In Which I Tell a Story I've Told Twice Before

This is probably going to be a little TMI, so consider yourself warned.

Today marks two years since a home pregnancy test showed two lines instead of one. I've written about it before, here and here, but I like to reminisce, and I'm putting off doing something unpleasant, so I'm going to write about it again.

I've said before that I knew I was pregnant before I knew I was pregnant. (Here's the TMI part.) My period was militantly regular. I had never in my life been so much as ten hours late - until October two years ago. Things should have started on the 20th, but didn't. Each day that passed increased my sense of foreboding. It put a bit of a damper on my birthday as well, because all I could think was, I'm three days late. I tried to talk myself out of a panic. I'd been sick a few weeks before. Maybe the antibiotics had messed things up a bit.

That got me through my birthday. And each day that passed, as much as I worried, I thought, today's the day. Well, the 24th wasn't the day, either. I told myself that if nothing happened the next day, I'd buy a home pregnancy test. Nothing happened. I bought a home pregnancy test. I can still remember - like it was this morning - driving home from Target with a sick feeling completely unrelated to pregnancy hormones. I already knew the truth. And all I could think of was, my brother is going to be so disappointed in me. In retrospect, it seems funny to me that my first thought was not for myself or my baby or even my mother. My first thought was, what will Scott think? I have let him down.

I love my brother. He is one of my favorite people in the world. I'm sure he's done stupid things in his life, but nothing major, nothing serious. And he's the sort of person whose goodness inspires others to be as good. I felt like a failure. I didn't want him to know how badly I'd messed up because I was afraid he'd think less of me for it.

Well, as I'm sure you know by now, after I waited the prescribed amount of time, and two pink lines appeared in the results window of the test, and I swear, I could feel a chasm form in the space-time continuum. Now there was only before, and after. I was desperate for the peace and safety of the before, but there was no going back from the after. There was a grand canyon between the two, and that terrified me more than anything. I had made some serious mistakes before, but nothing I felt I couldn't sort of take back through repentance.

This was something I most certainly could not even dream of taking back.

My mother had gone out shopping. You may recall that my father had died only about seven weeks before all this happened. In those days, my mother distracted herself from her grief by leaving the house and getting a head start on her Christmas shopping. Many times she had offered to take me with her, and several times she had pleaded with me to go with her, but I almost always declined. I've never been one to distract myself from my grief. I wallow. And on top of my grief over my father's death was worry about a fight I'd had with H. After our breakup in July we'd tried to remain friends (and obviously we still saw each other on occasion) but I had a hard time separating my emotions and I'd fought with him. I was afraid that the words I'd said in anger had permanently ruined any chance of even friendship with him - he being of course the only man who had ever been interested in me.

(That didn't sound right grammatically, but I'm too lazy to look into it, so please ignore it if it bothers you as well.)

Once I got over my initial, heart-stopping shock, I numbly descended the stairs and collapsed on the couch in front of the TV. I had thought about turning it on to distract myself but I couldn't seem to remember how to work the remote control, so I sat there and cried.

My mother came home not long after, excited about her purchases, which she immediately removed from their bags to show me. I tried hard to look enthusiastic, to smile and give the appropriate responses, but I have the world's worst poker face. The fact that I hadn't quite managed to stop crying was probably a clue as well. My mother asked what was wrong, and I just shook my head. In retrospect, it seems sort of odd that she'd ask about my tears when my father's death was so recent. Perhaps, being my mother, she could sense that there was something different about my unhappiness that day.

She persisted. I cried harder. "I can't tell you!" I sobbed. I realized later that as I spoke I had nervously shredded a number of half-used Kleenexes and set them in a pile on the ottoman in front of me. This, too, might have been a clue to my mum. She urged me to tell her, saying that I could tell her anything. At this, I let out a half-sob, half-cry, and tried desperately to get my vocal cords to function properly. No such luck. I hadn't even used the word "pregnant" out loud to myself. I sure as hell couldn't say it to my recently widowed mother.

I remember crying harder then. My mother kept asking me to tell her why I was so upset, and I kept refusing, shaking my head and sobbing and shredding Kleenex. Finally, she said, "The only reasons I can think for you to be this upset and not tell me are that you've got AIDS or you're pregnant. Which is it?"

I looked up at her. The good news, I thought, is that I don't have AIDS. But I said nothing. I couldn't. She knew just the same.

"You're pregnant," she said. I nodded.

We both cried then.

It's funny to remember it now - I can remember it so clearly, and yet it feels like it happened to someone else. Now I can't fathom being that selfish and blubbering and weak in the face of such a thing. I suppose that at this point in time I've simply been through enough that almost nothing fazes me anymore. I suppose it's because I experienced something that made my selfish and blubbering and weak that I'm no longer any of those things.

I guess part of what has changed my perspective is Roo. As hard as things were, I'd do anything in the world for that little girl, and if I had to go back and do it all again I'd move heaven and earth to get her here and to the point she's at now. She is happy and healthy and so very loved. She has phenomenal parents. She had to get to them in a rather unorthodox way, but I'm okay with that.

I am as happy today as I was devastated two years ago. The apparent cause of the devastation ended up being my saving grace. I don't know where I'd be today without Roo. I don't like to think about it. I don't like to think of what my life would have been without her, or what the world would be like without her.

Two years ago my life changed deeply and forever, and I am forever grateful.

June 2009, Part Three

Usually, I'm the one who cuts and colors my mom's hair. I've got a cosmetology license, and I'm much cheaper than a salon. But for reasons that would take too long to explain here, my mother went to a salon in mid-June to have her hair done, and I tagged along.

I got a million questions and comments and congratulations from the hairstylist, her co-worker, and other clients. It was refreshing and wonderful and made me very happy. I thought to myself that this must be what it’s like for pretty much any other pregnant woman. It was nice to feel normal for a change.

My youngest brother finally spoke to me on the telephone. He told me that he and his wife were praying that I would make the right decision. This meant that to them, there was a wrong decision, which irritated me. I was having a baby. That was the right decision, end of story. I really wished people could have seen that.

Owing to a combination of procrastination, fear, and defensiveness, I was due in two weeks and I hadn’t told any of my extended family that I was expecting (don't judge me). I wasn’t looking forward to their reactions. I fully expected everyone to pity my poor mother – first she lost her husband, now this. And I’ve always felt like a loser and a screw-up compared to other extended family members - not so much a black sheep, as a sick sheep who wasn't producing any wool. This wasn’t going to help. But my mom was going to visit my grandmother for her birthday, and I came along. I wasn’t sure what to say but I figured my belly would do the talking for me.

There’s a line in the Genesis song “No Son of Mine” that goes, “I rang the bell with my heart in my mouth.” I never understood that line until I got out of the car in front of my grandma’s house. I closed the car door with my heart in my mouth. I felt a nausea unrelated to my pregnancy.

I trailed my mother up the steps onto the patio. My mom gave my grandma a hug and went into the house. I bit my lip and gave my grandma a hug.

“Hi, Grandma. Um, I’m pregnant,” I said.

“Oh, no you’re not, honey, you’re just fat,” she said consolingly.

Just a refresher, here’s what I looked like in mid-June.



Fat? Just fat? I mean, I'm not a toothpick like most of my cousins, but really? Just fat?

“Um, no, really, I’m pregnant.”

“Oh, honey, no you're not, you just need to lose some weight.”

“No, really, Grandma, I am pregnant.”

Again, she insisted that I just needed to diet. I was tempted to say, Well, that's news to me, because my doctor's done several ultrasounds and it sure looked to me like I was pregnant.

Finally she seemed to believe me.

“Well,” she said, “I didn’t even know you were dating anyone.”

(This was, by the way, the reaction of pretty much everyone - they were stunned not at my pregnancy but at the fact that I had actually had a boyfriend.)

“I’m not,” I said. “I was.”

And out came an edited version of the last year of my life. But my dear old grandma, ever the Midwestern stoic, took it all in stride.

“These things happen,” she said, and she told me about a relative who’d become pregnant after a death in the family. I felt a little better. I don’t know why I was so nervous to begin with. This was, after all, the woman who, after my dad told her his cancer had returned and he was going to die soon, had sort of shrugged and then complained about her satellite dish.

I really am a genetic mutant, I think, because I like to talk things out and feel my feelings, and my dad’s immediate family is very much the opposite. I love them dearly, I really do, but they tend to react to life-changing news by either shrugging or changing the subject.

But it was good to get it out in the open finally, and good to see my grandma and talk to her. It had been months. And now that my grandma knew and would spread the word, my mother seemed to be more open to talking to people about it. She told one of her friends on the phone. Her friend was excited for me, which I thought was super nice. I wished more people were excited. Getting it out seemed to relax my mother, too. She seemed less tense, and less prone to snap at me.

My brother came over to help put the crib together. He also gave me a priesthood blessing. I don’t think I could ever say enough about what an amazing brother I have. He should be given an award. I don’t think I could have gotten through my pregnancy without him.

My last full month of pregnancy was ending quickly but I hadn't yet reached the point where I just wanted the baby out. I liked being pregnant. I liked feeling my baby kick. I liked knowing she was safe and healthy and happy. As long as my little girl was in my belly, I didn't have to do anything or make any decisions. I dreaded my pregnancy ending and life getting more complicated - and even then, I knew it would.

May 2009, Part Two – Mother’s Day

May brought my first Mother’s Day. I’d already gotten a great gift – my 3D ultrasound. I wasn’t really expecting much. I don’t think my mom was either, but she got something just the same, something she didn’t deserve.

H’s mother wrote her a letter. She e-mailed her, and she did it on Mother’s Day, first thing in the morning. My mom didn’t want to tell me about it at first. She didn't say a word. But I could tell that something was bothering her. At first I assumed it was me, that she felt a little strange about the circumstances of my first mother's day. I asked her several times what was wrong, and finally she told me.

It was a very manipulative letter. I don’t want to get into it, but suffice it to say that H had lied to his mother and said he’d never heard back from me, and H’s mother had a little pity party about how it must be nice for my mom to spend Mother’s Day surrounded by her grandchildren, and how maybe she should stop to consider how H’s mother felt, not knowing what was going to happen to her grandchild, blah blah blah. It upset me greatly and I cried for a while. I felt like Mother's Day had been ruined for all of us, and it was all my fault.

But my mother – my dear, sweet, strong mother – the one who should have been more upset about it than I, was the one who made me feel better. She said that she wasn’t going to let the letter bother her, and I shouldn’t either. We went to my brother’s house for dinner. He and his wife had gotten a card and flowers for my mom, and a card and a box of chocolates for me.

Their kindness was overwhelming. Cruelty and nastiness, I’m used to. I can more or less handle it. But kindness and understanding were still sort of foreign to me, and brought me to tears much more quickly. It was a lovely card, and the chocolates were my favorite kind. After their kids were in bed we all just sat and talked for about an hour, which was great. I'd worried that my pregnancy would make things awkward and uncomfortable but that wasn't so. It felt good to feel normal.

I was a bit depressed I didn't get a cute mother's day-for-the-mother-to-be card, but then who would buy me one? My mom, perhaps, but it seemed like more of a husband sort of thing to do, and I had no husband. Probably never will, I thought to myself. No one had wanted me before. Why on earth would anyone want me now?

I began to suspect that childbirth classes were a huge mistake. There were so many more things to worry about than I’d ever imagined. On the day we discussed labor, I thought to myself again that, sorry, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t actually want to deliver a baby. The only way I got through hearing about everything was to remind myself that my mother had made it through childbirth with each of her children, and she’s no glutton for punishment. If she could do it four times, I told myself, I could do it once.

More than once I began to have doubts about whether I could be a good mother. I thought that such concerns were probably normal, but that didn’t bring me much comfort. I wondered: Am I too selfish? Too anxious? Too tightly-wound? What if I couldn’t take good care of my baby? What if I lost my patience? I wasn’t certain what you were supposed to do with a newborn. I knew about feeding and diapering and supporting the neck and sleeping on the back, but that was about it. How much crying was normal? How many diapers was a baby supposed to go through? How often was a newborn supposed to eat?

Could I give my baby everything she needed? All the attention, all the love? I knew I loved her, and that I’d love her even more once she was out of my belly. But I thought, was love enough? I wanted to be a good mom so badly. But I wasn’t sure if wanting was enough, either.

I wanted to keep my baby very badly. It felt like the right thing do to about 95% of the time. Was the other 5% nerves and anxiety, or something more? I had trouble stomaching the thought of adoption, the thought of my baby being someone else’s to cuddle and care for. It didn’t sit quite right with me. It was like an emotional heartburn. It wouldn’t digest properly.

I continued to meet with my therapist weekly. I read him the letter H’s mother had written. John was galled. He agreed that the whole of it, especially the timing, was distinctly manipulative. He also said not to let it get to me. My mother met with her own therapist, who helped her craft a terse response to the message. She heard back quickly – H told his mother I’d never responded to his e-mail. Based on what H’s mother had to say, it seemed that H had been telling his mother naught but lies for months. Oh well, I thought. Their problem, not mine. My mother ignored the second letter, and we agreed to put H and his mother behind us.

Brother

I have said it before, and sometimes I wonder if repeating it takes away the impact of what I'm saying, but there are really no other words for it: I have the best big brother in the entire world.

I have two big brothers, so I should probably be less enthusiastic in asserting that Scott is my favorite. But it's true! He is more than just my big brother. He is my geek squad, my substitute dad, and my friend. Since my father died a year ago, Scott has had a lot to deal with. He has his own family to take care of - a wonderful wife, and three children 7 and under - and a full-time job, and a rather involved church calling. But he's never been too busy for me. He has changed flat tires, re-set sprinkler timers, set up a new cable box, resurrected my laptop computer, replaced electrical outlets, put together and taken apart furniture, fixed TV and internet problems, listened to story after dull story of mine, installed a Dog Silencer Pro, shared MP3s, baked bread sticks and pizza, answered phone calls and text messages at odd and sometimes inconvenient hours, fasted and prayed for me, and given me more priesthood blessings than I can count.

The last one on the list has been the most important; had the most impact. I miss getting father’s blessings from my dad. But the ones from Scott have saved me. There have been so many occasions this past year where I was fighting off panic attacks or crying so much I got dehydrated or feeling like I wanted to give up. And then Scott gives me a blessing and says the things that my Father in Heaven knows I most need to hear, and I know things are going to be okay.

I am more thankful for my brother than I can ever say. I am thankful for his love and patience. I am thankful that he lives worthy of the priesthood so he can give me and my mother blessings when we need them. I am so blessed to have him as a brother.