This is continued from this post..
My mistake was that I didn’t ask anyone to buy me sanitary pads, that was what tipped them off that something was awry with the Phoenix. I can’t remember who confronted me but it was around Christmas time and I had just found out from the clinic that I was indeed pregnant. The whole household was outraged. I was slightly worried but I had already been caring for my drug-addled mother and 2 siblings since I was 6 years old. Not to mention my toddler-aged foster brother when I was 13-14 years old. I knew it was a momentous event and the person most at risk was my unborn child. I really believed I could do a half way decent job. My grandmother took me for an ultrasound. I remember fidgeting endlessly in the waiting room, my bladder about to explode, as my grandmother sat with a stoic West Indian expression.
They called me into the examination room and my grandmother stayed outside. The technician placed the transducer on my stomach, immediately the rapid, distorted heartbeat of my son filled the room. “That is the baby’s heartbeat.” the technician said. The strangest feeling flowed over me, a sense of awe and affection. “That is the fetus, lets see if we can get the information we need, it is very active.” she said. A little being darted about in a frenetic manner inside of my uterus. “That is the heart.” the technician fiddled with buttons and typed on a keyboard.” I was enraptured. “You are about 10 weeks along I would say.” the technician said.
The technician handed me a towel, I wiped the goo off of my belly. I dressed myself in a daze. I walked into the waiting room. “How far along are you?” my grandmother asked. “Ten weeks.” I said. “So what are you going to do?” she asked. “Keep it.” I replied . My grandmother sighed and did not speak to me for the rest of the day. When we got home her colitis flared up and she took to her bed for a week. I was gripped with guilt. I was glared at and given the silent treatment everyday. Since I am only 17 and 3 months old it is suggested that I go to the clinic at Our Lady of Perpetual Suffering Hospital. I am no stranger to pregnant teenagers but in 1987 it is still scandalous. When I walk around to look at magazines or in the gift shop window I am scolded and told to sit down and not bring attention to myself.
My grandfather takes me for a ride. He tells me that I am not in the same situation as the single, black newscaster that recently became pregnant. I tell him I know that. He tells me I need to abort my child because I am a guest and it isn’t right for me to bring another person into the house. I tell him I will happily move out, DCF can place me and my child somewhere else. He tells me that family is about making sacrifices. I tell him that my baby is not a sacrificial lamb. He explodes and tells me to cut the shit and I better get my fucking act together. I sit and seethe, trapped in his stinky car, rubbing my belly furiously. My aunt says I don’t have the right to consider abortion immoral if I fornicated to conceive the child. She aborted her son (but he was conceived by a rape). I am unable to argue with their logic. I am just wrong. I walk around like an embarrassing ghost and gestate, silently.
I am the oldest girl in the teen clinic. The other girls in the waiting room drop their jaws in awe when I say I am a junior in high school. They are all in junior high. I am appalled. The youngest girl is 12. She looks 12. She is about 8 months pregnant. She is sucking her thumb and staring into space as she swings her legs back and forth on the gurney. The nuns are discussing adoption procedures with her guardian. The baby either belongs to her father or one of his friends. Whenever I see her I rub my belly anxiously and am silently grateful that I “chose” this accident, it was not foisted upon me.
I can hear a 7th grader shrieking in pain and terror as an obstetrician tries to examine her. “Shut up and stay still! Stay your ass still and stop all that hollering! I bet you weren’t doing all that when you opened your legs to get in this mess!” her mother shouts at her. I roll my eyes and sigh, compulsively rubbing my sons bum as it pokes out below my ribs. I feel myself getting upset so I play the tap game with him. I poke, he pokes back, I poke twice he pokes twice. We never get past two pokes. I think my anxiety finally hits him, he flails all of his limbs about and turns his whole body around. A big, baby hump rolls across my belly. Bye-bye bum. I promise myself that one day I will live somewhere where I won’t have to be around people that are like this. So many hateful, spiteful, mean people that are trying to infect the invisible bubble I have around me and my son.
I have to get a pelvic examination every two weeks because I am high risk. I am one of the last females in Massachusetts that was exposed to Diethylstilbestrol (DES). I have lesions on my cervix, my cervix is “hooded” and my uterus is tipped (retroversion). When it is discovered that my cervix has already began to efface at 28 weeks gestation I am told I will need an elevator key. Every day I get on the elevator that is only for teachers. At some point every day I see a teacher who had several miscarriages. I feel bad for her and I avert my eyes when she gets on. When she asks me why I have to take the elevator and I tell her she tells me I have no business being pregnant, she also thinks it is terrible that I am keeping my baby.
When I they put me on full bed rest and I have to get a home tutor my grandmother and aunt tell me that is what I get for being pregnant. I am afraid my son will die. I am afraid that all of these weeks of flailing limbs, pokes, headphones with show tunes on my belly, and flashlight on my belly experiments will end tragically. Nobody cares if he lives or dies but me. Nobody will miss his bony bum but me. I sleep uncomfortably and fitfully on the pull out sofa bed. The bars dig into my stomach painfully. I start to sleep sideways in between the bars, curled up in a fetal position so the bars around the edge won’t dig into my ankles. My grandmother complains that I am ruining the pull-out bed. I never complain because this is what I deserve.
I have two maternity outfits, my son’s father buys them for me. I wear them everyday. My best friend in high school throws me a baby shower at home. A few of my friends and their siblings attend. My aunt and grandmother stay in their bedroom during the baby shower. My family balks at buying a crib, they buy the cheapest crib they can find. I have no say in anything. My father has not spoken to me since I was 5 months pregnant.
When I first go into labor they send me back home with a sleeping pill. My family is aggravated with me, the next night they resist bringing me back to the hospital. They leave me at the hospital around 8pm. I am afraid and alone. I wake up at 5 am and I am earnestly in labor. The telephone lines have gone down at my grandparent’s house.
I get an epidural and I watch helplessly as my blood pressure and my son’s blood pressure plummet. I pass out. I am awakened by the midwife shaking me frantically, “Wake up, it’s time!”. I am disoriented and afraid. I try to push with all of my might but the epidural is overdone and I am numb all the way up to my ribcage. “Is there a doctor?!?!?! We need a doctor!!!” the midwife is hollering in the hallway. A very young doctor enters the room, he looks at all of the readings. “Go get a vacuum extractor!” he shouts. After several minutes he grabs a pair of forceps. There is pulling and tearing. My son is blue and lifeless. I hold my breath for an eternity, waiting to hear him cry. Finally a mewling sound, then a lusty squall. I don’t say anything. I smile as a few tears run down my face.
The doctor has not moved from between my legs. Everyone looks grave and concerned. The nurses are ripping open package after package of gauze. “Get me more sutures.” the doctor barks. “His apgar, what’s his apgar? I ask softly. “What is she saying?” the doctor asks. “She wants to know his Apgar scores.” the nurse replies. He raises his eyebrows with an expression of astonishment.
The neonatologist looks surprised too. “Don’t worry mom, we got a 7 and a 9, he’s looking pretty good.” he says jovially. I can barely hold my head up, the floor is littered with wads and wads of blood-soaked gauze. “We just have a little tearing, I’m trying to put you back together here. Just lay back and relax.” the doctor says. I hear him tell a nurse he didn’t have time to do the episiotomy. The nurse that is handing the doctor gauze and sutures looks disturbed. After an eternity he finishes stitching. “Forty-five stitches, 2nd and 3rd degree perineal tears.” he says. “Congratulations, Miss Ascending, get some rest.” he says as he walks out the door.
When I wake up they bring me my son, he is beautiful and alert. I attempt to nurse him, he latches on beautifully. I look at his toes, his fingers, his ears. I rub my nose against his wrinkled forehead and breath in his scent deeply.
I have a real family.
This is the beginning of my true hatred for my mother.
When they all come to visit me, I feel like a different person. The bond is broken, I don’t feel guilty anymore for getting pregnant, or inconveniencing them for rides or even for shaming them by my youthful indiscretion.
The only person I am beholding to is him, and it is exhilarating and terrifying all at once.
