Dazed and Confused

Initially it was pretty easy to pretend a monumental, life-changing event was not actually happening.

For most of high school I had to navigate between two worlds. One world consisted of school, friends, parties, and trying to survive high school. My other world revolved around The Fiero. These two universes could not coexist. In fact, they despised each other. Specifically, The Fiero hated my best friend, and she hated him. She thought he was an emotionally abusive asshole. He hated her because he was just a dick.

I knew I couldn’t spend the summer drinking and smoking weed with my friends because they would get suspicious if I completely dropped out of sight. So, I blamed my abstinence and frequent absences on The Fiero. That was a pretty easy sell. They knew he was an asshole. Plus, not hanging out with my friends kept The Fiero happy. Not happy enough to stop fucking The Friend but by then I didn’t care enough to fight about it.  

With the friends/boyfriend conflict largely avoided; I spent the summer wrestling with inner turmoil. I did not know what to do or what was going to happen to me or this baby. I knew enough to know I needed to take care of myself physically but that was about it. Keep in mind, in 1987 we didn’t have the Internet. Google wasn’t a thing. All I knew about pregnancy and giving birth was what I learned in health class. And all I learned was that it was going to hurt. A lot.

I also knew I was going to be alone in whatever decisions were made. The Fiero was never going to be supportive. That was a no-brainer. My parents…well, my parents had some thoughts about teen pregnancy. I had heard things like, “If you get pregnant, we will not support you.” “You will have to figure out how to raise a baby by yourself.” “I will not be your babysitter.” Or my personal favorite, “You will have to go on welfare.” Where and how I grew up, welfare was the ultimate sin. “Taking” from the government was just not ok.

My summer days were spent in a spiral of denial, fear, shame, guilt, loneliness, and so many tears. There wasn’t a single person I could talk to. Nobody to confide in. Nobody to help me.

Believing you are alone in the world is dangerous. It hardens you but makes you afraid at the same time. Afraid to trust. Afraid to open up. Afraid to take down carefully constructed walls. Even when surrounded by people who love you, a piece of you is alone.

I started my Senior year of high school about three months pregnant.

I did a pretty good job of hiding my secret from my parents until around Christmas…six months pregnant. By the new year, I knew it was time to tell my mom, but I had no clue how I was going to have that conversation.

I also knew I needed to see a doctor. As a teenager I did not know the importance of prenatal care. My mom and I had the same doctor, and they were friends so I wasn’t entirely convinced I could trust her. When I called to make the appointment, I wouldn’t even tell the scheduler why I wanted to see Dr. Paula. I would only say it was an emergency and I needed to see her right away.

Sitting across from me in the doctor’s waiting room was an old woman. She kept staring at me. I was familiar with the look she was giving me. It was the same look the teachers gave the pregnant cheerleader. I cannot adequately describe the shame I felt. I didn’t even know this woman and yet somehow, I felt like I let her down. I should have known better. I should have been better. Yes, I was the whore she thought I was.

When Dr. Paula came into the exam room, she took one look at me and knew exactly why I was there, but she sat down and kindly waited for me to tell her why I had come to see her. It took a long time, and through a lot of tears, for me to finally say, for the first time, “I’m pregnant and I don’t know what to do.” I told her about the almost-abortion, The Fiero, and how my parents were going to be so pissed. She let me cry and she told me I didn’t have to go through this alone. It was then I admitted I had been thinking about adoption.

I knew I had no business trying to raise a child. I had never had a job. I had only turned 18 years old a couple of months prior…I was barely an adult. I didn’t even have a driver’s license yet. I was a person who still had a curfew. I was not prepared to be a parent. And I believed I would have zero help. But still…what kind of person gives their baby away?

My doctor told me I did not have to have all the answers at that moment, but it was time to tell my parents. It was then she asked, “Would it be easier if I told her?” Hell, yes it would be easier! Dr. Paula made room on her calendar for the next day, and I was going to ask my mom to take me to the doctor. We had a plan.

Getting my mom to drive me to the doctor was a total pain in the ass. She was happy to take me, but she asked a million questions. I don’t even remember what nonsense reasons I gave. I was more concerned about my life ending in the next 30 minutes.

Finally, we get taken to an exam room and wait for the doctor. When Dr. Paula came in, she sat on one of those rolling stools, wheeled over to my mom, and said, “Monica and I have talked. Because she is worried about your reaction, we agreed it is best for me to tell you…Monica is pregnant.”

FUCK!

The silence. And then the tears. Mine and my mom’s. Mine because I was a complete fuck-up and hers because I was a complete fuck-up…or so I thought. Making your mom cry is the worst. I later learned my mom was crying because she was hurt I had been too afraid to tell her myself. Dr. Paula also told my mom about the almost-abortion and that I had been considering adoption. However, she suggested I make an appointment with a counselor who specializes in treating birth mothers who place their children up for adoption and gave me a business card.

At that point, my doctor quickly went into action. First, she needed to do an exam, get bloodwork, and get me started on all the prenatal stuff I had avoided. Because I had been a patient of hers for a long time, she knew I had iatrophobia, a fear of doctors and medical tests. She was aware of the challenges ahead. Without going into too much detail, I was a hot mess. There was a panic attack, fainting, and a whole bunch of vomiting. But I got through it. And thank God for Dr. Paula.

Shortly thereafter, I had an ultrasound and found out I was having a boy. I immediately named him Andrew.

A number of decisions were made after leaving the doctor’s office. First, the rest of the family needed to know what was going on. The Fiero needed to be told. Some types of arrangements needed to be made with the school. And I was going to start seeing the adoption counselor. Lastly, we needed to find adoption services and a lawyer. Whew! That was a lot for a single car ride.

The whole adoption idea took on a life of its own. ‘Considering’ adoption and seeking legal representation are two very different things. Without really having an opportunity to sit with any feelings I may have had about Andrew being placed for adoption it was happening. I know my mom was trying to ease some of the stress I was experiencing by jumping right in to help but I don’t think she realized I hadn’t really made up my mind. And I didn’t tell her anything different. I never have.

Telling my dad and my brothers was easier than expected. Nobody was thrilled but I didn’t receive the backlash I had imagined. My youngest brother, The Baby, asked if this meant he was going to be an uncle and that’s when my mom explained I was going to place the baby up for adoption. My brothers and I are adopted so this was not a foreign concept to any of us but there was a sense of sadness at the kitchen table that day. The Middle thought it was for the best and he wasn’t wrong. The Baby was disappointed there wouldn’t be a new baby in the house and he wasn’t wrong either.

I asked them all to keep my pregnancy to themselves and not share the news with any extended family, co-workers, or friends. It was just none of their business. In retrospect it wasn’t fair of me to ask any of them to keep secrets. Yes, it was my life, but they were also experiencing something huge and would need help processing it. When all was said and done it ended up being the worst kept secret of all time anyway. My mother absolutely cannot keep a secret.

Next up…The Fiero.

Telling him did not go as I had expected either. He was super pissed and had every right to be. I had been lying to him for months. He yelled. I cried. He called me names and I apologized. All of this I had expected. I had not anticipated him hitting me though, but he did…and hard. I can still picture him swinging at me and his open hand connecting with the right-side of my head. I remember the ringing in my ear and the pain and my surprise. I remember the smug look on his face when he said no one would believe me because there wouldn’t be a visible bruise on my face. I believed him and did not tell anyone. 

I was too young at the time to recognize emotional abuse and too overwhelmed to know how to handle physical abuse. I didn’t know emotional abuse is typically a precursor to physical violence or that if he hits you once, he will hit you again. I was also not prepared for the feelings of embarrassment and shame associated with abuse. Why did I feel guilty? Why was I afraid to tell someone? Shouldn’t he have been the one to be afraid? It is a completely insane phenomenon. Even today I am still not certain if anyone would have believed me. I really don’t know.

The Fiero and I were together for about another six months. I consider myself lucky it wasn’t another six years. He didn’t hit me again. He pushed, he shoved, but he never hit. Even he probably had some reservations about hitting a pregnant girl. And after the baby was born my hatred for The Fiero ignited. He knew I no longer gave a single fuck about him. His power was gone. We broke up the day I graduated from high school, and I never spoke to him again.

Telling my school and putting a plan in place for the time I was going to miss was a strange experience. My parents and I met with the Vice Principle and Guidance Counselor. As soon as my parents told them I was pregnant there was a sense of disappointment but the vibe in the room immediately changed when they were told the baby would be placed for adoption.

That happened a lot. When an adult learned I was pregnant there was the initial…Oh wow, kid! You fucked up…but that changed instantaneously when they found out the baby would be adopted. It was like I was immediately redeemed and now applauded for doing the “right thing”. Instead of being labeled a whore, now I was brave and mature. The truth is, I was neither brave nor mature. I was just going along with the adoption scenario because it seemed as though that is what everyone wanted, or at least found acceptable. I didn’t speak up to ask my parents to slow all this decision making down. I had been so afraid to disappoint the people in my life up to this point, I just kept quiet.

The school already had protocols in place for this type of situation and they were actually pretty cool but also sort of not. When my long-term absence started, I would be classified as “homebound.” A term they used for kids who would be out for an extended period of time with an illness or other major life event. My teachers would be notified of the situation, but it would be discreet. A guidance counselor would bring my homework to my house each week so I wouldn’t fall behind. It was understood I would still graduate on time with my class. I could start staying home as soon as I wanted and come back whenever I was ready. They were very flexible.

Seemed reasonable…but the school had some suggestions. It would probably be better for me if I started staying home sooner rather than later. The fewer people who knew I was pregnant the better. Better for me or for the school? My teachers would be much more accommodating if my presence didn’t cause disruptions in the classroom. Also, it would be easier if my absence from school was a result of having mono.

I understood the assignment and didn’t continue going to school much longer.

Over the next few weeks, I did my homework, went to counseling appointments, and talked about how placing my baby for adoption would feel. We talked about what emotions I would likely have once the baby was born and what coping mechanisms could be used to manage those feelings. I gave the counselors all the right answers and I thought I was ready. The truth is, I hadn’t been honest with myself. I was trying to do what I thought was right.

Also, in the weeks leading up to going into labor, I was meeting with an adoption lawyer. I wanted an open adoption, how open I wasn’t sure, and I wanted to choose my baby’s family. There was no way to prepare for the number of families hoping to adopt. There were quite literally binders full of people who wanted a baby. All of them provided pictures and a letter to potential birth mothers explaining why they should be the chosen family. There are people willing to go to great lengths to raise a family. Of course, they will pay for all medical and legal expenses, and most are willing to keep the relationship between baby and birth mother as open or closed as the mother wanted. I felt like this was the only part of the process I had any control over.

I chose a couple who lived in Seattle, close but not too close. I never met them, but my mom did, and she liked them. They agreed to provide an update letter and photos every year until Andrew turned 18. That was about as “open” as I could manage. At first it seemed as though they were happy to send the letters but as the years passed it felt as though the letters were laced with an underlining resentment. Or maybe that was just me projecting. I received the last letter and pictures just days after Andrew’s 18^th birthday in 2006, which also happened to coincide with the death of my daughter, Brooke.

I was planning Brooke’s funeral when the last letter arrived. There is no sufficient way to describe how I felt. It’s been 17 years and I still cannot put into words what it is like to have your past and your future come to a screeching halt at the exact same moment. I knew it would be the last update and I wanted to be alone, so I went outside. I stood in the middle of my mother’s front lawn. After reading the letter, I fell to my knees. I just…folded. I fully recognized at that moment that I had given birth to a son and a daughter eighteen years apart and I would never know either of them. There is no coming back from that. No measurement of time heals those types of wounds.

The Birth

In the early morning hours on March 28^th, 1988, I went into labor, but it would be another 19 hours before my son was born.

I had been terrified to give birth but none of what I thought would happen materialized. It was, in fact, much worse.

My doctor was out of town. The OBGYN who was filling in was a monster, Dr. JL.

After 10 hours of labor, I went to see Dr. JL at his office. He was rude, curt, and dismissive. His exam was rough. And when I told him I was scared he said, “That is something you should’ve thought of before getting pregnant.” I had expected to be treated like trash by everyone but my doctor. He sent me home and told me not to come back until my contractions were five to seven minutes apart.

For the next several hours the contractions got more painful but not any closer together. Finally, my mom decided I was going to the hospital whether Dr. JL liked it or not. Ummm…he did not. After yet another exam, he said I was still a long way off and wanted to send me home. My mom insisted I stay. While I was in the middle of a contraction Dr. JL asked if I wanted anything for the pain. I asked him if it would be bad for the baby. He said, “Anything I give you will be bad for the baby, much like teenage moms are bad for babies.” The nurse was shocked. My mom was shocked. I stared and said nothing. He walked out of the room and my mom followed. As the nurse was apologizing for Dr. JL, I could hear my mom in the hallway dressing him down and letting him know I would not be a teen mom but rather had chosen adoption. Dr JL said, “That doesn’t change how we got here.” He did not think I was brave or mature.

Hours passed and instead of discussing options to progress labor, Dr JL decided on a C-section. But not just any C-section, he made a vertical incision, typically reserved for emergencies. Neither the baby nor I were in any danger, there was no medical reason for a vertical incision. All future pregnancies would require a C-section and the risk of my uterus rupturing grew exponentially. My 18-year-old body was now disfigured. When my mom asked Dr. JL why he made an unnecessary vertical incision he said, without even looking in my direction, “So she will be reminded every day for the rest of her life the mistakes she’s made.” Un-fucking-believable. I later learned I was not the first nor the last patient he treated that way.

Along with an ugly reminder, Dr JL gifted me with serious body image issues that have plagued me every day, just as he intended. I wasn’t a confident kid, but I never disliked my body before Dr. JL. Not only did he leave me with a physical scar, but he also gave me a deep psychological scar. A two-fer. A BOGO. Some people view their scars as a symbol of triumph over adversity. They are survivors. For me, my scar is a reminder that a stranger intentionally hurt me. It brings me shame. And, man, has it fucked me up.

During my 5-day hospital stay, Andrew was almost always in my room. I changed his diapers, fed him, dressed him in cute baby outfits, and took a million pictures. I tried to soak in as much time with him as I could. On the 5^th day the social worker came to my room to tell me Andrew’s parents were there and ready to take him home. In that moment, I expressed for the first time how much I did not want to give him up. He was mine and strangers couldn’t have him. She told me it was normal to feel that way, but his parents had been patiently waiting for several days and it was time for her to take him. And she did. She took him. Right out of my arms. He started to cry. She turned and walked out of the room. I stood silent as I watched my crying baby disappear down a long hospital corridor. That was the last time I saw my baby. That was the moment Andrew became Peter.

I still don’t know if it was the right thing to do. Adoption is complicated.

People thought I was brave and mature and maybe I was, but I was also too weak to speak up and too scared of disappointing people. I feel more like a coward.

I was told I gave Peter’s parents the greatest gift they’d ever receive. Maybe. But did I curse him with feelings of abandonment? I fear I did.

Everyone said it was the right thing to do, but was it? Right for who? It has never felt right to me.

But here’s the thing…keeping him would have been selfish, no?

Adoption is too complex to have a single right answer.

For me, I do not really know if there was a “best option”. Today I believe I would have been able to raise him just fine, but I think that only because I now have a lifetime of experience and fully developed frontal lobe.

I am still trying to give my teenage self some grace. Forgive myself. I will let you know when I get there.