I could sum up my recovery in one word. Hell. But, I'll give some details. You're welcome.
I awoke (and I use this term loosely) to a nurse shaking me. Before I was even able to process the words that were coming out of her mouth, I was aware that I was in an excessive amount of pain. It took all of my concentration to not just start screaming.
She was telling me that I needed to feed my baby. NOW. I was not pleased with this rude, painful awakening, accompanied by her demand, and told her to fuck off. She persisted. When I was able to concentrate somewhat on exactly what she was telling me, it went something like: "The baby won't take sugar water, he won't take a pacifier, or a bottle, and when we finger-fed him formula, he puked it all over the place. He's turning the nursery upside-down, and making all the other babies cry, too. He's screaming, he's hungry, and he wants you. You need to feed him. I will help you do that."
Ok. Fine. This was the last thing I wanted to do, but she uncovered me, and somehow got him to latch onto my nipple. I passed out.
Whatever she did to teach him how to nurse properly must have worked, because I had no problems getting him to latch on later.
I was in and out for the rest of the day. I was semi-conscious of being in immense pain, and numerous worried nurses (accompanied by my mother) trying to fix a problem with the machine that was supposed to be giving me my automatic doses of morphine, but wasn't. Late in the evening, they were finally able to get a replacement unit. They gave me too much, probably hoping that it would help make up for the lack of drugs earlier. As soon as I moved my head, I threw up all over myself. It was very undignified. I felt disgusting. They put something in my IV to hopefully fix that, and I felt a little better, although I was still in pain. A long sleepless night followed. I tried, but I couldn't sleep for more than 15 minutes at a time, and this was mostly the feeling of passing out, not really going to sleep. I don't remember anything about TJ. I know I must have fed him, and I know he was rooming in with me. Being in the nursery made him scream constantly, and the nurses didn't know what to do to soothe him.
The next day, I told my nurse that the catheter was hurting. She said it was nonsense. After several hours of arguing, they told me if I wanted it out, I would have to take it out myself. I agreed to this. It really was causing me a great deal of pain, and the little extra was just too much to deal with. I didn't care that I would have to get out of bed or use a bedpan, I wanted it gone. It was agonising, but I did it. The relief from the pressure was almost immediate. The first few times I had to pee, it felt like I was pissing razorblades. Being stubbon me, I refused to use a bedpan, and painfully made my way to the bathroom every time I needed to go, leaning on my IV stand. That catheter, however, started me on my way to chronic UTI's, which I have been dealing with for the last 11 years, even after seeing a urologist to try to fix it.
My third day was better, if only because the nursing shifts changed. My new nurse, Claire, was the woman who had given my Lamaze class. I had liked her then, and she didn't disappoint me in her capacity to give me the care I really needed. She would help me to the bathroom when I needed to go, fetched me drinks & snacks if I wanted them, and was even able to convince me to take a shower. Showering was I had been unwilling to do- I did NOT want to see that gash across my abdomen, much less touch it to clean it. I did, much to my surprise, feel better for having a shower. Claire sat on the toilet in the bathroom, in case I needed help with anything. It was a good thing she was there, because I couldn't move around very much, and I did need help to actually wash. It was a strange feeling to have a nearly complete stranger touching my most intimate places, but at that point, I was still in a great deal of pain, and beyond caring. Modesty had flown out the window, and it never came back. And honestly, I don't miss it.*
Later on that day, Beth & Suzie both came to visit me. Beth told me I would be discharged tomorrow. I immediately broke down into tears. I was not ready to go home yet. She said that she could get me an extra day, but after that, my parent's insurance would no longer cover my stay no matter what documentation she gave them, and I would have to leave. Since there was nothing else I could do about it, I tried to mentally prepare myself for going home.
On day four, my milk came in. Oh. My. God. I had gone from a perfect 34B pre-pregnancy to a 38C. Now, I had no idea what the hell size they were, but they were HUGE. They looked like I would crush TJ's head- they were each about twice the size of it. That was scary. And these things were a part of me. This was the first time I had issues with getting TJ to latch. My breasts were so engorged that my nipples were nearly flat. It was like he was trying to suck on a balloon.
Claire came to my rescue. She got hot washcloths, and put them on me. Then she dragged me to the sink in the bathroom, and stood behind me, and reached around, and showed me how to manually express enough milk to relieve some of the pressure. It hurt like hell for the first few seconds, and then milk came spurting out everywhere. Like, literally, everywhere. Most of it didn't hit the sink at all, and we had a good laugh at the milk dripping off the mirror. After that, they felt much better, and TJ was able to nurse again. Claire went and got me a breast pump that I could take home with me. Another nurse commented that I had enough milk for triplets. While this didn't make them hurt any less, I was strangely proud that my breasts could do their job properly, and even to excess. Breastfeeding was really the only thing that made me feel like a mother. I never did form a proper bond with TJ, but at least I could feed him.
On the fifth day, I did feel more ready to go home. Knowing that I could breastfeed helped a lot, because up until that point, I had serious doubts about being able to care for TJ. I was fairly indifferent towards him. I went through the motions, but I didn't feel like he was really my baby. He could have been any baby, and I would have done the same things.
*This would be a source of amusement for later boyfriends, and even my girl friends- they always got a kick out of seeing me go about naked, doing everyday tasks, with no concern at all. I've been told most girls aren't like that. The way I see it now, everyone had seen my everything, and it was nothing to be nervous about. Bodies are bodies, whatever they may look like, and everyone's got the same stuff. No big deal. My mother was also something of a nudist, so I guess this is an inherited thing- or maybe just something you learn to forget about. I never thought it was a big deal when my mom was naked, and she wasn't surprised when I adopted the same attitude to being unclothed.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Labor with TJ
My ECV, unsuccessful, took place on Friday, May 14th, 1999. I had just gotten all my Junior finals in, after making my teachers give them to me early. I had a feeling. It's hard to explain, but I knew TJ was coming well before his due date, and I didn't want anything undone. Some of my teachers were very unhappy about this, but, being the person I am, I pushed and got my way.
Sunday night, D-Bag and I had sex. I told him it was going to be a long six weeks before he got it again. I was right.
Monday morning, at about 4 am, I got up to go to the bathroom. I was sleeping on the couch (my bedroom was upstairs, and there was no bathroom up there, so I had decided that the couch was the best place for me to try to sleep). I went back to "bed". Shortly thereafter, I woke to a gush of liquid. My first thought was "What the fuck? I just peed!" I sat up, and more came out. It just kept on coming. I couldn't stop it. It was then that I realized my water had broken. I looked at the clock. 4:20. And then I laughed. Of course, it would be 4:20. Mind you, I hadn't smoked pot throughout my pregnancy, but prior to that, I was known as a stoner at school... Even though the times I smoked weed were few and far between. But in any case, I found this humorous.
I bundled up the sheet I was wrapped in between my legs, waddled through the kitchen, grabbed the cordless phone, and headed straight to the bathroom. I called Suzie. She, like most sane people at that hour, was asleep. She asked me the color of the fluid, and if I was having contractions. I told her: clear and no. She told me to meet her at the hospital at 7 am.
That was the longest 3 hours of my life.
I woke my mother up, and let her know what was happening. I apologised for the mess on the couch, but she said it was no big deal, she'd clean it up for me. At 5, I called D-Bag. To his credit, he got to our house in record time- a 45 minute drive turned into 25 I don't want to think about how fast he was actually driving. The three of us sat around waiting until it was time to go. I still wasn't feeling any contractions when we finally left.
When we got to the hospital, they did an ultrasound to confirm TJ's position. I saw Suzie's face, and knew it wasn't good news. She quietly asked the U/S tech, "Is that the cord?" To which the girl replied in an equally hushed whisper, "Yeah, it is".
The next words out of Suzie's mouth were: "I'm really sorry, you need a c-section." And my world imploded. 10,000 thoughts screamed through my brain. How could this happen to me? What was so wrong? Why was it imperative that I have a C/S? So I asked.
TJ had moved. His presenting part was one of his feet. The other was up by his face. His cord was wrapped around his presenting foot. There was not enough fluid around him to try to get him to move, even assuming that they could get his cord unwrapped from his foot.
My section was scheduled for 10:30 am. This would make it so that, for insurance purposes, my parents would not have to pay extra for an emergency section. Suzie said I had plenty of time. Breech labors are longer. He wasn't pressing on my cervix, so I wouldn't dilate much more than I already had. This was all she told me.
I was terrified. I had never had surgery. I was adamantly against having surgery of any kind. My mother signed the consent forms. I was doomed. From the time my mother signed me off to the hospital staff, to the time I woke up, neither she, nor my midwife, were allowed to be with me. I was horribly alone, with strangers who didn't care about me, they were just there to get me ready to be cut open.
I was kept on the monitors for the duration of labor. A nurse was assigned to watch them. At about 8am, she asked me to tell her when I thought I was having a contraction. I honestly had no clue. I didn't feel anything. After she stared at me for a good 15 minutes, I was feeling sort of sick, so I told her "Maybe... Now?" She blew up like a bomb. My contractions were 2 minutes apart, lasting 2 minutes, with double peaks. I was in transition already. "You should be screaming!" she said, and stormed out of the room. Oops, how was I to know?
The nurse came back with a posse of other L&D nurses. They were going to give me an IV. I had a severe phobia of needles. This was the beginning of what is known as "birth rape". Against my wishes, I was held down by six nurses, as they attempted (and failed several times) to get an IV in my tiny veins. It ended up being directly over my wrist bone, and it was excruciating. I was spread-eagle strapped to the bed, unable to do anything about it except cry. All I got was "It's not that bad. IV's don't hurt". My lady bits were shaved and washed.
I was wheeled into the OR at 8:45. I was then catheterized. They said that that also did not hurt. Well, they're all damn dirty liars, because it did hurt. When the anesthesiologist gave me whatever it was to knock me out, I could feel it burning as it traveled up my arm. He told me I was delusional, there was no way I could feel it. And then, I was out.
Sunday night, D-Bag and I had sex. I told him it was going to be a long six weeks before he got it again. I was right.
Monday morning, at about 4 am, I got up to go to the bathroom. I was sleeping on the couch (my bedroom was upstairs, and there was no bathroom up there, so I had decided that the couch was the best place for me to try to sleep). I went back to "bed". Shortly thereafter, I woke to a gush of liquid. My first thought was "What the fuck? I just peed!" I sat up, and more came out. It just kept on coming. I couldn't stop it. It was then that I realized my water had broken. I looked at the clock. 4:20. And then I laughed. Of course, it would be 4:20. Mind you, I hadn't smoked pot throughout my pregnancy, but prior to that, I was known as a stoner at school... Even though the times I smoked weed were few and far between. But in any case, I found this humorous.
I bundled up the sheet I was wrapped in between my legs, waddled through the kitchen, grabbed the cordless phone, and headed straight to the bathroom. I called Suzie. She, like most sane people at that hour, was asleep. She asked me the color of the fluid, and if I was having contractions. I told her: clear and no. She told me to meet her at the hospital at 7 am.
That was the longest 3 hours of my life.
I woke my mother up, and let her know what was happening. I apologised for the mess on the couch, but she said it was no big deal, she'd clean it up for me. At 5, I called D-Bag. To his credit, he got to our house in record time- a 45 minute drive turned into 25 I don't want to think about how fast he was actually driving. The three of us sat around waiting until it was time to go. I still wasn't feeling any contractions when we finally left.
When we got to the hospital, they did an ultrasound to confirm TJ's position. I saw Suzie's face, and knew it wasn't good news. She quietly asked the U/S tech, "Is that the cord?" To which the girl replied in an equally hushed whisper, "Yeah, it is".
The next words out of Suzie's mouth were: "I'm really sorry, you need a c-section." And my world imploded. 10,000 thoughts screamed through my brain. How could this happen to me? What was so wrong? Why was it imperative that I have a C/S? So I asked.
TJ had moved. His presenting part was one of his feet. The other was up by his face. His cord was wrapped around his presenting foot. There was not enough fluid around him to try to get him to move, even assuming that they could get his cord unwrapped from his foot.
My section was scheduled for 10:30 am. This would make it so that, for insurance purposes, my parents would not have to pay extra for an emergency section. Suzie said I had plenty of time. Breech labors are longer. He wasn't pressing on my cervix, so I wouldn't dilate much more than I already had. This was all she told me.
I was terrified. I had never had surgery. I was adamantly against having surgery of any kind. My mother signed the consent forms. I was doomed. From the time my mother signed me off to the hospital staff, to the time I woke up, neither she, nor my midwife, were allowed to be with me. I was horribly alone, with strangers who didn't care about me, they were just there to get me ready to be cut open.
I was kept on the monitors for the duration of labor. A nurse was assigned to watch them. At about 8am, she asked me to tell her when I thought I was having a contraction. I honestly had no clue. I didn't feel anything. After she stared at me for a good 15 minutes, I was feeling sort of sick, so I told her "Maybe... Now?" She blew up like a bomb. My contractions were 2 minutes apart, lasting 2 minutes, with double peaks. I was in transition already. "You should be screaming!" she said, and stormed out of the room. Oops, how was I to know?
The nurse came back with a posse of other L&D nurses. They were going to give me an IV. I had a severe phobia of needles. This was the beginning of what is known as "birth rape". Against my wishes, I was held down by six nurses, as they attempted (and failed several times) to get an IV in my tiny veins. It ended up being directly over my wrist bone, and it was excruciating. I was spread-eagle strapped to the bed, unable to do anything about it except cry. All I got was "It's not that bad. IV's don't hurt". My lady bits were shaved and washed.
I was wheeled into the OR at 8:45. I was then catheterized. They said that that also did not hurt. Well, they're all damn dirty liars, because it did hurt. When the anesthesiologist gave me whatever it was to knock me out, I could feel it burning as it traveled up my arm. He told me I was delusional, there was no way I could feel it. And then, I was out.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
The Pregnancy
I choose to go to the Catholic hospital for my care- they had a midwife group. I loved them. Things didn't go quite the way I wanted right from the very beginning.
I was sick. Horribly ill. Morning sickness- it was a lie. I vomited after every meal, and at all times in between. Sometimes even in the middle of the night. It never seemed to let up.
I gained weight like being fat was going out of style. I went from 120 to 135 in the first 8 weeks. By the time I delivered, I was 198. And all while still being sick.
I had a dream in my early pregnancy, I can't remember exactly when, and in that dream, I met TJ for the first time. He was a beautiful child, about 5 years old, and we were playing on one of those merry-go-round things. I'm not sure if they exist anymore. They're probably "too dangerous". But there he was, my son. Blonde hair and eyes the same shade of hazel as my father's. He looked a bit like me. I was incredibly happy to have the privilage of "meeting" him before his arrival.*
I started bleeding at about 16 weeks. I was terrified. I had an ultrasound to check if there was still a viable life form growing inside me. There was. The US tech asked me if I wanted to know the sex of the baby. I told her I already knew it was a boy. She was surprised. I was right. It turned out that I had a type of bactierial vaginosis that caused the blood vessels on the outside of my cervix to rupture. I was put on antibiotics to clear up the infection, and put on "pelvic rest" for 6 weeks. This was how I found out that I allergic to Cipro. After only 2 doses, I was throwing up what felt like every 5 seconds, as opposed to every two hours. They gave me a cream to stuff up there, and everything became all right.
I became severely anemic in a very short time, and was put on iron supplements, and told to take children's chewable vitamins instead of my regular prenatal pills. The ginormous horse pills never seemed to stay down for more than 5 minutes, and boy, are those rough coming back up.
When I had my glucose tolerance test, I failed it miserably. I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. My midwives were unhappy with this- I had become a high-risk patient, due to the GD and severe anemia, and they had to discontinue my care. I begged. I pleaded. I cried. They relented. I got to stay with them.
At about 34 or 35 weeks, I I knew there was something really not right about TJ's position. He was breech. I knew for sure that his head was on (and sometimes under) my ribs, on my right side. My aunt K had given birth to 2 breech babies vaginally, so I really didn't think about the possiblility of a c-section. I told my midwives. They said "Well, it's probably his butt." I insisted. I got another U/S, and sure enough, he was heads up. One of the midwives in the practice (there were 3) had delivered breech babies before, and she was comfortable with letting me have a natural birth. For the purposes of this blog, I'll call her Suzie.
Suzie gave me the most thurogh pelvic exam I'd ever had to date. She told me there was plenty of room in my pelvis, and I'd have no problem, provided he was in a Frank or classical breech position. But she would still like to attempt a version, just to see if he would flip. I was given a sheet of excercises to do that are supposed to help turn a breech baby. Nothing worked, so at 36 weeks and 5 days, I went to the hospital, and they tried to manually flip him. This was my first meeting with Beth, the OB/GYN who would eventually do my C/S (but none of us knew that at the time). They'd forgotten to give me the muscle relaxant prior to the version, so when I arrived at the hospital, I had to wait an hour for it to take effect. This was how I found out that my body freaks out when given a muscle relaxant, and does the exact opposite of what it's supposed to do. I was incredibly tense, and the version hurt like hell. Not only did it hurt like hell, it was unsuccessful. Beth could not get him to turn no matter what we tried. After about an hour, she gave up, and I was in tears from the pain. Her quote, which I'll remember until I die, was: "Sometimes, babies have a reason they don't turn."
*I often have dreams that could be considered prophethetic, and I know the difference between a dream, and Dreaming. My sister has this ability as well, it's been passed on through the females in my family from as far back as we know. Usually, there's only one at a time, but somehow, both my sister and I got it. And sometimes, we dream together. As in, we'll have the same exact dream, but from our own perspectives. These are generally really intense, emotionally charged experiences.
I was sick. Horribly ill. Morning sickness- it was a lie. I vomited after every meal, and at all times in between. Sometimes even in the middle of the night. It never seemed to let up.
I gained weight like being fat was going out of style. I went from 120 to 135 in the first 8 weeks. By the time I delivered, I was 198. And all while still being sick.
I had a dream in my early pregnancy, I can't remember exactly when, and in that dream, I met TJ for the first time. He was a beautiful child, about 5 years old, and we were playing on one of those merry-go-round things. I'm not sure if they exist anymore. They're probably "too dangerous". But there he was, my son. Blonde hair and eyes the same shade of hazel as my father's. He looked a bit like me. I was incredibly happy to have the privilage of "meeting" him before his arrival.*
I started bleeding at about 16 weeks. I was terrified. I had an ultrasound to check if there was still a viable life form growing inside me. There was. The US tech asked me if I wanted to know the sex of the baby. I told her I already knew it was a boy. She was surprised. I was right. It turned out that I had a type of bactierial vaginosis that caused the blood vessels on the outside of my cervix to rupture. I was put on antibiotics to clear up the infection, and put on "pelvic rest" for 6 weeks. This was how I found out that I allergic to Cipro. After only 2 doses, I was throwing up what felt like every 5 seconds, as opposed to every two hours. They gave me a cream to stuff up there, and everything became all right.
I became severely anemic in a very short time, and was put on iron supplements, and told to take children's chewable vitamins instead of my regular prenatal pills. The ginormous horse pills never seemed to stay down for more than 5 minutes, and boy, are those rough coming back up.
When I had my glucose tolerance test, I failed it miserably. I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes. My midwives were unhappy with this- I had become a high-risk patient, due to the GD and severe anemia, and they had to discontinue my care. I begged. I pleaded. I cried. They relented. I got to stay with them.
At about 34 or 35 weeks, I I knew there was something really not right about TJ's position. He was breech. I knew for sure that his head was on (and sometimes under) my ribs, on my right side. My aunt K had given birth to 2 breech babies vaginally, so I really didn't think about the possiblility of a c-section. I told my midwives. They said "Well, it's probably his butt." I insisted. I got another U/S, and sure enough, he was heads up. One of the midwives in the practice (there were 3) had delivered breech babies before, and she was comfortable with letting me have a natural birth. For the purposes of this blog, I'll call her Suzie.
Suzie gave me the most thurogh pelvic exam I'd ever had to date. She told me there was plenty of room in my pelvis, and I'd have no problem, provided he was in a Frank or classical breech position. But she would still like to attempt a version, just to see if he would flip. I was given a sheet of excercises to do that are supposed to help turn a breech baby. Nothing worked, so at 36 weeks and 5 days, I went to the hospital, and they tried to manually flip him. This was my first meeting with Beth, the OB/GYN who would eventually do my C/S (but none of us knew that at the time). They'd forgotten to give me the muscle relaxant prior to the version, so when I arrived at the hospital, I had to wait an hour for it to take effect. This was how I found out that my body freaks out when given a muscle relaxant, and does the exact opposite of what it's supposed to do. I was incredibly tense, and the version hurt like hell. Not only did it hurt like hell, it was unsuccessful. Beth could not get him to turn no matter what we tried. After about an hour, she gave up, and I was in tears from the pain. Her quote, which I'll remember until I die, was: "Sometimes, babies have a reason they don't turn."
*I often have dreams that could be considered prophethetic, and I know the difference between a dream, and Dreaming. My sister has this ability as well, it's been passed on through the females in my family from as far back as we know. Usually, there's only one at a time, but somehow, both my sister and I got it. And sometimes, we dream together. As in, we'll have the same exact dream, but from our own perspectives. These are generally really intense, emotionally charged experiences.
Friday, May 14, 2010
I felt the need to write about having my first son. To get things out of the way, so to speak. I'm expecting his brother any day now, and I have nightmares that I'll end up the same way. I know it's not possible, but still, it scares the piss out of me.
To begin, I have to go back to 1998, before I met TJ's father. I was with someone much older than myself, and by the way of a failed condom, I got pregnant in January. I had a miscarriage, but that wasn't entirely unexpected. The women of my family have a tendency to have multiple miscarriages, and I had been warned about this by my mother. "The first one never sticks, so don't get excited", were her words. And it proved to be true for me as well. But, we had been excited about it. We decided it had to be a girl, and we had named her Serrah Rose. After the miscarriage, our relationship fell apart, and we called it quits. The would-have-been-father still has difficulty being in the same room with me, over 11 years later.
Later that year, I met the guy who would be TJ's father. Because of subsequent events, I shall dub him D-Bag. I was 16, he was 18. He was a vigin. I was not. I felt an 18 year old virgin was a crime against humanity, so I fixed that, on September 12, 1998. I didn't intend on staying with him, just fixing that cosmic boo-boo, and moving on.
About a week or so later, I had my traditional birthday cake that my Grandma always made for me, gingerbread with lemon sauce. It was... slimy. I can't describe how it felt in my mouth any better than that, but I didn't want to eat it. I knew something was very, very, wrong with me. It dawned on me that I was late for my period. Hmmm... I took a test. Negative.
A week after, another test.
Negative.
Another week, another test.
Still negatory, and no period.
I went to Planned Parenthood finally, to figure out if I was pregnant, or if there was something more seriously wrong with me that was causing me to miss my cycle. I had never been late before, not even when my "womanly times" began. They must have had a super-duper-test-of-awesomeness. It came back positive. The woman explained that, being 17, I had a number of options. Option one: abortion. Option two: abortion. And then option three: abortion. I did not like these options. She seemed rather shocked when I asked if she could recommend a good OB/GYN, or a midwife. She said she could not, they rarely had any knowledge of who was "good" and who wasn't. She did say she'd heard some good things about the local Catholic hospital.
Although I had long moved away from my Irish Catholic upbringing, my own personal feelings about abortion without a clear medical reason are very firm. You make the mistake, you deal with it. Without killing. I have always believed adoption to be the best answer when you think you can't care for a child on your own. There are so many people that struggle for years with infertility that it's just not fair to throw a life away. Anyway...
My mother was livid. She tried to change my mind, and insisted I have an abortion. My father was adamant about me not giving it up for adoption. Since I planned to keep the baby, neither of these things made much of an impression on me. My Mom wanted me to be able to use my scholarship to Johns Hopkins, and go on to law school. I didn't want the same thing she did. I would much rather have gone to a fine arts college, but, I digress. I hadn't been planning on taking advantage of the free ride to law school anyway. Her dream. Not mine.
And I had this nagging little voice in my head that asked me: What if you never get another chance? This little voice- unknown to me at the time- was almost right.
To begin, I have to go back to 1998, before I met TJ's father. I was with someone much older than myself, and by the way of a failed condom, I got pregnant in January. I had a miscarriage, but that wasn't entirely unexpected. The women of my family have a tendency to have multiple miscarriages, and I had been warned about this by my mother. "The first one never sticks, so don't get excited", were her words. And it proved to be true for me as well. But, we had been excited about it. We decided it had to be a girl, and we had named her Serrah Rose. After the miscarriage, our relationship fell apart, and we called it quits. The would-have-been-father still has difficulty being in the same room with me, over 11 years later.
Later that year, I met the guy who would be TJ's father. Because of subsequent events, I shall dub him D-Bag. I was 16, he was 18. He was a vigin. I was not. I felt an 18 year old virgin was a crime against humanity, so I fixed that, on September 12, 1998. I didn't intend on staying with him, just fixing that cosmic boo-boo, and moving on.
About a week or so later, I had my traditional birthday cake that my Grandma always made for me, gingerbread with lemon sauce. It was... slimy. I can't describe how it felt in my mouth any better than that, but I didn't want to eat it. I knew something was very, very, wrong with me. It dawned on me that I was late for my period. Hmmm... I took a test. Negative.
A week after, another test.
Negative.
Another week, another test.
Still negatory, and no period.
I went to Planned Parenthood finally, to figure out if I was pregnant, or if there was something more seriously wrong with me that was causing me to miss my cycle. I had never been late before, not even when my "womanly times" began. They must have had a super-duper-test-of-awesomeness. It came back positive. The woman explained that, being 17, I had a number of options. Option one: abortion. Option two: abortion. And then option three: abortion. I did not like these options. She seemed rather shocked when I asked if she could recommend a good OB/GYN, or a midwife. She said she could not, they rarely had any knowledge of who was "good" and who wasn't. She did say she'd heard some good things about the local Catholic hospital.
Although I had long moved away from my Irish Catholic upbringing, my own personal feelings about abortion without a clear medical reason are very firm. You make the mistake, you deal with it. Without killing. I have always believed adoption to be the best answer when you think you can't care for a child on your own. There are so many people that struggle for years with infertility that it's just not fair to throw a life away. Anyway...
My mother was livid. She tried to change my mind, and insisted I have an abortion. My father was adamant about me not giving it up for adoption. Since I planned to keep the baby, neither of these things made much of an impression on me. My Mom wanted me to be able to use my scholarship to Johns Hopkins, and go on to law school. I didn't want the same thing she did. I would much rather have gone to a fine arts college, but, I digress. I hadn't been planning on taking advantage of the free ride to law school anyway. Her dream. Not mine.
And I had this nagging little voice in my head that asked me: What if you never get another chance? This little voice- unknown to me at the time- was almost right.
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