Childbirth

No one is pregnant forever; it just seems that way. That morning I had stomach cramps. I went to class, wondered what to do next, so after dinner I went downtown to Bethany House, the Salvation Army Home for unwed mothers, and talked to the lady in charge. I hadn't talked to anyone previously except "him". She asked me when I was due - I didn't tell her I was in labor - so she said there was nothing they could do for me - I should make an appointment with my doctor and when the time came, I should go to the Emergency Department of the City Hospital. Then I walked home.

At 8:30 I phoned the father of my child for a ride to the hospital. He told me to take a taxi, he had his car up on blocks with all the wheels off (In June?). (I had already spent many months, like the Red Queen in Alice in Wonderland practising believing the unbelievable, but still not very good at it.) At 10:30, I phoned him again and he drove me to the hospital. It was getting dark by then. He didn't walk me to the door; he said he had a very painful plantar's wart and couldn't walk. I managed to get the door open by myself, booked in and at 12:30 a.m., my daughter was born. The doctor held her up on his hand and showed her to me. I couldn't touch her and I wasn't allowed to see her again after that.

Later that day the social welfare worker came to my bed and gave me some papers to sign. You have no way of looking after your child, she said. We will look after her. When I went to the nursery and asked to see her, I was refused. That was Wednesday. I went home Friday for my brother's birthday. No one commented on my sudden loss of weight.

Two weeks later, two ministers from the church my parents had said I should join instead of the one I grew up in, came to see me. I was now to make a public confession in a special church meeting of my "sin". They also went to see my parents who expressed shock at hearing of their grandchild.

My father drove me to the church in a town twenty miles away. I read my confession and my former Sunday School teacher told me what a blessing it had been. Another word to add to my list of words to be suspicious of. (There we go with a preposition at the end of a sentence, again!)

When I came home after the ministers' visit to my parents, my mother's first question was if I had "talked to anyone". When I ensured her I hadn't, she expressed relief. I had almost died, I had done through hell, but she didn't ask about that. She told me, with disgust, I was obviously just like my father. We never had another conversation. For the rest of my life, I avoided being alone with my mother, and by the time I was unavoidably alone with her, she was blind and deaf and in a wheelchair and it didn't really matter any more.

I had felt unloved as a child and now, unloved as an adult. The kittens on which I poured affection died, my dog had to be given away, and now, I had something of my very own to love, but it also was threatened. But I was finally free - I had survived a situation that my mother couldn't face and her facade of "Do what I say and don't ask why" had crumbled. She was no longer the perfect authority and I wasn't like her - according to her own words. Hallelujah!