A FBOW excerpt in sequence: “Permission Given”
Prospective: Said a ‘future’ article in The Chicago Tribune
‘One month after delivery, women still complained of breast problems, fatigue, haemorrhoids, poor appetite, constipation, increased sweating, acne, hand numbness and hot flashes.
Three months after delivery, many of these symptoms continued...’ the study reported ‘...while 40% of mothers also reported pain during sexual intercourse, as well as respiratory infections and hair loss at three to six months.
Even at nine months postpartum, many women experienced vaginal discomfort and constipation.’
****
Ad to this presently unknown mix, the unknown symptoms of diabetes.
______________________________________
Chicago, Illinois
January 1, 1963, 9:47 a.m.
Pouring coffee, “ ‘What’!”
“I said...” he said nonchalantly, “...I didn’t use a…”
“ ‘Yeah’, I heard what you said!” Putting the pot on the stove. Remaining standing. “I just ‘can’t’ believe you’d do that to me!”
Sitting at the table. “Why?” Looking at her. “It’s damn near about time!”
“Yes, ‘okay’! ‘What’, tell me, ‘what’ am I supposed to tell them when, oh, in about four months...” said sarcastically, “...I show up pregnant when I’m not even supposed to be married?”
“But you ‘are’ married!”
“Myron...” she said angrily, “...they don’t know that!”
“Well...” said just as angrily, “...maybe it’s ‘damn’ near time they did! Tell ‘em you’re married! Tell ‘em you’ve been married for two years now!”
“ ‘How’? What am I supposed to say now? That I’ve been lying to them all this time.” Pleadingly, “They’ll fire me!”
“Yeah, so what!” Always a thorn in Myron’s side: his wife earning more than he. “You don’t need the damn job! I’m making enough now!” Poking his thumb in his chest, “I’ll support us!”
“You’re ‘not’ making enough to cover both our salaries. Besides, I love my job and ‘don’t’ want a baby!”
“Elizabeth, it’s not natural! A healthy young woman wanting a baby. It’s more than just work, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s ‘not’! I’m ‘not’ ready for a baby! I ‘don’t’ want a baby!”
Repeating sarcastically, “ ‘You’re not ready for a baby’. Elizabeth, you’re twenty-five years old! All of our friends have babies! It’s more than just work...” Myron repeated, “...isn’t it?”
Shaking her head in disgust, thinking, I ‘don’t’ want to be fat again!
Turning away. Knowing what she ‘would’ do if she were lucky, Elizabeth left the kitchen.
Sunday, January 6, 1963
Her anger at the deception carrying throughout the week.
Pain waking her. Orientating herself, Thank God!
For the first time in her life Elizabeth Herzon Lipshits welcomed menstrual cramps.
Monday, January 7, 1963
“Judy, good morning. It’s Elizabeth Lipshitz.”
“Elizabeth, good morning. How are you?”
“Good. Fine, in fact, but I’d like to make an appointment.”
“Can I tell the doctor your problem?”
“It’s a personal thing, Judy.”
“Sure.” Checking Doctor Rubin’s appointment schedule, “Thursday: 2:15 do?”
“That’ll be fine. Thank you, Judy.”
Thursday, January 10, 1963
“Your period started on Sunday, you say?”
“Yes…” Elizabeth said, “...well, the cramps.”
“How long do your periods usually last?”
“Six, seven days.”
Writing... Ripping it from the pad, he handed her the prescription. “Take one immediately, then follow the instructions.”
Sincerely spoken, “Thank you, Doctor.”
“These won’t take affect immediately, so use your regular precautions for the next three weeks.”
****
The first birth control pill: ‘Oral Contraceptive Combined Pill’, (COCP), ‘Enovid’, was introduced to America in 1960.
****
Des Plaines, Illinois
February 17, 1963, 10:45 p.m.
In bed. “Marcie, come on, baby!”
Her back to him. “I don’t feel like it!”
Not wanting to argue. Speaking softly. “But you don’t ever feel like it.”
Speaking softly as well. “Mitchell, please, I don’t feel well!”
Knowing he was treading on thin ice. “Marsha, you don’t ever feel well!”
There was no response.
“You know how long it’s been since we’ve made love?”
Silence.
“Marsha...” trying to make a joke of it, “...we, haven’t made love since last year.”
Turning. Rising onto her elbows, “Mitchell, I told you, I ‘don’t’ feel well!”
“Yeah,” said tiredly, “I know, Marsha.”
“Tell you what!” Spoken lowly but angrily. “I give you ‘permission’!”
“You give me permission? What do you ‘give me permission for’?”
“You want to get fucked?” her voice rising.
“Marcie, the kids!”
Lowering her tone moderately. “You want to get fucked? Okay, you’re a guy and I understand.” Her eyes narrowed, “So, it’s ‘okay’!” Sitting up now, her body turned to him. “You want to get fucked, so I give you permission!” her voice rising again, “Go fuck your girlfriend!”
Moving his hand in a downward motion, motioning Marsha to lower her voice.
“ ‘My girlfriend’? I don’t have a girlfriend! What are you talking about?”
“That girl… The one with the big ass… The one we had Christmas dinner with.”
“ ‘Christmas dinner with?… Elizabeth?”
“Yeah, that’s her! She likes you…”
Wondering where his wife was pulling this from.
“Marsha, that was…?” Thinking, “That was five years ago! Why would you even think…”
“Listen...” she said angrily, “...go…” lowering her voice, “...fuck Elizabeth!” Laying down again. Turning her back to him. “Go fuck anyone you want, just leave me alone!”
Angry now. “You ‘really’ don’t care?” Grabbing her shoulders, turning Marsha in his direction, “You ‘really’ don’t care?” he repeated.
“Right!” Her eyes narrow. Her words barely above an angry whisper. “I ‘really’ don’t care. Go fuck Elizabeth! Go fuck ‘anyone’!” Twisting out of his grasp. “Only, God damn-it, leave me alone!”
“Yeah, I’ll leave you alone alright!” Rotating from his left to his right side, turning the knob on the light, Mitchell lay in the dark staring at nothing.
So why the hell not? She told me to! She doesn’t give a damn if I do! So why the hell not!
Between the days and nights of anger and tiredness, stomach aches, headaches, cramps and remaining in the bathroom until he was asleep and even then, if he was able to remain awake, ‘Not tonight, Mitchie. I just don’t feel like it’. Or, ‘Not tonight, Mitchell. I don’t feel well’.
Thinking of the two times she’d left him for— to this day unfathomable reasons.
She didn’t give a ‘damn’ how I felt!
Thinking of the time she had packed up, taken his son and unconscionably walked out.
So why the hell not! He thought with resolve.
She told me to! She doesn’t give a damn if I do! So what the hell, I might as well…
****
Yet it took another week of anger and on and off silence between the husband and wife.
Another week of wondering if, in fact, the signals Elizabeth had sent were the signals Mitchell ‘thought’ he’d received.
Another week of dreaming of becoming close…
Of fantasising of becoming ‘very’ close to this beautiful young woman that Mitchell Lipensky loved that he was rather sure loved him in return.
Another week of fearing what would eventually happen if, in fact, he and Elizabeth did become ‘involved’.
After another week of wondering if his wife had really meant what she’d told him.
Another week of continual internal turmoil and mental debate.
Another week of really not wanting to.
Actually afraid to.
February 26, 1963
Trying, giving it one more try…
“You guys done eating?”
“Yeah!”
“Me, too, Daddy.”
“Okay.” Wiping Samuel’s hands and face, lifting him from the infant seat. “Come on, let’s go watch ‘Lucy’.”
“Daddy...” giggling, “...Lucy’s not on now.”
“I know that, Ellie… So let’s go see what is on.”
Laying the baby in the playpen. Turning the television on. “How’s this? You guys like ‘Laugh In’?” Turning the television a bit louder than necessary, so they wouldn’t hear.
“Yeah, Daddy.”
“Okay. I’m going to help mommy.”
“Marcie...” Having a sensation of déjà vu.
“Marcie...” Having the sensation of living this moment before. Of living this moment many times before.
“Don’t you think this has gone on long enough?” Putting his arms about her waist, “Come on, baby. Let’s kiss and make up.”
Turning from the sink, facing him. “Why, Mitchell?” Twisting out of his arms. “Getting tired of jerking off?”
Surprised that she would accuse him of this—although she wasn’t too far from wrong.
“Marcie, no!” Smiling, “I’m not tired of jerking off.” Trying to disarm her “No,” chuckling, “I don’t mean that either!”
Dumping garbage in the lined can beneath the sink. “Mitchell, leave me alone!”
Desperately wanting to end this! “Marcie, ‘please’! Enough already!”
Desperately wanting a reason ‘not’ to pursue an affair with Elizabeth!
“Come on, baby.” Attempting to hold her again, she angrily squirmed out of reach. “Marcie, we didn’t even have an argument! Why won’t you just let it end?”
‘Why’?
Her anger…
Marsha’s irrational anger coupled with weariness brought on by low blood sugar, along with continuing postpartum mood swings, vaginal and hemorrhoidal discomfort and constipation—to say nothing of caring for their home and three children… not forgetting her monumental stubbornness.
“Why won’t you just let it end?”
“Why?” Said in a high pitched, sing-song voice, “ ‘But you don’t ‘ever’ feel like it’.” Sarcastically quoting Mitchell’s words, said in the same cynical sing-song voice, “ ‘Marsha, you don’t ‘ever’ feel well!’. ”
Remembering. “Okay, yeah, I did say that, but that was a week ago, so why can’t you just let it go?”
“And a week ago you ‘do’ remember I told you to leave me alone!”
Not wanting to! Actually afraid to. Possibly looking for confirmation. Saying it anyway “And you also told me I should find someone else to...” whispering, “...fuck!”
“Yes...” she said smiling a mirthless smile, “...I ‘did’!”
How does a person have any idea that one might have a heretofore unknown medical syndrome such as postpartum depression, or—when that syndrome departs—how does he or she know it was replaced with yet another heretofore unknown syndrome: depression.
Marsha’s depression now at play
Marsha’s diabetes at play.
Truly exhausted. Truly depressed and truly not feeling well…
Unaware.
“And you ‘really’ mean it, huh? You ‘really’ want me to?”
Really not thinking he would. “Yes, I ‘really’ meant it!”
Really thinking he didn’t have the nerve.
“Yes, I ‘really’ want you to!”
Though others might say words without thinking. Say words they wish they could retract. That was not the case with Marsha Lipensky, as…
Leaning into him, her face inches from his. “ ‘Yessss’!” she hissed. If a snake could speak. “So long as it’s not me, ‘yessss’! I give you permission! ‘Yessss’! Go fuck your fat ass girlfriend!”
“I told you, I ‘don’t’ have a girlfriend!” He said, thinking, And she doesn’t have a fat ass.
“Then ‘go’! Find ‘someone’! Go find ‘anyone’! I give you permission!”
Below, in the family room, glancing over their shoulders, Michael and Ellie covered their ears.
His mind made up... “Okay, Marsha.” ...he said sadly, leaving the kitchen.
His mind made up, only how to do it?
Chicago, Illinois —
February 27, 1963, 9:45 a.m.
After a restless night. His resolve crumbling, hoping she’d checked in already. “Donna...” his stomach quaking, “...good morning! It’s Mitch...”
Recognizing his voice. “ ‘Morning, Mitchell.”
His heart in his throat. “Has Elizabeth called in yet?”
“No. She usually checks in about ten, ten-thirty.”
“Could you tell her, please, that I think one of her customers is opening an office on my side of the street and that I’d like to talk to her about it.”
“Sure, Mitch.”
“Tell her I’m going to have lunch at Harding’s...” doing his best to sound nonchalant, “...and if she wants to talk to me about it, and has no plans for lunch, tell her to meet me there at, oh, twelve, twelve-thirty.”
“Sure, Mitch. Anything else?”
“No… Yeah. Any calls for me?”
Glancing at the ‘Lipensky’ slot. “No, nothing.”
“Thanks, Donna... Bye.”
“Bye, Mitch.”
Next FNOW excerpt in sequence: “Lunch at Hardings”
