Relentless

A jarring racket fills our camper on this untamed night in the Sol Duc watershed of the Olympic National Park. Large pockets of water form on Douglas Fir limbs above, collecting, collecting, collecting until…splat, kerplunk on top of the metal-roofed truck camper. Hundreds such collection systems drop like random rocks.

Relentless.

Underneath deafening plops, an orchestra of various types of rain also plunk and pelt and swoosh—atmospheric river rain, sheets of rain, light sprinkles of rain, seconds of silence, then repeat.

Unearths shadows of old grief.

Keeps me sleepless.

*

I birthed a fetus in the bathtub on Groundhog Day, 2001. Not before shedding ten pounds in fifteen weeks. Not before suffering relentless nausea. The kind of sick that renders death preferable. My most important people not believing how sick I was—my then husband, Hugh, and my doctor. That inclement morning when I called my doctor to say I was in labor, she said:

“No one miscarries in the 15th week.”

Baby “wantums” struck after I met Hugh in 1989. When his young daughter visited two weeks later, we packed a lunch and donned old shoes for squishy play in a local stream. His tenderness toward her revved up the drip, drip, drip of my love hormones. But for Hugh, having more kids was a No. I hungered for him to change his mind. After several years, I left him.

Only then did Hugh beg me to reconsider.

Offered marriage and kids.

I thought one baby would be enough. But when she popped out, helpless, sweet, suckling with her wee fingers wrapped around my thumb, I yearned for more. Hugh said, “I’m sorry I made you wait so long.”

A second pregnancy drenched in relentless Northwest Washington winter. No bright sun warmed my face. Brown and gray skeletal leaves scattered on wet pavement, wilted plants languished in my garden. The joy of bringing new life into the world dampened. I saw death everywhere.

Felt it in my body.

Like I was dying.

Could anyone really think I was faking sick? My students at the university believed me. Colleagues believed me. They watched me drag my rain-soaked body into work every day.

They saw the hollow cheeks, pale skin, cold sweat.

They’d wait after knocking on my office door while I dragged myself up from the sleeping mat I’d collapsed on between classes.

They heard the retching in the restroom.

Even in the men’s room next door.

A bright spot was our toddler. She chattered and played around my crumpled body on the couch at home. She’d crawl up on top of me for cuddles.

I ached to give her a sibling.

*

Atmospheric river in the Sol Duc Rainforest campground darkens this morning’s dawn. Charles, my current husband, stirs next to me. We agree that pitiable sleep came with all the plopping and pelting of the night. First light promises no relief, but it’s too early to abandon our trip. We pull out his iPad and try to watch movies but the plunking noise drowns out the dialogue. We move to the quieter cab of the truck, turn on the seat-heaters and set up the iPad on the dashboard.

Rain slops the windshield.  

I escape memories of miscarriage. 

*

The sicker I became, the more Hugh escaped in his work. One dreary evening at home, I craved a greasy hamburger and fries from the bar next to his office. I called to ask him to please get it for me. He grumbled. When he showed up, he dropped food on the table, gave our girl a hug, and returned to the office.

I pined for some loving support.

On another dark evening, he left a Playboy Magazine on the counter, letting me know his needs weren’t being met. My gaunt image in the rain-splattered window.

Reflected back lonely eyes.

That February 2, cramping startled my sleep. Dark clouds hung low at dawn, begging for release. I asked Hugh to take our girl to daycare. I called in sick. I called my doctor. I called the daycare to have Hugh come back home. Then familiar contractions of labor.

I rolled off the bed onto the floor.

I crawled over to the bathroom.

I squatted in the tub.

I laid our fetus on a forest green towel on the floor of our bedroom while rain began pelting the windows. Hugh collapsed in sobs when he walked into the room. I stared, no tears on my cheeks. Blank, except for a profound surprise that I didn’t feel like puking.

Hugh apologized for not believing me.

I said nothing.

Two weeks later, Hugh and I sat in a therapist’s office. She had heard my story a week earlier, how I felt abandoned, alone. She asked him:

“If you two were to get pregnant again, knowing what you now know, how would your behavior change?”

He shrugged and said, “I guess I’d be the same way.”  

*

By this afternoon, our stir-crazy bodies bust out of our camper ready for a hike to Sol Duc Falls. The air moist, only a hint of sprinkles. The verdant rainforest at the end of September astounds our eyes.

So much life!

Halfway to the falls, drizzles start and stop and start. We continue. The falls are worth the soggy slog. Boulders at the precipice separate three powerful plunges of water roaring down into a deep canyon. We take photos and traipse back. Soft sprinkles burgeon into a drencher.

We cut this camping adventure short.

Retreat to our sweet home in the “rain shadow” of the Olympic mountains.

*

Even after the suffering during that pregnancy, intense longing for more children washed through me. Three days after the miscarriage, I turned forty-three. It felt like the end of my reproductive years.

Yet the longing continued, relentless.

While I never got pregnant again, Charles has two adult children. Even on the rainiest days, the blended family we have created warms me. More children came in an unexpected, happy way.

Now we long for grandchildren.

-Julie Lockhart

Julie Lockhart loves an adventure in wild places. During the last years of her career, she led a grief support nonprofit, where she discovered the beauty and depth of personal stories, writing about her experiences to help grieving people feel less alone. Her essays have been published in the journal of Wild Culture, bioStories, Feels Blind Literary, Minerva Rising (Keeping Room), and Witcraft. Julie has placed four times in the top ten in Women on Writing Essay contests. She is a Pushcart nominee. Born in the Chicago area, Julie has lived, worked and played in the Pacific Northwest since 1982. She lives in Port Townsend, WA. Find her at: julietales.com.