Day #243: Segment one of my birth story

#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. 13^th, 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 21^st 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.