Part 5 – Arrival and Departure
© Copyrighted by Doug Salem, 2004
As it turned out, my window of performance for making the baby fell squarely in the one-month period between the time we finally worked out the details of our trips, and Olga’s departure date for Ukraine, which had become forced backward in time because of the damned BCIS turn-into-pumpkin issue. To make things worse, I was assigned to work on concurrent projects in Denver and Dallas. I had boxed myself in by trying to fulfill two family agendas at once. (And it often is when you take a mail order bride from Russia as your wife.)
I was doubtful about my chances of succeeding at both making a baby, keeping my job, and getting my young Ukrainian wife in and out of FSU for a long-overdue visit with her family. With all of our travel plans in place, and only a grandchild missing, I packed up my suitcase, laptop and shaving kit, headed for the airport, and braced myself for my eventual arrival in FSU to join up with my mail order family and yet more Russian language chastisement of my virility.
I spent the next two months flying in crazy triangles between Denver, Dallas and Los Angeles, often confused about the numbers of my hotel rooms and where I left the last rental car (or if I even had one). Then one day, to my complete amazement and disbelief, I got the news over my cell phone. It was scratchy, fading in and out. Like a voice from outer space, like in a dream or a movie. But it was my Russian wife’ voice, sweet, calm, and thick with her adorable accent.
I was in the pompous executive conference room of a big glass and steel office building in Denver, CO; on the top floor, sandwiched between a couple of high-pressured suits agonizing over the proposal we were working on, admiring an exclusive panoramic view of the Rocky mountains. Olga had suspected it for a few weeks, but now it was official; the laboratory results were in. I now had Western medical evidence. Twenty-five years after I first set my mind to it, – my beautiful young wife was pregnant. And she was as happy and calm and as natural as could be. “Of course, I am pregnant,” she said unalarmed.
“O.K., I’ll look for that package first thing n the morning!” I exclaimed out loud, trying to sound in control, lest I reveal a fatal weakness to the corporate barracudas that do not necessarily value such follies. Especially from an old warrior like me, who should have kids in college by now and be worrying more about the price of shares, backlog, margins – you know, the really important things in life. Later, back in solitary confinement at the hotel, I congratulated myself, let a wave of emotion roll over me, and tried to retrace my steps.
I vaguely recalled that one weekend at home, in May. A particularly passionate and purposeful tryst managed between mowing the lawn, fixing the sprinklers, and recharging my shaving kit and supply of clean underwear and socks. Something that would normally be forgotten is now proudly remembered as the famous ‘Chino Hills private Margarita Party,” an event for which I will forever be indebted to a different swarthy role model - Mr. Jose Cuervo, not to Anthony Quinn or Doctor S.
Olga and I had to share our special joy over the telephone. I was stuck on the road; she was o her way to Ukraine. Trapped in another hostile conference room, this time in Texas, feeling helpless and out of control, I followed her 20-hour, three-legged frequent-flyer odyssey to Borispol, Ukraine, on my cell phone. “She is a strong, competent, and intelligent girl and has been through much, much worse,” I thought to myself. “I am the weak one. I’m the one we need to worry about.” And she left for Ukraine that morning, 10 weeks pregnant with our little secret inside of her.
With the exception of Doctor S. and Olga’s dentist, nobody knew but the two of us – not Ukrainian Mom or Pop, nobody. Although meticulously planned, it all seemed to happen so fast and on the fly (no pun intended).
The first leg of Olga’s trip was from our house to LAX via airport limo. Getting word that she had made it to the gate and was waiting to board, I replied “O.K., then I’ll be looking for that package first thing in the morning” into my cell phone, drew a deep breath and tried to focus on earning a living.
To be continued ….
Doug Salem
