Words Become Flesh • Empty Womb

Empty Womb
LITCHFIELD, CONNECTICUT
MARCH 1981

RAINDROPS PELTED MY OFFICE WINDOWS LIKE PEBBLES. I stood there
watching the tiny mounds of water cling until, unable to hold on
any longer, they slid down the dotted windowpane like teardrops.
This is the first day of spring? The voice in my head had a tone of disgust.
I was grateful to be in the comfort of my office and not out in
the rain navigating the streets of my small New England town.
March was in reverse. She was roaring out like a lion and not b-aa-
a-ing out like a lamb.

The weather I was witnessing from my office reminded me of
November. I imagine November in the New England of today can
be just as dismal and dreary as it was in Melville’s New England.
Seems that Novemberish weather nudges me to nostalgically recall
Ishmael’s words in Melville’s Moby-Dick. Yes, it was a “damp, drizzly
November in my soul.” The hope of spring was nowhere to be
seen as I opened the door to my waiting room to find Jennifer.
From what I knew of Jennifer, I was certain the weather in her soul
was that of a drizzly and dismal November day.

Before coming to see me, Jennifer’s abdomen had swelled up over
many months as if bearing new life. She had so wanted to get pregnant.
She sat before me looking forlorn. Her despair hung as heavy
as the thick velvet Victorian draperies framing the windows of my
office. For months Jennifer had appeared to be carrying a child.
Why was her womb empty? The analytic dictum I had heard in my
training echoed in my mind: “Make the unconscious conscious!”
What hidden hurt was underlying the conflict between her obvious
wish to be pregnant and her inability to get pregnant? . . .
“Sometimes our emotions can affect our body,” I said trying to
prepare her to explore the emotions underlying her false pregnancy.