Someone Else is Living Your Parisian Dream

When we first met OB #2, Julia, during her private practice office hours (50 euros per visit not covered by Securite Sociale, as opposed to her consultation hours billed to the Hertford British Hospital, which are covered), she was classically British no-nonsense but gave us some good information along with her time, such as, “Have you declared your pregnancy? You need to declare your pregnancy.” She wasn’t able to give me the form as I’d forgotten to bring my file of reports from the American Hospital. She was already ahead of my doctor at the American Hospital of Paris, though, whom at the time I excused as just being cool about everything….which was cool…at the time of the first appointment, early in the pregnancy. By Week 16, being given no information when I asked, was not so cute.

Our motivation back then, to seek out Julia, was purely financial as we considered all the things we could do with the few thousand euro that we would potentially pay to the private American Hospital by the time the baby is born, in comparison to merely hundreds under the French care system at HBH, if that. We preferred an English speaking institution where I could simply scream in English, like a creature possessed, at any or all of the nurses, doctors or neighbors within hearing distance. I am possessed, what with a little person harvesting on my body and tickling me as it squirms, kicks, and punches as hard as it’s tiny, tiny little hands and feet will allow, training itself for the January debut.

In the maternity waiting area of the Hertford British Hospital is a small table with unofficial looking binders and small pamphlets of information. This is different than that of the American Hospital where only a couple of parenting magazines are (visibly) available. Amongst the binders at HBH was one that caught my eye labelled, Information in English. Flipping through it from beginning to end, I found everything that I needed to know from the time that my pregnancy was confirmed:

• what to expect;
• how to traverse the French system, including paperwork that needs to be filed by Week 14 (hello, Declaration of Pregnancy);
• what to expect in the coming months;
• schedule of exams that will follow;
• resources that pregnant women may need such as midwives, relevant classes, etc.;
• what to bring to the hospital on delivery day,
• and sign ups for antenatal classes, among others.

I wanted to steal that binder (but I didn’t, thanks). None of the above was ever available at the American Hospital, nor any of the topics mentioned by my doctor. Not. One. Word. EVER. Not even at my Week 16 appointment 3 weeks ago, during which I was told to buy a book when I asked my doctor’s advice on what to expect. Unfortunately, only the information on what to bring on delivery day was for taking (it said, “TAKE ONE”), but finding that binder, in itself, was like a tall drink of water for someone who had none for 16 weeks. I signed up for a 2 hours antenatal class #1 (of 2) right there in the binder (I got the impression that was the only way to do it, though I must be wrong…). It will entail some breathing lessons, what to expect during labor, etc. “Wear comfortable clothes,” they advised. Class #2 will include a tour of the facilities and maternity ward.

When our tick-o-matic was next up to speak to someone in Maternite Inscription, we were greeted at the office door by a smiling young woman. With a copy of our original letter of request for delivering at HBH in hand, my husband explained our predicament (we have no place to give birth) and that Julia is our OB. He need added that we need to deliver at an English speaking hospital because I don’t speak French well enough to ask pertinent questions. The young lady behind the desk was all reassurance and enthusiasm for her job as she spoke French with My Husband. I smiled in 35% understanding and beamed through the remaining 65% of my oblivion, melting into the environment of it’s all- going-to-be-o.k.ness. Given the known obstacles for those with my particular language needs, she reassured us that though she couldn’t drop the hammer on the seal of approval, that she really was certain that it wouldn’t be a problem and that we would receive our answer in several weeks by mail. To those living in the France, you know that nobody ever gives hope, even when there IS a chance. “C’est pas possible” - It’s not possible - was not in this young lady’s vocabulary. To my understanding, French speakers would drop in priority as there so many other good options. We were prepared to go to basically any French speaking hospital, and even called some, only to learn that they couldn’t accomodate us at this late date of 5 months. Each was doom, gloom and ‘good luck’. Luckily, now, it looks like we’re in good hands.

In my mind, this is like Equal Opportunity for the Incompetent, but I’ll take it gladly. I wanted to stroke this smiling woman’s hair and tell her that thanks to her, our baby’s first touch will not be the shampoo scum or hard water deposits on the bottom of dirty bath tub. I wanted to tell her that because of her, the first scents to waft through ‘his’ tiny little nose (or a big one, if he inherits My Husband’s nose - and mine isn’t so small either) will not be the soothing, combination of lavendar soaps and whisky that mama’s been pounding from the bottle between screams of, “Are we there yet, Papa Smurf?!!”

So. While we have not been formally admitted as patients of the Bertford British Hospital - and this may not happen until far later - it helps that we were ‘already seeing’ Julia during her private office and will continue to do so, even if not officially under HBH until far later. It’s nice to know that she’ll give us a destination to drive toward when I’m about to pop. For once, we felt reassured that I wouldn’t have to heave myself into the bath tub with a nailfile in hand and hard booze in the other when the time comes. The next best option, My Husband told me, is that the baby can be born in a police car with the sirens wailing as we race across town to Neuilly, where HBH is. Now that…that would be a story for a lifetime.

SO. A VERY SHORT LIST OF LOGISTICS
(I think in order, though we couldn’t follow it ourselves):

1. Confirm pregnancy

2. Find a doctor, preferably at a hospital/clinique where you would like to give birth.

3. Obtain pregnancy declaration form from doctor.

4. Send form to Securite Sociale (this is 1 page with 3 attached copies. Must be received at the office by Week 14 of pregnancy though there are exceptions).

We’re off on vacation next week and oh dear, I haven’t a thing to wear!

Now at the 5 month mark, my ever tried and true regular low-rise jeans are even getting a bit snug under the bump. “But I can still button them pretty easily!” I defend myself on the phone to my also pregnant former college roommate who tells me that I should give them up. It’s not good for the baby. “And they still look good!” I add, but not divulging that there is now a bit of spillage over the top. When I’m sitting though, I do worry that the baby will be born with waistband imprints running the length of ‘his’ body, easily buttoned or not. And so, the jeans are to be stored finally - not to be tried on again for the next few months to avoid the temptation of fooling myself and keeping them on - and I was able to find a cute pair in the closet that fit slightly looser with a 70’s bohemianish flair. I know that the current fashion is peg legs, or whatever the fashion industry calls it, but I can’t bring myself. Before you know it, women everywhere will be sporting slingback flats with colored cotton socks. I’m way out. I know. But 70’s is always in in my old neighborhoods…in San Francisco…..

“You’re pregnant.” My Husband tells me in a voice similar to that which he would use if her were ever to say, “You’re an idiot.” I’m adjusting to a changing body that’s basically worn the same size, fluctuating little, throughout the last decade. Though I’m fully accepting it, despite my shallow and amused observations in the mirror, I’m not accustomed to these types of changes and the very worst part is that it’s wreaking havoc on my ability to dress myself each day. Those one pair of jeans that were purchased during the flux is where I am now. On the other hand, I’ve also discovered that my classic sheath dresses with a little stretch, some of which I’ve owned for upwards of 10 years - and also empire waist ones, that I bought in early spring - show off the little bump and I am comfortable and proud of it, inspite of constantly thinking about pouring myself into my ‘normal’ jeans everytime I see and pick them up. I’m especially comfortable in those dresses when I let the bump just all hang out - as opposed to just the tops of it . Whew. I won’t have to go shopping just yet, as long as the weather holds. As you might guess, several hours of shopping for maternity within my own closet have taken place over the last few days with a strong resistance to shopping. When the time comes, though, that I need to emerge from that shallow hole, The Husband - who also hates to shop - offered to do it for me with one of his friends. That’s baby love.

The thing is I was considering moving back to the US but my condition was that my wife would let me become a bountyhunter in some place like Farmington in New Mexico. She thinks it’s too redneck but who cares? For anybody who’s seen the movie Domino seems like a lot of fun: driving, fighting, shooting, busting, drinking beers and no paperwork at all to fullfill. As she refused, we’re stuck in Paris… When I mentioned Farmington, she said: “Is that even on the map?”. Yes FARMINGTON NM is on the map, much more than the hi tech politically correct boring Palo Alto. Long life to the wildlife of the four corners!

My conversations with Mamy are very limited, her not quite being sure of how to talk to an adult who possesses the language skills of a child and me; that child. Sitting at the table, I will my ‘invisible cloak’ to engage as I pick my nails clean before chewing them off and slipping them in my pocket, one crescent moon at a time. I often look up to find her staring at me, with love and hope, (and perhaps disgust as I gnaw away) as whole conversations and hundreds of years of family history do the pee-pee dance on the tip of her tongue. I know that she regrets not being able to communicate with me as adults and as women of, now, one family. As a newest member of the family soul train to learn and pass along history to our children. I have these regrets also, and really wish the woman would go learn herself some English.

I’m kidding.

The same issue, though to a slightly lesser degree torments me about my own family. Our primary languages differ, as we spent our childhoods/developmental years living in time warps different times, countries and cultures. We live through different languages. While my mother’s English never quite got to the ‘fluent’ level, having immigrated from a third world country at the age of 30 with 4 growing children, my first/native languages never developed to the level of emoting, though we speak each other’s languages well. I sometimes feel cut off from my ancestors, never to obtain thorough family history the way I see it recorded here in Europe, where families have posted for centuries. My situation is compounded by several other factors, including fragmented information given on a need-to-know basis from a very private culture and multiple immigrations amongst my family within our lifetime.

With my father’s family scattered in multiple far away countries, childhood anecdotes of his childhood are extremely few and far between. I have sought them for over 15 years and still know little. I saw one picture of him as a child for the first time, only two years ago, in the possession of his brother who lives in Canada. At the same time, I discovered for the first time that I look nothing like my grandfather, his father. This cemented my suspicion finally, that I get all my features from my father, who strongly takes after of his own mother. Lined up, we are undoubtedly of the same lineage, my grandmother, my father and I. For those very reasons, so that my children will be spared decades of search for who I am and what my most significant experiences are, I write. I have a deep concern that my children will not speak English well. I am concerned that they will favor France, rejecting my own stories of having been raised in an America that treated my family well. I’m afraid that they won’t want to speak English, in the same way that I didn’t want to speak any non-local languages as a child, thus layering upon yet another generation of language and cultural gaps. Not understanding me or my personal culture.

On Sunday, Mamy took a deep breath and asked me whether I like Paris, and whether I prefer life in Paris or San Francisco. My French wasn’t ‘on’ so I was not in a mood to have painful 20 minute conversation (which would only take 3 minutes for normal speakers) full of exclusions and adjectivesand halting vocabulary. I summed it up with an unsatisfactory, oversimplified phrase that left the words of my real answer churning unspoken in my stomach. I under-represented my thoughts with, “Les deux sont tres different. Paris est meilleur maintenant.” The two are very different; Paris is getter better/better now (than before). She nodded in understanding, as my mother and father-in-law must have described my city to her after their trip. This was all I could conjure without digging myself into a hole, deep with lack-of, or mis-communication derived from generation, culture and especially language gaps wider than I’ve ever known, which would in turn color my answer a shade different than what was intended: I prefer San Francisco in general, but I’m learning to deal with all things Paris and it’s getting to be more livable for me. I also wouldn’t want to be anywhere with The Husband. She would have cooed and melted at the mention of her only grandchild, but I didn’t know how to say it without sounding stupid.

A good American friend, whom I deeply treasure, zipped into town from CDG for quick dinner on a 4 hour layover from the UAE, where he currently lives, to Brazil. We tripped over the other’s words, catching up on years of information lull and extreme changes. After hearing my woes, he pointed out that my issues in France are, fortunately, not fundamental issues. He is one who lives each of his dreams and taught me, by example, that dreams are for living; that they’re meant to be made true. With each dream comes a process and time for realization. While he has lived, and currently maintains a most unusual life, carved specially FOR him BY him, his marriage has turned out to be less than ideal; an unfortunate consequence of their living situation within a very specific culture, but a bad marriage nonetheless. We mulled over our opposite situations and I was reminded that while Paris may lack in many of the features that I need for an enjoyable day to day, and while it may never have been my dream, my marriage is wonderful and I’m married not just to a ‘good man’ who treats me ‘well’ but to my soul mate. We’ve faced difficulties that few do (aside from other ‘following’ expats), and we work them out. It struck me as ironic, how true that generic cliche rings, “You can’t have it all” as my friend and I live connectedly in parallel wonder worlds that are fulfilling (and not) in different ways, but completely guided by us nevertheless. The day to days impact me a bit deeper than just the ‘below the surface’ but I still count myself amongst the luckiest.

Meeting my friend again, this time in Paris with many years, countries and extreme adventure between us, was like finally finding the passage to a different dimension. We’ve come full circle, but it never closed, as another cliche tells us. Instead, it is left open for infinite more possibilities. Learning to live my dreams, and fulfilling others with a soulmate - a feat in itself for I knew he existed, but never thought I could find him - began ultimately with this friend’s influence. Here, over dinner in Paris and once again between countries, I was given a gentle reminder that living my ‘ideal’ life in San Francisco/California or wandering anywhere else independently and aimlessly, apart from my ‘ideal’ husband for long periods of time, just isn’t ideal. My innate happiness has come with sacrifices. At the expense of my good friend, it took reconnecting and sharing with him again to remember that we while we are rewarded for our sacrifices, we may not reap all of them immediately, if at all. But the results are worth the journey.

After some deep thought and introspection, I became comfortable with the fact if I were forced to choose my preference for a city instead of merely asked, I would choose Paris.The words don’t feel comfortable on my tongue yet, but my actions fill the silence.