While I try to learn by watching him, my recipe-focused mind finds later imitation difficult. As an American, I grew up in a country where ready-made and easy to put together meals are a busy person’s salvation. Living in Turkey as an expat for over seven years I have learned to adore the cuisine but balk at making the savory dishes myself. Asking a Turkish matron for her recipe will usually elicit a puzzled frown. When asking about how to make green beans in olive oil, one finds that every woman has her own slightly different twist. In America, “one cup” is a standard measurement, and almost every household has measuring cups to reflect it. In Turkey, “one cup” means one cup of whatever size that woman happens to have in her kitchen at that time. Her cup size may be a bit different than my cup, which will make our dishes taste slightly different. A good cook can compensate for this and still make the dish successfully. I can’t get the knack of it, and my attempts always flop. Even after seven years, though, I still try.Nine months pregnant, I was busily preparing for the arrival of our baby. Still in breech position, I was relentless in trying to get him to turn so that my hopes for an all-natural birth could be realized. Can was at work but would be back in a few hours. To surprise him, I decided to cook. The simple vegetable dish I wanted to prepare seemed basic enough, until I started to make a rice pilaf to accompany it. I thought I had covered all of the steps, but without a recipe in front of me and a different set of cups than the woman I had learned the dish from, I could never be quite sure. Can called to say he was running late, so I started to eat without him. After over two hours of preparation my masterpiece tasted bland and watery. Too hungry to care, I still continued to eat. When Can showed up a few hours later with a pizza, I was quietly relieved. He was proud, however, that I at least attempted to cook and even went so far as to try a few bites before devouring the much tastier pizza.
Every pregnant couple views nights differently in the ninth month. As we kissed each other goodnight, we both thought about the two bags packed and ready to go should I go into labor and need to go to the hospital. Around 2 a.m. I awoke with a familiar pain in my stomach that I knew could not be a contraction. I rushed to the bathroom and was violently ill. After vomiting hard for over 20 minutes, I tried to stand up but was too weak. Our previously pristine bathroom was covered from ceiling to floor. Can’s sleepy eyes took in the scene with shock. Wordlessly and by mutual agreement he helped me into the shower to hose me down. As I cried and continued to be ill, he bravely cleaned the bathroom. This was food poisoning at a level I had never experienced before, and at my own hand. Why oh why had I tried to cook? Can was mad at me. Especially when we realized that I was leaking fluid and the baby had stopped moving.
Even during normal times, logic deserts us in the dark hours of the night. I begged Can not to call our doctor, but just to take me to the hospital instead. In America an ambulance may have been faster, but here in İstanbul I felt like we could get there quicker by ourselves. We hosed ourselves down, put on clothes, grabbed our bags and left. Can put a bucket next to me in case I got sick again along the way, a likely possibility. We raced from our home on the Asian side to our hospital on the European side near the airport. A distant part of my mind wondered if I was the first person to vomit on a bridge spanning two continents. Although our hospital was far, we made it in record time on İstanbul’s empty, pre-dawn streets. Can rushed me up to the maternity ward where the nurse immediately hooked me up to a machine to register the baby’s heart rate. Thankfully his heart was still beating but I could sense by the nurse’s tense expression that all was not well. I watched her from afar as she picked up the phone and called my doctor at home. At this point I was retching dry heaves, all fluid in my body having been lost over an hour ago. Two orderlies came to clean me up and attach me to a set of IV’s. Everything blurred as I fought tears, knowing something was seriously wrong with the baby. My mom, who I desperately wanted to see right then, is a nurse, and I knew that when hospital staff give vague answers, the news is not usually good. I tried to talk to Can to get some kind of reassurance that we would be OK. Can was so angry with me he wasn’t speaking to me, he just merely stared at the wall. Normally a very sensitive, attentive man, Can’s harsh treatment under the circumstances wounded me deeply.
I knew he was overwhelmed by everything. Only someone who loved me very much could have cleaned a bathroom in the state ours was in after I got ill. Can was no fool, either. He knew there was something wrong with the baby, and he felt powerless now. This helplessness turned into anger, unfortunately directed at me. Stressful situations bring out the worst in everybody. Still, I couldn’t help but feel hurt that he wasn’t doing more to calm me down. Our priority right now should have been the baby. We thought we were so prepared, that we had done everything right to get ready for the birth. Our birth plan covered every scenario except the one we were currently in. Only hours before my main concern had been to not have a C-section; now I just wanted my baby to be OK, no matter what.
The phone next to my bed rang and we both jumped. Can answered, and sourly passed it to me. It was my doctor, and he wanted to talk to me. The baby was not doing good, he said, confirming my worst fears. I also might be leaking amniotic fluid. He told me that he would be in soon to examine me but that until then, I needed to employ any technique possible to make myself relax and to try and make the baby’s heart rate slow down. I promised, appreciating his kind and honest words. The damage was done, but it was in my hands to try and save the situation. I could only breathe and try and relax, and rely on the medical interventions I had previously spoken out against. Things would be OK. They had to be. I owed it to the baby, Can and myself.
