This isn't something I readily talk about (hence the title), but I'm compelled to do so tonight. Truthfully, the compulsion has been eating at me for about a week. You see, last Friday was an anniversary of sorts. For 17 years I've been vague and secretive about something that deeply altered my life then and continues to impact me daily.
<Note: I've been staring at this first paragraph for about 10 minutes now trying to think of how to come out with it. Fuck it. Here goes.>
I have a story to tell, and it's difficult to begin without giving back story. Honestly, the best of writers could somehow flashback effectively or edit for days and days to get just the right combination of words and sentences, but this is a blog, so I don't have the time nor space.
During my sophomore year of college I met a guy and fell in love. He's not the guy I married; we'll just get that out of the way first thing. I met the love of my life a few months later. In fact, my hubby and I wouldn't start dating until over a year after we met.
But I digress.
S. was probably the cutest guy my 20 year-old self had ever seen. Dark hair, blue eyes, beautiful teeth in a broad and seductive smile, but more than that, the worn jeans, faded t-shirt & hiking boots-wearing ruggedness about him made me weak in the knees. It was 1993, and I had a crush on Eddie Vedder, Johnny Depp (the "21 Jump Street" variety), Chris Cornell, and The Edge (U2). (See a "type" here?) He didn't play an instrument or sing in a band, but in my head he was a rock star. Four years older than me, a working man on the campus where I was studying literature and majoring in pheromones, he was the friend of a last-minute roommate met through the UDK's apartment ads. By proximity, we began a FWB relationship that would last more than 2 years. (If you don't understand the acronym, ask someone under 45.)
I was strung along like a puppet through those years. Though, to be fair, he did not likely recognize (consciously) the emotional turmoil this arrangement caused my tender heart. (How my heart got to be so tender is another story altogether, to be saved for another day.) I was quick to please, but reluctant to share too much of myself. We didn't talk about our feelings for one another (there weren't supposed to be any), and we didn't make long-term plans (at least not with one another). It was ideal... for someone who was happy passing the time while looking for something (someone) better.
Less than a year into our quasi-relationship, we did something foolish. I knew immediately that our carelessness would require much sacrifice...on my part.
<See, here's where my brain is telling me to be vague, but my inner writer is telling me to go balls-to-the-wall honest.>
Friday, August 12, 1994: one singular sperm met a singular egg & hit it off - too well. Like I said, I knew it immediately. I didn't sleep at all that night & drove 180+ miles the next day to see my childhood friend Steph, with whom I tearfully confided. She was able to calm me down a little by reminding me that I wouldn't - COULDN'T - know anything for a couple weeks, so go back to school, put it out of my mind, and get on with my life... and, by the way, end it with this jerk. (I loved her brutally honest foresight!)
August 23, 1994: Not quite two weeks in, but I had felt puny & cruddy for a few days, and I knew. I knew. The Wal-Mart pharmacy had them in 2-packs, but on my limited pet shop income I reasoned I'd only needed one test to prove what I obviously knew. I didn't waste time when I arrived home. I barely even read the instructions. It wasn't rocket science, for goodness sake.
I cried silently as I watched one and then (more quickly than I anticipated) two lines appear. It was not a surprise, but that confirmation was so heart-breaking. At the same time, this was the first time I'd ever felt so exhilarated. This was new territory for me. A baby? His baby? Overwhelming would be like saying the war in Afghanistan is a little squabble.
I don't remember the days following much. I was already back in my classes, this time as a junior with the light at the end of the educational tunnel appearing closer and closer. I know I probably cried and talked incessently with Ellen and Steph, probably to the point of exhaustion for them both, but I really didn't know what to do. I wanted to keep this baby, plain and simple. I didn't want to tell S. because I was afraid of his reaction. We didn't have too many deep conversations - not about things that applied to any sort of "us," that is - so I didn't even know how to broach the subject with him. It had to be done. I wasn't going to start some soap-opera drama crap when secrets of this magnitude are kept and revealed years later to an unsuspecting father. We were friends and shared many other friends. He worked on the campus where I'd likely soon be waddling. Besides, I'm just not that kind of girl.
Sunday, August 28, 1994: I swallow every ounce of courage to call him and ask him if I can come over. Our relationship didn't typically work that way - I usually waited for him to call me (wouldn't want to seem desparate or anything, right?). I'm sure he was a little weirded out by my call, and he was distracted when I got to his apartment, as if he were trying to get out of there as soon as I arrived. I followed him around the place with my eyes as he skitted about, trying to find a hat or some other inconsequential item. I think he knew something to make him uncomfortable was brewing. I finally said it, just blurted it out. "I'm pregnant." He stopped in his tracks (pretty much the result I was expecting).
I think he questioned whether it was his. I hardly flinched. I may have been a fool, but I was never stupid. I understood this to be the question out of most men's mouth when not married or securely committed to a girl making this claim. Par for the course. I don't remember details of the conversation, except the repeated words, "I can't" and "I don't want" and "I won't." Of course I cried in front of him - something I'd never, ever done, something that humiliated me more than the fact that I was pregnant with an unwanted child. I left feeling a sense of deep sadness and horrifying shame. Before this point, I hadn't really considered anything but bringing up his baby, either with him or without. But the other words that I remember bouncing around the room like a lead and rubber-filled balloon were, "get rid of" and "take care of."
I called Planned Parenthood the next day, and on Friday, September 9, 1994, I took care of it. Without his financial, physical, or emotional help. My mom took me and consoled me the best she could after, assuring me that it was for the best, to think of my future. I didn't talk to him for about two months. I couldn't. It was fine, though. I no longer lived with his friend, and I made a point of avoiding social gatherings he'd likely attend. I devoted myself to school and to not feeling like there was a million pieces of me on the floor waiting to be swept up and tossed out.
This is no sort of cautionary tale. I am, have always been, and will always be a supporter of and fighter for the right for women to make their own biological decisions. The cluster of cells that had formed after conception looked exactly like a cluster of cells. Those cells didn't have a heart, a brain, or a central nervous system. I write this because I never have before. Not since a cryptic poem for a creative writing class anyway. (I wish I could find that darn thing!) It's cathartic in a way, but it's also frightening for me. I'm afraid of the backlash of something so darn personal. Besides, I teach teens, and there are probably more than a few who will deal with an unexpected pregnancy at least once in their lives. I do not tell this story to them - nor would I ever. I don't expect any of them to read it either. I hope they don't.
Here's the other reason I write: I'm trying to wrap my brain around this and my current infertility. My mind can't help but jump to the obvious connection. I ended one pregnancy on purpose; I got rid of the first of the 3 children I wanted to have. What if this would have been the daughter I have always wanted? Oh, the thoughts that invade my mind! Self-punishment is putting it mildly. I know this is irrational. I know it is.
But here's the real kicker. I'm "friends" with S. on facebook now. This is a fairly recent development - less than a year, I think? Last fall he and his wife had their first baby. A daughter.
A daughter.
Last week was his birthday, and at 41, he commented that he felt old and that maybe he should have done this whole parenting thing 10 years ago.
I want to yell, How about 17 years ago, asshole?!?!
But I won't. I don't. Instead I write about it. Consequences be damned. I'm 37 years old, and I want to own my past without my ear next to the phone waiting for it to give me a booty call at 2am. I don't hate him. I couldn't really ever hate him. I hurt, but it was my decision. The woulda, coulda, shoulda is a stupid game we play in our heads, and it's such a self-loathing practice. I am not only this decision. I am a million great decisions and this one is one of the few that I sometimes question but also know in my heart to be the catalyst for the awesome decisions I made thereafter and the perfect brown-eyed results that fill my life with more happiness than I ever expected.
