This story you are about to read is true, it is a major part of my life and a prologue to the Richmond story
This One to Take Home
Page was just a baby, 15 years old, and it was painfully obvious to me that she was pregnant. I watched her on the soccer field that crisp November afternoon in 1983, playing with a hesitation and slowness I had never witnessed in her before. She was now wearing her team jersey out, rather than tucked in, with a large T-shirt underneath - more bulk to hide her growing secret.
Page was one of my daughter’s best friends, a girl who had been like a part of our family. I was a surrogate mom to her for some time. She had been living with her father and had not had contact with her mother for several years.
When Page’s father confronted her, she firmly denied that she was pregnant. But it did not take much longer for the truth to become evident.
My heart went out to Page. Twenty-one years ago, at the age of 16, at the beginning of my senior year in high school, I too became pregnant. I too tried to hide my pregnancy and deny what was happening to my body, my life. It all came back to me in a head long rush; the pain, the hiding, the shame. Even the time of our pregnancies was the same, a March due date of a child that would be considered by the world as illegitimate. With all of these similarities, I still could not bring myself to tell Page about our common bond. In all of these years I had kept this part of my life a secret from nearly everyone. That was the way unwed mothers were treated in 1963.
I had been dating Larry for one year, he was my first love. It took us a long time before we made the fateful step that would bind us forever. At the time I became pregnant Larry had already graduated from high school, had a job and wanted to marry me. That sounded so good. Then I could be ‘normal’, no one would stare at me and point at the girl who was pregnant and not married. I would have a husband and a home of my own. But after many hours of counseling and pressure from my family, I couldn’t fight it any longer. My family decided that I would go to California and stay with my uncle who was a doctor for the duration of my pregnancy and the birth. My baby would be given up for adoption. My child needed a chance at a full life with two parents who could give him all of the advantages that we, as teenage parents couldn’t. The decision did not come easily for either of us.
Larry wrote letters, sent flowers and called on the phone. Although he never wavered in his loyalty or love, I began to withdraw. People around me tried to fill the void but most of the time I was overwhelmed with loneliness; it seemed to surround me constantly.
I had a visiting teacher twice a week to keep up with my studies but most of the time I would sit in the house hour after hour just looking out the window, hoping to wake from this nightmare. I wanted to wake up in my own bed, in my own house. I wanted to go to school, to the dances, football games and parties; to be a part of all of the activities that had been my world such a short time ago. But it was a cold, hard reality; I was pregnant and nothing would ever be the same again.
When Page asked me to be her birth coach I didn’t hesitate for a minute. I wanted to be there for her but I needed to be there for me.
In many ways things are different now, thank God, but some things never change. Page’s father had difficulty dealing with the situation, his family was not told of Page’s pregnancy. His need for secrecy outweighed her need for support. He was ill equipped to handle what was happening to his youngest daughter, this girl he loved with all of his heart.
He reacted in the only way he could at that time of his life - with anger, hurt, confusion and pain. I in turn had trouble dealing with his inability to give Page the love and tenderness that she so desperately needed. It became a stand off of sorts between us. He was grateful for my help but was deaf to my pleas. I was living my pregnancy all over again and wanted to ease as much of Page’s pain as possible. Searching my memory and soul all these years later I know that Page’s father simply didn’t know what to do, he did the best he could, he loved his daughter more than anything.
The next few months will always be a vivid memory as I watched Page struggle through the ordeal of teenage pregnancy. Page was hidden away from the world. Even in the 1980’s schools had not progressed to today’s standards. Unwed pregnant teens were required to attend an alternative school. She was shunned by several of the parents on the soccer team as an ‘undesirable influence’ and lost many ‘friends’. She held her head high in Lamaze classes, above all of the stares. She looks at me quizzically as if to say, ‘why would I‘? I needed that ring on my finger in 1963 to feel accepted.
As the months rolled on, Page was feeling all of the effects a woman does entering her ninth month of pregnancy; tired, big, uncoordinated and moody. The joy and anticipation that should be a part of this time of a woman’s life was absent. But she was facing so much more because she was still a child. She wouldn’t turn 16 until April, one month after the baby was due.
On March 19, 1984, as I was sitting at work, Page called - this was it. With a quick farewell to my co-workers I hurried to pick her up. There was an incredible excitement inside of me. I felt that I was finally going to witness the birth of the child I had had twenty-one years ago. And this time I will be a part of what is happening, not subdued in a frightened and drugged sleep.
Upon arriving at Paige’s house she told me that she didn’t have a robe so we had to go shopping and there was no changing her mind. I was very anxious to get her to the hospital and she was just as determined to postpone it for as long as possible. In the department store, as we tried to fit a nine month belly into a non-maternity size 10 robe, she was having contractions and I was going wild! We both began to laugh, a little too hysterically.
Once Page had checked into the hospital, my mind wandered back to the day my child was born. My mother had flown down to be with me as my due date neared. I woke up on March 12, 1963 and realized that I was going into labor. I must have been scared, but I don’t remember. There hadn’t been any birth classes; no preparation at all. My memories of that day are only of that morning. I have blocked all else from my mind. They say that this is the minds way of easing the pain, just as if I had been in an accident. If you can’t remember, there is no pain. But no matter how many drugs you are given, you never forget that you were pregnant for nine months. Further I had to accept that the baby I was about to give birth to would be raised by another family. A day never goes by that I don’t think about my child, wondering what he looks like, did he do well in school, was he happy, but most of all, were his parents good to him and love him as I did.
I don’t remember the trip to the hospital, checking in or my doctor. I had seen this man many, many times, so why couldn’t I remember him? They gave me medication, enough to sedate me but not so much that I couldn’t assist during labor. I do recall some pain and I remember my mother ‘s face; she looked like she was in as much agony as I was. My next memory is waking and realizing that I had thrown up because of the awful taste in my mouth. I have absolutely no other memories of my stay in the hospital other than I was moved to a surgical floor, far away from the maternity wing.
Page went through labor barely uttering a sound. I was amazed at how she was handling everything. The stronger she was, the more empathy I felt for her, the more I wanted to change places so she wouldn’t have to suffer as I knew she would . . .the pain was inevitable.
By 9:00pm the waiting room was filled with people that loved Page including the boy who was her love, the father of her baby. This young man was at her side through these past nine months as much as he could be. Like Larry, he didn’t flee, he remained steadfast.
She had now been in labor for nine hours, fairly intense labor for three and hard labor for at least one hour. I took a break to let her father and everyone else know how she was doing.
As I went back into the room, exhausted both physically and emotionally, my strength was renewed as I looked at Page’s face. The pain was obvious but she continued to do what she was told, breathing just the way we had learned and uttering barely a sound. She would talk a bit, ask questions about procedure, maybe ask one of us to rub her back. That was all. She had more courage than 100 men.
The time comes and we can see the baby’s head. . .I had never witnessed a birth before, it is amazing, truly a miracle, unbelievable! Then the shoulders, “stop pushing Page, it’s almost here” the doctor said. She was squeezing our hands so tightly that I thought my bones would break before this child arrived. At that moment, this new, beautiful life slipped into our world. With parents waiting to give her a home who were sitting in a comfortable living room miles away, and parents here at the hospital who have grown from innocent, fun loving teenagers into pseudo adults over night.
We look lovingly at this beautiful little girl that Page has just given birth to. We all cried over this child but save some tears for Page. She was so tired and so afraid to look at the baby. I cry over this new life with a mixture of love and guilt. I cry for my child. I cry for the child that I never saw. The child I had never touched. The child I have grieved over all of these years.
In 1963 they took my baby away from me while I was still asleep. That was the conventional wisdom at that time. In 1984, Page, her family and close friends saw, held and loved her daughter. They took pictures and Paige was given a birth certificate from the hospital to take home.
Two days later I drove to the hospital to pick Page up. It was agreed that she stay in our home for a few days since I had the time to take care of her. I found her sitting in her hospital room, staring out of the window with tears streaming down her face. No sobs, no sounds at all. She had just come back from the nursery to see and hold her daughter for the last time. We sat quietly, holding hands crying.
Her doctor walked into the room and as she struggled to pull herself together, he took her hand and told her to take all the time she needed, that he would wait as long as necessary. Once she was composed, he handed her a book entitled ‘Promises from God’. Inside was a personal inscription that, although I can no longer remember it verbatim, in essence said that she had presented a beautiful gift to the world and that her life would always be full in God’s eyes. She was a wonderful person and that she should never let anyone tell her otherwise. She should always be proud of everything she did and would do in the future.
In that moment I pretended that someone had written those words to me.
When we got home Page fell into an exhausted sleep. Sitting quietly my mind began to race, thinking of Page’s future and of the future of her child. My emotions now flowed uncontrolled. All of the old pain came back along with the new. I began to cry and realized that all of these feelings had been pent up inside of my heart for 21 years. I could no longer hold them in nor did I want to.
This story has a happy ending. Page and her husband of 2 years were expecting their first child in May of 1990. He was stationed in Korea and unable to be there for the birth. Page called me at 5:30am on May 2nd. I flew to the hospital and was able to see her daughter being born.
Page gave me the greatest gift of all. . . . . . . a beautiful baby girl, this one for Page to take home.
Epilogue
June 4, 2010
I have kept all of this locked in my heart since March 12, 1963, the day my first child was born. The one exception is the story you just read and heard. I wrote it for a college creative writing class in late May of 1990. It was cathartic at the time to put it on paper but was, again, locked away in my heart and soul .
To my great delight I recently reconnected with Page. She has gone on to rise four wonderful children, has a successful career and is very happily married to one of the nicest men I have ever met.
In thinking about her, I remembered the story I had written and dug it out of my files. In reading it, I have gained a freedom from all of the ghosts in my past that were too painful to have in front of me.
June 7, 2010 - The saga continues.
I had begun searches for my son a few times over the years but fear stopped me each time. Fear of my child rejecting me, of his being angry and bitter that I had given him up. Fear of my friends thinking less of me. Fear stopped me from living my life fully and openly.
I immediately began looking at websites to search for this child I had grown in my body, then gave up for adoption. I left a message on a site with what little information I had. I knew where my child had been born, the date of birth, my maiden name and that I ‘thought’ I had had a boy. The only indicator as to the sex of my child was a note that was read to me when I signed the final adoption papers; ‘he is healthy’. All else was kept from me and I didn’t ask.
In a matter of an hour or so I was contacted by an online researcher, Lori. Within 6 hours she told me that I had indeed given birth to a boy. In less than another 6 hours I knew his name - a name but no face, no remembered touches, cuddles, no tears spilling on to his precious fingers, no kisses on his head, cheeks, toe’s. Nothing, but I have a name!!!
There are some confusing issues regarding his birth certificate but Lori is digging into it.
June 11, 2010
We are having difficulty locating my son but Lori uncovered the fact that he has a brother named John. She found that John was a Colonel in the Marine Corp located him in Maryland. After leaving several unreturned phone messages with one of John’s colleagues and loosing hope, I finally talked to John this morning. He felt that everything ‘matched’ up and said he would call his brother and pass on my information. Something he said really resonated with me. He said “you would be very proud of him”. That in and of itself spoke volumes and my heart soared.
I knew 1) that my son was well and 2), that he was a good man. Several hours later my son called. He has a southern accent!! I LOVE southern accents!!!! We talked on the phone, texted photos back and forth and got to know one another a bit. I assure him that I honor his parents, the people who got up in the middle of the night to take care of him when ill, soothe him after a bad dream, put up with puberty and still love him. That is being a parent, not giving birth.
My son has a name and it is David; but you all know him as Mr. Pollock.
