Nowhere but Up (10 page)

While my emotions ran the gamut at maximum volume, my mom was quiet. Though it was rough having her witness one of the most sobering wake-up calls in my life, I was glad she was there. It meant I didn’t have to uncomfortably break the news to her later. She comforted me as best as she could by reassuringly patting my shoulder.

I stumbled around for days, disoriented and still in shock. I couldn’t process the logistics of the pregnancy—especially the fact that in less than nine months, I’d be the mother of a flesh and blood, living and breathing baby. It was a dream, right? And I was going to wake up real soon?

My mom also had difficulty with the news, but she had already determined a plan. Well, at least a plan of what was
not
going to happen. “I’m done raising kids,” she told me in so many words. “If you choose to have this baby, you cannot live here.” I’m not going to lie. I was bitter. Angry. Hurt. I felt rejected and abandoned all over again.

When my mother hinted that I’d be mainly on my own in this process, I couldn’t afford to pretend anymore. I had to wake up and not only face uncertainty but also make the trek into the great unknown. Without the faintest clue how. And alone.

During my pregnancy I was strongly advised to abort the baby, but I refused. I was shocked by the amount of pressure I was getting to take that route. I had to fight for my right to keep the baby. Abortion wasn’t an option I even considered. My decision was ironic considering that when I was on the high school debate team, I made many convincing arguments for a woman’s right to choose. The only other alternative to keeping the baby was adoption, but I don’t think I would have emotionally survived that decision. I wanted my baby.

After researching a bunch of pregnancy centers from the yellow pages, I found a home at the Salvation Army’s Bethesda Centre in London, Ontario. When I toured their facilities, I knew in my heart that it was the place for me. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about the place felt warm. It felt like home. And I decided it would be. It was where I would live, be educated, get counseling, and receive prenatal care and parenting training. My mom and Bruce didn’t blink at my decision. I guess they figured if I was old enough to make a baby, I was old enough to figure out what to do about it.

There was one more thing I needed to do—tell Jeremy. I hadn’t spoken to him in weeks. I thought of our baby and I thought of us as parents. Had a category been available, Jeremy and I could have easily been voted our high school’s “Couple Most Likely to Not Succeed.” We were young. We were foolish. We weren’t ready to be parents.

I called him and told him we needed to talk in person. I have a feeling he knew why. It wasn’t often I asked him for a face-to-face conversation. When we met, I was nervous, as one would expect. It was hard to look him in the eye. I hadn’t a clue how he would react.

At first he didn’t believe me, telling me the baby was probably some other guy’s. After I gave him a few days to let the news sink in, though, he finally came around enough to take my word for it. I knew he was still partying at the time, so I was firm about what I expected if he wanted to go through this together. “I’m pregnant,” I told him. “If we’re going to make this work, that means we’re both pregnant. And it means you’re gonna have to choose between me and the baby or alcohol.” I made my expectations clear. The drinking had to stop. The partying had to stop. The fighting had to stop.

That night Jeremy got trashed. The disease of alcoholism took first priority. I knew in my heart he had made his choice. I was on my own, and so was he. The next day I told him that actions spoke louder than words and I would be leaving for London. I made plans to start my new life at Bethesda by myself. I didn’t need anyone. Not my parents and not Jeremy. I was on a mission to prove how capable and responsible I could be.

Emotions all twisted and hormones run wild

The weight of an adult, the fears of a child

Questions are racing, awaiting reply

Confusion sets in, I sit and I cry

I feel like I’m trapped in this nightmare I’m in

I feel like I’m losing, there’s no way to win

My dreams have been broken, my plans rearranged

My attitude’s different, my body has changed

I have to be careful of each move I make

And remember someone else’s life is at stake

It’s a lot to remember and a lot to go through

But somehow it’s worth it to go on so blue

I’ll find some more dreams and I’ll make some new plans

’Cause I know I’ll recover with my blood in my hands.

I was two months pregnant in the beginning of August 1993. Early on a summer morning, my mom and Bruce drove me to the Bethesda Centre, a large, nondescript brick building nestled in a quiet neighborhood off one of London’s main city streets.

We pulled up to the front entrance. The tight knot in my belly unraveled. This was it. My new home. I felt anxious and uncertain.

After I unpacked from the car the few pieces of luggage I brought for my eight-month stay, my mom and I said our goodbyes. It wasn’t a tearful parting, but that didn’t come as a surprise. It didn’t even bother me. I was bent on maintaining my independence from her. Even though I was petrified starting this new chapter in my life, I didn’t let it show. There were no tears. No quivering lips. I wouldn’t even let my eyes water. I maintained a strong and confident composure, pretending I was leaving for summer camp:
I’ll be back before you know it, Mom. I won’t forget to write and send pictures. I’ll miss you. Bye.
But this certainly was no summer camp. I wouldn’t return home having learned how to swim or ride a horse. I’d return with a baby.

I mastered a brave front while waving goodbye to my mom. When the car rolled down the small hill of a driveway and all I could see was fading taillights, the floodgates opened. Down tumbled tears of shame. Tears of remorse. Tears of fear. Tears for the unknown. As I gasped for air in the middle of a sob, I forced myself to calm down. All I wanted to do was check in and go to my room where I could be alone. I was engulfed by a sense of loneliness yet wanted to fester in those feelings by myself.

I picked up as many bags as I could carry and shuffled into the lobby. I looked around at the humbly furnished room. The linoleum floors shined and a few old paintings colored the drab walls. Through an open door in my immediate view, I could see a few teenage girls with rounded bellies sitting around a large square table making crafts. They were laughing, having fun.
I hope they like me.

I was numb throughout the intake process. Most of it was a blur; I resorted to coping the best way I knew how—get through the hard part with as little emotion as possible. A sweet staff member led me to my room, talking the entire way about how wonderful the center was, how terrific the rest of the girls were, how much fun everybody was having, and how she just knew I was going to love it here.

I nodded and smiled, letting her run the verbal show. It kept me from having to let out as much as a peep. I was afraid if I had the chance to talk, I wouldn’t be able to hold myself together. And I didn’t want to collapse like a house of cards in front of a stranger. She’d probably just feel sorry for me and blame my emotional outburst on hormones.

Once I settled in and got comfortable, Bethesda ended up being a haven for me. I found a home where I’d had none. An acceptance I couldn’t find elsewhere. The place had obvious idiosyncrasies, though. Just imagine what it’s like living with ten pregnant teenagers. Hormones raging, emotions of different frequencies slamming into each other. One girl is upset at the world; another can’t stand her changing body. One girl is scared of raising a baby alone; another can’t stop crying at sappy commercials. We were emotional Gumbys, being stretched in all ways from the nonstop hormonal party in our bodies.

And then there were the cravings. This one wants ketchup chips for breakfast; that one can’t say no to chocolate of any kind. This one can’t stomach anything except ginger ale; that one lives on grilled cheese sandwiches. Some of us would even make runs to the local grocery store to pick up whatever we wanted so we could eat our hearts out.

We were a hodgepodge of scared, young moms-to-be. Bethesda was home to all kinds of girls—girls with a wild streak, girls who always made the honor roll, girls from broken homes, girls from rich families, girls who were recovering addicts, and girls who were goody-two-shoes. Though we came from different backgrounds, we had two things in common: we were young, and we were pregnant.

I appreciated the instant camaraderie. It was comforting to know I wasn’t the only one treading unknown waters. Together we battled and shared our loneliness and our pain. We tried to encourage each other as much as possible. Some needed the support more than others. Like the girl who always cut herself. She’d lock herself in her room and slice her body with any sharp object she could find. I never knew how to help her.

There was plenty to do at the home. We didn’t sit around all day watching TV and eating bonbons using our ever-growing bellies as a tabletop. Half of each day we had to go to school, which included basic classes we would have taken in high school like math, science, and English. We also took parenting classes. We had individual counseling sessions. We had devotions. We cleaned and helped to maintain the facilities. We would even get a little creative and put on fashion shows, parading our big bellies around.

Every once in a while different speakers would visit and talk to us about the realities of motherhood. They helped shoot down any romantic fantasies we had about parenting. So many kids think having a baby is like having a doll. You spend all day dressing them up in cute clothes. You cuddle with them and take them places where people fawn all over them. And of course they never cry. While some of those ideas may be true to a certain extent, there was a whole lot more to having a baby than most of us at Bethesda realized.

There’s nothing cute or exciting about sleepless nights. Colic. The cost of diapers, wipes, and formula. Postpartum depression. The end—at least for a while—of going to movies and parties with your friends. The loneliness. The end of “me” and the beginning of “we.” Never mind having to battle all of this on your own. In short, motherhood is a difficult journey. I’ll never forget what one of the speakers told us: “Being a teen mom is no picnic. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

Something about what she said hit home. That day I determined that if I was going to keep my baby, I had to be prepared for the worst. No matter how hard it would be, I resolved, I would be the best mom I could be and give my baby one hundred percent of me.

Though I was determined I was going to be a good mom and had put my partying days behind, traces of my past would surface from time to time. It was one way I paid the price for the years I spent getting high. During my stay at Bethesda, I had several LSD flashbacks.

One night I abruptly woke up with a debilitating feeling of fear. It was the exact sense of paranoia I felt when I used to experiment with the drug. The fear enveloped me like a wet blanket, drowning me under crushing waves of anxiety. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. The fear settled heavily in my spirit and completely overwhelmed me. I freaked out, jumped out of bed, and staggered out of my room.

Somehow I ended up curled up in a ball under the pay phone in the hall. A night shift staff member was sitting at her desk. Without so much as looking up, she barked, “Go back to your room.” What was she thinking? That I was on the ground because I was trying to sneak out? Maybe steal a cookie from the kitchen or have a late night gab session with one of the girls?

I didn’t want to go back to my room. Aside from being yelled at, I felt safe being in the open. At the very least I could be seen and heard, maybe even helped. In my room I was alone. I could disappear in the paralyzing fear and no one would know. At least huddled under the pay phone, I had a chance.

The flashbacks happened a few more times. Each experience was different but lasted between fifteen and thirty minutes. The last one happened one evening when I was out to dinner with one of the girls. In between a sip of Coke and a bite of a juicy cheeseburger, the room started changing. It was another trip, minus the acid. The dining room spun in and out of different dimensions. I excused myself to the bathroom, trying to act as normal as possible, not letting on that I felt as if I was in another realm. Twenty minutes later, the world returned to normal (at least to my new normal), and I returned to the table. I’m so thankful that was the last flashback I ever had.

As much as Bethesda had going for it—and as good as it was for me—being there still wasn’t always easy. I got homesick. And I wasn’t always happy.

I didn’t write much in my journal during this time. The few pages I scribbled focused on how miserable I was: “I’m so unhappy, but I play along to my friends and family. . . . I could sit in my room and cry for days, but I could also tear apart every f—ing thing in this place. Crying’s safer, it keeps me out of trouble. I’d sure like to let some of this anger out, though. God help me.”

It wasn’t until I was more than halfway through my pregnancy that I knew my spiritual life needed a major adjustment. I still had not forgiven myself for taking steps backward. I was stuck in shame. Though I wanted out of the emotional quicksand where I stood, I couldn’t move. John and his wife, Sue, kept me from sinking any deeper.

John visited with me a few times at Bethesda. I especially looked forward to seeing him; he always made me feel a lot better, less homesick. John and Sue were like second parents to me (and still are today). I loved this adorable, hippie-looking couple. I remember spending the night with them at their home once while I was pregnant. They prayed with me and actually tucked me into bed. It was such a sweet and intimate gesture. I felt so loved, so cared for. With her thick brown mane and dark, piercing eyes, Sue was beautiful inside and out. She showered me with affection and always encouraged me. John was a bottomless vat of fatherly advice; I always felt I could talk to him about anything.

One afternoon when I must have been seven or eight months along, John called and announced that he was picking me up for church that evening. He didn’t give me a choice in the matter. “You can’t say no,” he told me. “I’m already on my way.”

On one hand, I was reluctant. Church? I groaned. I hadn’t been to church in months. I didn’t want to listen to a sermon and feel more guilt or listen to some praise and worship music and feel unworthy to even sing along. I was more comfortable dog-paddling in lukewarm waters—not quite fed up with faith and ready to walk away but not fully vested either.

On the other hand, I was happy to get out of the center for a while, and the church John wanted me to visit wasn’t our home church. I figured I’d feel more comfortable in the company of strangers than with people I knew. So I went.

Somewhere between the singing and the sermon, I confronted the choices I had made since my original attempt at allowing God to run my life. When I took my life back into my hands and started doing things my way, look where I ended up—pregnant, an unwed mom. If I truly believed God had a plan for my life, I wasn’t going to get there by doing things my way. I knew I had to start living life God’s way.

For a long time I had believed that God had rules just to have rules or as a means to control people. For instance, it was hard for me to wrap my mind around the “no sex before marriage” thing. If something felt right, how could it be wrong? Eventually I learned He has reasons for the guidelines He sets in place. They’re not meant to keep us from having fun; they’re created out of love, to protect and give us the best shot at being successful. God didn’t want me to contract sexual diseases or get pregnant without marital support and stability for my baby or me. I finally started to understand the significance of Proverbs 3:5–6, “Trust in the L
ORD
with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight” (NIV).

That night at church I had to figure out how to be transparent before God without being filled with guilt. I had to face God and I had to face myself. I knew I didn’t deserve it, but I wanted another chance. I needed grace. Because so many of us lack grace for and from each other in our earthly relationships, believing in and welcoming grace from God almost seems impossible. But without an alternative, I accepted that gift even without fully understanding how far reaching God’s grace is.

I recommitted myself to God that night. It took a lot for me to believe I could have a second chance, so praying for anything more was beyond the scope of my imagining. I didn’t deserve anything else. But as I prayed, I thought about my baby. I begged God to at least, if nothing else, let him or her be healthy and have ten fingers and ten toes. In hindsight, I realize how ridiculously amazing God’s grace and mercy is even in spite of me and some of the choices I’d made. Make no mistake, there are consequences for our actions, but sometimes God overrides even the very repercussions that should naturally come our way. He gave me so much more than I asked for.