My mother knew I was pregnant before I did.
Having had grown up the youngest of three sisters, a span of 13 and 15 years younger, it fell to her at an early age to babysit their children and perform various household duties. Years later, she fell in love and married my father, making it clear she didn’t want to start a family for at least five years. (She was tired of watching her friends have all the fun over the years).
Having met the “love of my life” (at only age 17), of course I was easily coerced into backseat lovemaking at a time when I thought only boys took care of birth control.
Several weeks later I wound up losing my breakfast several days in one week, and unable to eat many of the things I normally loved. That’s when she asked me if I might be having sexual relations and I said yes.
Before I knew it my mother confronted me and my boyfriend. I will never forget my father’s face when my mother and I went to tell him. No yelling. No speeches. Nothing but a horribly disappointed looking face who couldn’t even speak to me or meet my eyes. He let my mother handle everything. I believed the close bond my father and I had always shared was gone forever.
Within a week, I had my first gynecological exam, found out I was almost three months, and had an appointment at a NYC hospital to “get rid of the problem”, as these types of “procedures” were not yet legal in NJ.
Both my boyfriend and mother accompanied me to the hospital. Little known to me I was going to be left overnight in a strange hospital, sharing a room with 13 and 15 year old girls. Nothing was explained to me until about 2 hours after I was admitted. And that was a rather quick explanation. I had no real understanding of what was about to happen, was absolutely terrified. Then a stranger comes in to shave my pubic area. What other surprises were coming???
I cried all the way down to the operating room where they kept asking me if I was sure if I wanted “to go through with it or not”. Having already been shaved by a stranger, my legs placed in stirrups displaying my nether regions to the audience surrounding me, hair put up in a paper bonnet, and having a doctor looking rather impatient and upset, staring straight into my eyes like an angry father. I was so afraid. I felt so scared and alone. No one comforted me. Nobody I could talk to. What choice did I have at this point. I hated myself. The next morning I was discharged. Feeling such shame as I rode home between my mother and boyfriend. I couldn’t tell you the time, discharge instructions or if we took a car, bus, or taxi home. My father didn’t seek me out to see if I was okay. I didn’t want to talk about my experience to anyone when I got home or for years afterwards. Until I kept seeing pregnant ladies everywhere . . . I had to walk away or I would start crying.
When I had children of my own I decided to share my mistake with them when they were old enough to understand. I did and they all were just wonderful that I was brave enough to share it with them.
Still feeling very disgusted with myself, I finally opened up to a psychiatrist about this and other traumatic happenings in my life.
It was then I was introduced to Rachel’s Vineyard. I went and stayed for a long weekend in a beautiful park like setting. Don’t ask me where it is located because I sincerely cannot remember. But I know I was supported and understood and loved by so many others there. I learned a great deal about my son in heaven, finally gave him a beautiful name to be proud of, Adam (like the first man designed by God), and middle name, John (after my father who I always admired and looked up to). I honestly was shocked at the average age of all the women there. Most were around my own age. So I felt comfortable almost immediately. I cried when I left. But have had such peaceful nights since leaving. I honestly must say I don’t lose as many nights as before. Maybe once a month I will get tearful when I remember little “Adam John”.
