#243
The sound of the water rushing down the rocks is much louder
than the sound of an air conditioner.
For the first half hour I kept thinking the air conditioner doesn't work
very well, does it, and then I realized I was listening to the river and there
is no air conditioning here I have a
hard time writing in the heat, which means I'm going to have problems this
week.
I was thinking about posting my original mother story in
this blog in chunks. What do you all
think? Would that be interesting? Tonight I will post the beginning of my story
and give you all a taste and you can let me know if it is a good idea while the
Indiegogo is happening.
Strength to Speak
There is an aloneness in being a birthmother. The act of relinquishing
one’s child demands you severe your own emotional self from your body allowing
you to walk on, maybe walk away and move forward, caught in a moment that can
never be complete, never brought to fruition, but not removed or forgotten
either. You are left alone with your own
moment of hell. Approximately a third of
all birthmothers commit suicide, unable to go on. Many are self abusers, hurting their own
bodies, punishing themselves for getting pregnant, giving birth and
“abandoning” their own child. Some find
peace with their decisions and know they have allowed their child and a family
to find love. But society continues to
give mixed messages and in not being honest, produces emotional traumas that
are everlasting.
The act of intentionally relinquishing a child is courageous and usually
selfless. The act of removing or taking
a baby from her mother forces her to be courageous, implanting a tragedy so
large upon her life, one almost unbearable, destroying an organic connection,
stopping the most normal bond in human beings.
I’ve written my story before and I believe I’ve written it well, but as
I immerse myself in others’ writings and voices and submerge myself into the tank
of birthmother openness, it seems important to write my own story before I
begin to collect those of others’.
I am flooded with two things, the desire to have the truth known, for stereotypes
and myths to be put aside so the truths can be told by the women who
experienced relinquishing a baby. I am
overwhelmed with the amount of courage and desire for the personal growth, for
forgiveness and health that this population of women illustrates. I am in awe of them. And I am aware that for me, these stories
both tap and pummel at my scars.
It is because of this need to tell my own truth that I must delve into
the hurt. I want so badly to scream out
the facts of my home life and the reason I clung so hard to a boy with such
ferocity, as though his existence alone kept me breathing. The grasping and the clawing of our bodies,
trying so hard to weld him to me so that he could never really leave me,
dominated my teens. But the story
actually begins with my father and not with Andy. And when I was rolled out of the Norwalk
Hospital on Dec. 13th, 1972, past the nursery leaving my 10lb. 12
oz., dark-haired, baby girl behind, I snipped my heart and ended a year which
removed all those loves from my life: Daddy, Andy and baby.
I was 18 on March 10, 1972. Andy and
I had gone to NYC with our friends, Rick and June. We’d gone to the Backfence in the Village in
a bright yellow Pinto and in order to forget I was riding with three drunken
friends, rolling down a foggy, icy, highway early in the morning in a tin can,
I pawed Andy. We kissed long, hard,
forever kisses, pawing each others’ bodies and seeking the ability to climb
into one another. We had such a tenuous
relationship at this point. We had split
up in early 1970 and when I’d gone off to a free school in Vermont for eight
months to start anew, we twisted ourselves back together, living separately,
screwing others, yet grasping at a love that had been building and protective for six years, since we were kids, we knew
each others’ souls. That March night we banged together over and
over again hoping we would meld, but we did not. The next day I went home to Wilton and to my
new sister in law’s 21st birthday party. The house was full of many of her friends and her family and most of
my family. We all made a big dinner and
in the middle of the party, slamming his fist on the table, my father had a
stroke and died in my brother Paul’s arms.
The height of drama I ran out of the house followed by our friend,
Bob. We jumped into Paul’s car, drove a
mile down the road, pulled over and the two of us broke out in sobs, holding
each other. Oh God, the world came
crashing down and the man I loved so desperately with such angst was gone
forever, gone from my every day sight and sound, gone from a life that I was
trying so hard to build, and away from the one I was trying to climb out from
under.
And when the tears were gone, Bob and I drove back to the house and
began to load the dishwasher. I was
asked if I wanted to see the body before it was placed in the ambulance. I said
“no,” and continued to do what was needed; make phone calls to the four
siblings who were not present, make sure our guests were as comfortable as
could be expected. I shared a joint in the maid’s room as the thunderstorm picked
up momentum and with one final crash sent the last elm tree toppling onto the
road outside the house.
I do not remember the next few days well, not until the day of the
funeral. I remember being in a trance,
making the motions that were expected of me, resenting the fact that Andy was
not coming to be with me. And I wept,
yes, I wept.
I tell this story as an introduction to a birth story, but it wasn’t for
another 18 weeks that I was certain I was pregnant, knew that with one soul’s
parting another had begun. I had spent
18 weeks kind of knowing, but not letting myself believe it. Several negative pregnancy tests and many
fights later while watching my strong mother dissolve, I finally received a
positive test.
