Transcript
Mark Bittman (0:00)
Hi folks, it's Mark from the podcast Food with Mark Bittman. As the weather gets warmer, it's time for lighter meals and Whole Foods Market has just what you're looking for with great everyday prices. Look for the yellow low price signs that help you save money without compromising the quality you expect. Nothing, absolutely nothing in the store has any high fructose corn syrup, for example. Just shop with confidence. Save on the best of spring with great everyday prices at Whole Foods Market.
Isaac Saul (0:32)
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Phoebe Saul (0:59)
Thumbtack presents the ins and outs of caring for your home out indecision, overthinking, second guessing every choice you make in plans and guides that make it easy to get home projects done out beige on beige on beige in knowing what to do, when to do it and who to hire. Start caring for your home with confidence. Download Thumbtack today.
Isaac Saul (1:31)
From executive producer Isaac.
Phoebe Saul (1:33)
Saul, this is Tangle.
Isaac Saul (1:46)
Good morning, good afternoon, and good evening and welcome to the Tangle podcast, the place where you typically get views from across the political spectrum, some independent thinking, and a little bit of my take. I'm your host, Isaac Saul. Today's a little different. A little more than six weeks ago, my wife gave birth to our first child, so I was on paternity leave. Listeners who have been around for a bit and readers know that I was off for about a month, month and a half, and a lot of people wrote in and suggested that maybe I should write a bit about my experience and ask questions about whether having a kid has changed my politics at all. A lot of interesting stuff came up and so I decided, yeah, you know what, I thought it would be fun to write about this, do something a little different. So today's podcast is that it's a little bit longer. It's just a narrative story about what happened to my wife and I and our experience. And then I put my Tangle hat on at the end and share a bit about how my views maybe are starting to evolve a little bit having kids. So I hope it's interesting. I think you'll enjoy it. It's a members only Friday post, so if you are not yet a Tangle member, you'll be able to listen to the first chunk of the podcast and then there will be a fade out and you'll be asked to subscribe. If you are interested in doing that, you can go to our website readtangle.com membership and get either a podcast membership or just click the bundle to subscribe to our podcast and our newsletter. So with that, I'm going to jump in. We were seven months pregnant when we got the news. We weren't even supposed to be there, really. My wife Phoebe had gotten COVID 19 early on in her pregnancy, so the doctors were performing extra anatomy scans just to make sure our tiny little baby boy was growing like he was supposed to be growing. And he was. The scan seemed normal. Fingers, toes, femurs, spine, brain, all there. Baby is practicing breathing, the technician kept saying in the awkward way doctors always refer to the baby as baby and not him or her or the name, which we were still very much keeping a secret. Baby is moving around. Baby looks cozy. Baby is showing off, she said. The technician left to go get the doctor who is the only one who can ever tell you anything but always comes in and says in that cheery voice, your baby looks perfectly healthy, then tells you to carry on with your day. And then you go get a sweet treat and a coffee and daydream about the tiny little muffin arriving and squealing and grasping your forefinger with his genuinely hard to believe they are so small hands. The wait was longer than usual, and when the knock at the door came, it wasn't the doctor but the technician again. This time she introduced someone else who was shadowing the doctor. The doctor wanted another scan, she told us an image we didn't get the first time. It felt normal for a beat, and then came the intrusive thoughts. Why is this interesting to someone shadowing a doctor? We don't want this to be interesting. We want this to be boring. Why? Another scan? What's wrong? What didn't they see? Where is the doctor? We ask softball questions and she answers with rehearsed ambiguity. Oh, the baby's practicing his breathing, which makes it hard to get the right image because in this instance we actually want him to sit still. On the screen, red and blue dots map the flow of blood through his chest and the technician keeps screenshotting it. She scans and jokes, moving the ultrasound wand across my wife's belly, assuring us that baby is an all star. Then suddenly the room fills with the audio of our baby's chest, the sound of blood swishing and whirring at 141 beats per minute. It cuts off after a few seconds. They didn't capture the audio before. Why now? An intrusive thought, I tell myself, and push it away. Baby won't sit still, they joke nervously, telling us again that he's an all star, practicing his breathing on the screen. His diaphragm moves up and down as they try to capture still images but just don't get what they want. The young man shadowing the doctor and standing beside the technician points and whispers just out of earshot something technical about a chamber or a valve. In jargon that means close to nothing to me. We're going to let you sit for a few minutes, they say, and see if he stops practicing his breaths. They leave and we exchange a worried glance, knowing that none of this feels particularly comforting or quite right. But we're seven months pregnant now, which means we've had these intrusive thoughts a million times and we know they never connect back to reality. I tap Phoebe's belly and tell our boy to chill so the doctors can do their thing, so he can go, so I can get back to work and get my massage tonight. We giggle and Phoebe says a massage sounds so nice, and then looks at me nervously. I assure her it's okay, they want to get all the images they can. A couple minutes later they return. More gel on the belly, more scanning, more clicking, more whispered pointing, and then they tell us they're going to give this report to the doctor, but maybe just stay in this position with the belly out and gelled up in case she wants to take a look. That didn't happen last time. And now my heart rate starts to increase, but I fake some confidence for my wife. The technician and young man leave. A minute goes by and there's a quiet knock at the door. It creaks open. A nurse is in the wrong room and apologizes, shuffling away more minutes, more exchanged glances, more reassuring. Finally the loud, confident knock of a doctor sounds from the door and she enters before we can answer, trailed by the same young man who we were told is shadowing her today. And I hate everything about how she looks. I hate the tightness in her face and forced smile and the focus, like she's about to do something she doesn't do every day and she knows she has to get it right. First of all, your baby looks healthy, she says in a voice that conveys the important part is coming in just the moment, but I'm seeing just a few things that concern me. My wife grabs my hand and her other hand goes to her mouth and I feel the room lift as if it was just picked up by some great force. I can't see or touch or fight, and the words start falling from her mouth. I'm desperately trying to focus and hear every specific medical term, but the doctor seems slightly nervous, and as she starts to explain how a heart works why is she telling us how a heart works? She pauses. Are you medical? She asks. No, we both answer quickly and sternly, as if insisting she get to the point. Okay, sorry, she says. Sometimes I start talking like this and then the people I'm talking to are cardiologists or doctors, and I just wanted to check. I couldn't really care any less about how this sometimes goes with other patients who are medical, and I stare at her in a way I hope conveys this. Basically, your baby's heart is larger than it should be, she says. Okay, I think Lance Armstrong had a big heart, a third bigger than most humans, and look how he turned out. Big heart, who cares? Twenty minutes ago, before any of this was even on the radar, the doctor told us the baby's head was bigger than average. We laughed. Big heads run in my family. Poor Phoebe. Big heart. What's the problem? This is often an indication of some kind of stress, she explains. If a heart is bigger than it should be, it could mean that it's working harder than it's supposed to be, which could mean that the baby is having some trouble transferring blood between the chambers of the heart. This makes sense. Too much sense. Okay, big heart. Not good. Definitely. Maybe. Possibly a problem. She delivers this news in a brisk way that does not communicate that this might be a problem, but that this usually is a problem. Phoebe starts crying. The doctor tries to keep talking calmly through it, and I try to swallow my fear. I kiss Phoebe's forehead and whisper, it's going to be okay. He's okay. And the shadow doctor sitting in the corner witnessing the now very obviously interesting thing happening today, grabs a box of Kleenex and solemnly hands it to me. There are some other issues, too, some things she wanted to see on the technician's scan but didn't some blood vessels, some connections. She uses words like venous and pulmonary and something about quadrants or chambers or top or bottom portions. But she says if there is a problem, they can fix it. Fix it here is doing a lot of work. All I can see in my mind's eye is our child being cut open by some surgeon and hooked up to machines and wires and struggling to breathe, and I focus. Okay, I'm here. I squeeze my wife's hand and I kiss her again. I tell her it's going to be okay. I will tell her this maybe a thousand times in the next 24 hours, but right now I have the overwhelming sense that this is one of those turning points in life that I won't forget and I'm just trying to keep from vomiting in my lap. So I'm going to take a look, the doctor says, and she asks if we are ready. A question with no right answer. Gel belly. Phoebe looks at me as she begins and her eyes hold a panic that I've never really seen. An hour of quiet fills the room. For 45 seconds it is the most pregnant quiet, if you'll excuse the expression, I've ever heard in my life. The baby's tiny little heart is projected onto the big screen. More screenshots, more pointing and whispering just beyond my ear's periphery. His heart is structurally sound, she says, and my shoulders drop a quarter of an inch. Is that the pulmonary vein? She asks the room out loud, as if anyone but her can know, and hovers her mouse over some dark blotch on the screen, circles it in yellow and saves the image. This seems good. The images keep coming. My wife's belly bounces up and down as she sobs. The doctor keeps pointing, changing angles, explaining what they are seeing in ways we cannot come close to understanding. Okay, she says, and she takes her gloves off and starts to wipe Phoebe's belly down. I. I think I'm seeing and I'm stuck on the word think already. The veins that I was worried about were not there, but the baby's heart is still a bit bigger than it should be. Her lips are moving and I'm trying to focus as hard as I possibly can, but none of it makes sense. His heart is working structurally sound, doing what it should be, but it's big and also maybe not moving the blood around properly. I hear Children's Hospital, Philadelphia. Fetal echocardiogram. Cardiology. We'll need an appointment and we'll need it soon. It could be nothing, just an abnormal sized heart, she says in a way that doesn't inspire confidence. Or it could be something that needs to be fixed. Fixed. That word again. That's a word that I know does not imply ibuprofen in water and rest. It means scalpel and flesh and the thumb sized heart having its flaps cut and stitched and held together inside the 4 inch cavity that is my son's fetal chest. Do you have any questions? She asks. Any questions. Five minutes ago I was thinking about the two hour massage I had scheduled for myself tonight as a celebration of surviving the workload of the 2024 presidential election. And now you're asking me if I have any questions about my baby's enlarged heart that might not be working anymore and might need fixing. Yes, I have some questions. I have a million questions. Let's start with how this could be. Maybe what is this and did we give it to him and will he need surgery and when will we know and how do we get this fucking appointment today? And what are the odds this is nothing? And what are the odds this is something? And are you more confident now that you've had a look or less confident? So his heart is too big? I feel the words fall out of my mouth, the least helpful question I could possibly ask and that could mean it's stressed. I say I'm trying to get her to explain to me what I'm looking at and what we know, but the distance between her expertise and my layman's knowledge is an ocean neither of us has the time to cross. Yes, his heart is bigger than it should be, and that could mean it's working too hard. So we want to know why she apologizes. She knows this is scary and not the thing we want to hear. But we have left her world and entered another. A cardiologist really needs to look at this, she explains, and so we need to go to cardiology to see the experts to take another look to figure out what's happening. She leaves the room and my wife and I both unfurl, weeping and sobbing and falling into each other. I promise her over and over again, it's going to be okay. Even though we just left our world and walked into some dark, misty forest full of horrors we don't know or understand. And it was in that moment, full of fear and angst and desperation to help my son, that I really felt the weight of being a dad for the first time. And it was in that moment, full of fear and angst and desperation to help my son, that I really felt the weight of being a father for the first time. Phoebe and I gathered ourselves and left the office, trying to put on straight faces for the other expectant parents in the waiting room. We did not want to scare Foreign we'll be right back after this quick break. 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