I was working on an outline for a dissertation on American literature, post world war two, when I found out I was pregnant with twins. I’d already had three miscarriages, the emotional fallout of which had derailed my academic progress.
But there was more loss to come: one of the twins, and my academic career. The former was heartbreaking. The latter, a blessing in disguise.
With the first three pregnancies, I’d never made it into the second trimester. So when this one did, my husband and I were jubilant, thinking we were in the clear. However, just into the “safe”zone, I began bleeding. After a month’s bedrest, in the deep quiet of a January night, I awoke feeling strange. I stood up and fluid cascaded out of me. My waters had broken, and the pregnancy wasn’t even 17 weeks along.
What had happened to me is called pre-term premature rupture of membranes, and it was our son’s water that had broken five months early. After a week, I hadn’t gone into labour, so the hospital sent me home and told me to stay in bed. It would be immeasurably lucky for the pregnancy to make it to 25 weeks, we were told, the lowest threshold for premature survival.
I drank a gallon or more of water daily to try to supply our son with enough water for his lungs to develop, and eventually I was admitted to a research hospital an hour from home. The amniotic fluid never stopped leaking.
I thought of my dissertation, the impact of these events and their possible outcome on my career. I was afraid of what my peers and committee members would think. But dissertating grew less and less important in the face of the bigger project I was trying to accomplish—saving my children.
Time in utero was what would give the babies a chance. But 16 harrowing weeks later —12 of which were spent in hospital—I contracted an infection and was rushed away for a C-section.
Our daughter was stable, but our son’s situation was dire. After three more weeks, too harrowing to describe, we took him off the machines that kept his lungs working. He passed away in our arms. Eventually our daughter came home.
In a fair world, that would have been the end of our troubles. But in the US, trying to save the lives of two babies is tremendously expensive. Hospital bills before insurance were upwards of $750,000 (£526,000). Before our daughter was released from the hospital, we had signed over our entire savings.
Dissertations in my PhD programme take three or more years, and beyond that, given the difficult humanities jobs market, finding a post with guaranteed tenure was unlikely. We needed to bring in income immediately – the bills kept rolling in.
Having defined success as a tenure-track job, accepting a temporary, non-academic job shattered me. But I was also surprised to find that a part of me was relieved. I suddenly acknowledged an ambivalence about academia. It felt liberating to step away from the panopticonic gaze of the academy.
Since leaving, I’ve found fulfilling employment as an editor at a university press. I work with scholars on books in numerous subject areas, so I’m constantly learning. Having a job limited to business hours has allowed me genuine downtime, rather than what once felt like time stolen from my research. I read whatever catches my interest, studying topics unrelated to my previous research topic – UK literature, religious ecology, medieval history, psychology.
Alongside this new focus, I am able to pursue passions previously relegated to the sidelines. A collection of poetry about my pregnancy and losing our son won me a scholarship to a writing workshop, and I am revising a novel.
If circumstances had not conspired to silence the internal roar of academic ambition, I don’t know if I would have found the courage to listen to the whisper of my ambivalence.
I have tremendous respect for those who are able to manage a good life in academia, but being forced to leave has helped me build a life of peace, away from constant assessment.
I deeply wish we had our son with us, but I am also incredibly grateful for the gift his life bestowed upon me: a new life. A post-academic one.
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