growing existence of this child would continually be a reminder of how I had hurt him, and of the embarrassment my actions had caused him. Seeing the growing baby in my womb could make it all too real for him. It could have scared him away. Who could blame him? Why would he still want to be involved with this mixed-up woman who had caused him so much pain? Most men would have run the other way, but Teddy wasn’t most men. And I suppose I, too, needed to know if he was going to stay or go, before the baby came. I had had no guarantees from Teddy up to that point, only a sincere promise to try to make the best of the very hard position I had put him in.

  There we were, holding hands and looking at this new life willing herself into the universe through me. Once I saw that the baby was indeed okay, I couldn’t take my eyes off Teddy. It did something to him, to witness her beating heart that day, in that little room. It did something to me, too, watching him witness it. In the reflected blue light of the sonogram screen I saw so many different emotions flicker across his face. Teddy always wore his feelings on his sleeve. He tried very hard to maintain a stiff upper lip, but I was pretty good at reading his eyes. I saw flashes of wonder, anger, deep pain, frustration, sadness, amazement, compassion, bittersweet longing, all of it. I wondered what he was thinking about. Was he angry with me? Did he feel insulted to even be there, doing another man’s duty? Did he
resent me? Did he feel unable to express it, as his sense of chivalry would not allow him to speak to a woman harshly, especially one who was pregnant? Did he regret the years gone by in his life when he was conquering the business world and not experiencing what his peers were at home? Was he upset that this was how he was now forced to experience a new life entering the world for the first time? Was he thinking about his own sons, and how he never got to experience this stage of their development? Did he still feel squeamish and out of sorts because of the setting? What would he do now? What did he feel now? Was he just being a good friend or did he still love me? Did he even know? I didn’t know if the vision of that little heart beating away mightily on that screen would push him away or propel him toward me. Both were totally plausible outcomes.

  All those emotions and feelings he may have had inexplicably somehow galvanized together into love, pure and simple. In that moment, he had decided to see the glass as more than half full. Whatever he saw tugged at his insides and at mine, too. He looked directly into my face for the first time that day and I could feel the warm sunshine of his love. It took my breath away. He smiled and pointed to the screen. “This is all we need to think about,” he said. “This is all that matters.” That little beating heart on the sonogram had stolen his heart, and in turn Teddy had stolen mine, for good.

  In many moments, what Teddy taught me the most, through his actions, much more than any business strategy or financial acumen, was unconditional love: how to receive it and how to give it.

  chapter 13

  Despite the drama, the majority of my pregnancy was blissful. I had a very happy and healthy first trimester. I had no morning sickness, luckily, and even though the baby was too small to do anything, I imagined I could feel her fluttering in my tummy, almost like a tadpole swimming inside my womb.

  I loved the mellow buzz I felt being pregnant, like the tipsiness after a first glass of champagne. I liked my body as it rounded. I felt sexy, voluptuous in a “She’s a Brick House” way. I knew that pregnancy, along with my fortieth birthday, less than a year away, would usher in a fundamental shift in the trajectory of my breasts, arms, and thighs. This weight gain, of course, was unlike my past fluctuations. I felt liberated from the normal worries about my figure. My body had a higher purpose. Putting on pounds wasn’t just inevitable but also necessary. So while I still had to participate in the mental tug-of-war between what I wanted to eat and what I should eat, the prize of winning was no longer a flat stomach—it was a healthy baby. Vanity is a powerful force. For so long, beginning perhaps with that accidental audition at Spanish Elle, vanity had governed my eating habits. My vanity never quite kept me from giving in to that bowl of coconut cream curry or those couple of (okay, fine, several) pieces of fried chicken. But it made me feel guilty about the indulgences—guiltily guilty, because I’m aware enough to know that my guilt is unproductive. Now I ate for the baby, not for the reflection in the mirror.

  In the early days of my pregnancy, I, like so many almost moms, subsisted on a steady diet of prenatal vitamins and “What the Heck Should I Eat Now?” books. The instructions were daunting, to say the least. The stakes were higher, too: no longer would my inevitable dietary lapses only reveal themselves in my butt or belly rolls; they could affect my child, too. Cooking dinner after a full day of work was hard enough without this added pressure. So I soon shelved those manuals. After all, every reliable author seemed to agree on the same strict regimen of common sense and moderation.

  The extent of the moderation recommended by the books surprised me, though. According to the Mayo Clinic Guide to a Healthy Pregnancy, which became my pregnancy bible, mothers-to-be need to increase their calorie intake by only 150 to 200 calories per day in their first trimester—little more than an extra banana, a thin slice of bread with peanut butter, or a glass of milk. Whatever happened to “eating for two”?

  As someone who had long fantasized about my next meal halfway through my current one, I was familiar with this challenge. Yet now instead of an “eat less of this bad-for-me food” strategy, by which one could theoretically stay slim, I adopted an “eat more of these good-for-me meals” policy, which would nourish the little person inside me. And since I was going to gain no matter what I ate, I finally got to eat as much as I wanted, so long as the food was nourishing.

  Highly processed foods were out altogether. Fried chicken and its ilk would become “In Case of Emergency” fare. I doubled down on any favorites that required minimal fussing. I roasted summer corn over my stovetop’s flame, channeling the street vendors in India who charred ears over charcoal near temple doors. Plenty of lemon, salt, and smoked paprika or mild chili powder added enough flavor that I never missed my typical pat of butter, which at times made me a bit queasy. I made huge salads, colorful collections of vegetables and herbs, which I kept exciting with an ever-changing array of condiments—essentially, some flavorful ingredient (sherry vinegar or mustard, yuzu or yogurt) that I’d turn into dressing with very good first-press olive oil. Perhaps the most dramatic change I made in my diet was the regular addition of red meat. Aside from the no-proteins-barred eating fugues of Top Chef, I didn’t eat much beef, lamb, and the rest—a lingering habit from my vegetarian childhood. Yet now I did once a week, for the iron and calcium. I found myself relishing my weekly seared skirt steak and the task of coming up with new ways to sauce meatballs.

  Some decisions weren’t so straightforward. Most women renounce alcohol and caffeine. The jury is still out on whether small amounts of either one will affect your baby. Still, the choice to play it safe seems like an easy one to make—that is, until you’re forced to make it. Of course I’ll give it up! I thought, gliding on the winds of idealism that marked my early days of pregnancy. Next thing I knew, my eyelids would feel even heavier than my bloated body, and I’d be plodding to the corner for coffee. A tea drinker for most of my life, I switched allegiance for nine months. I did manage to stick to one cup a day. Alcohol was easier to quit, though after the first trimester, which is the riskiest time to drink, I enjoyed a small glass of wine or champagne now and again.

  I was drawn to comforting foods, the foods of my childhood: soupy mixed vegetables stewed with ground fresh coconut and curry leaves, kichidis (dishes of spiced rice and lentils), and of course my beloved yogurt and rice dish, thayir sadam. Whatever I ate, I put in a deep bowl, so it was all the easier to eat with my feet up. I didn’t have many ultra-specific cravings, except for cinnamon, which I mainly consumed in milky banana shakes, and, strangely enough, good old yellow mustard. When the urge struck, I was powerless. About six months into my pregnancy, it assaulted me on the way out of Bergdorf Goodman, where I had been attending a trunk show for the Padma Collection. My mouth watered at the thought of the sharp, vinegary taste, so I made a beeline across the street to Central Park and the nearest hot dog vendor. I had been very conscientious about avoiding processed foods, but that day those steamy little links floating in their murky New York water called out to me. This was going to be my one very bad transgression.

  I ordered a dog piled with relish and sauerkraut, then drenched in yellow mustard. “More?” the vendor asked, incredulous, as I gestured at him to squirt on yet another stripe of mustard. I found the closest hilly patch of grass, plunked myself down, and devoured the thing in four bites. My only regret was that I hadn’t ordered two, because I then had to stand up to get a second one. This was no easy task. For my appearance at Bergdorf, I had dressed in an attempt to look chic, in black leather and heels and gold chains and bracelets galore, though “chic” was becoming more and more difficult as I swelled. So when my several attempts to heave myself up failed, I ended up back on the ground, shiny legs and arms flailing, gold bands jangling—a Mr. T–like beetle stuck on its back.

  For much of my pregnancy, I had continued to work out, and box, too, but Dr. Seckin forbade me to lift heavy weights or jump or skip rope. He ordered me to go to regular weekly sonograms and was extremely concerned with the prosp
ect of miscarriage and the baby’s health in general. He became a sort of Olympic coach who checked in with me almost daily. It had been a while since he had practiced obstetrics on a regular basis, but he was watching me like a hawk. He himself had not believed it possible for me to produce this pregnancy totally naturally, and until the baby was out safely, I could tell that he would not let me out of his sight. This was, after all, his professional miracle as much as my personal one.

  One day in early October, somewhere in my second trimester, I went to my usual sonogram, and Seckin saw something he didn’t like. He sent me to Lenox Hill Hospital for another sonogram and that doctor confirmed what he suspected. I had developed placenta previa. Previa is a condition that occurs when the baby’s placenta partially or completely covers the opening of the cervix at the base or bottom of a woman’s uterus. It’s normally supposed to grow on the side or top of the uterus. The placenta provides all the nutrients to the baby as well as removes waste. The danger with previa is that a woman can bleed excessively before or during delivery because of the placenta’s position. In any event, this was not good news at all, and provided another layer of worry for all of us.

  I was immediately forbidden to do any exercise of any kind. Seckin informed me that many endo patients do suffer from previa, but that it often happens to mothers who’ve never had endometriosis as well. Figures I’d get this, too, I thought. Up until this time, I had felt a bit of general fatigue, but I had also experienced a low-level hormonal high pretty much constantly since getting knocked up. I was a pretty happy pregnant lady. Seckin forbade me to exert myself in any way. Seckin is a very excitable type, who gets pretty emotional, especially for a doctor who is supposed to be calm in the face of his patients’ anxiety. But all that bedside manner went out the window, it seemed, when it came to me. He could not believe the insolence of my questioning. In these moments, his usual recourse was to become philosophical. “That baby in your womb is like a flower budding in the desert, a scorched desert. Now we have to stop the wind, and pray for rain. Do you understand?!” I understood he was calling my womb a desert, and coming from my gynecologist, this was very depressing news indeed.