I checked the instructions. A line and a blue cross. Terrified, I checked the directions again. Did I pee on the stick right? I wasn't sure, so this time I peed in a cup and dipped the other test in the pee. I put the cap on and carefully set the test back on the counter. I went to the living room and tried to watch t.v to wait for the 3 minutes, but my mind was reeling. Was I really pregnant? I glanced out the window down our long snow-drifted driveway. Mom and my stepdad, Keith, and my brother and sister wouldn't be home for a few hours. I was still nervous that they would come home early and see what I had been up to. I crossed my legs. I uncrossed them. I was hot so I took off my mickey mouse sweatshirt. I started feeling nauseous. My mouth watering, I ran to the bathroom to throw up yet again.
I washed my face, and as I dried my tears with the towel, I looked down and that test was staring me in the face. I was definitely pregnant. Tears filling my eyes, I gathered up all the evidence. Mom must not find out. I threw everything in a plastic grocery bag, and bundled it up in a sweatshirt and stuffed it in my backpack between my science and math books. I would bury the bundle of tests in the garbage in the bathroom at school tomorrow.
I went back to the living room and curled up on the floor. I cried while the sounds of cartoons played in the background from the TV. I sobbed so hard that I threw up again. I cried for what felt like hours. Finally, I washed my face again and looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were red and puffy, but other than that, I didn't look any different. I still looked like my 17 year old self. I leaned in closer. Frightened blue eyes looked back at me. My forehead was creased with worry, exactly where I would have a permanent wrinkle 15 years later. But I didn't know that yet. All I knew was that I was scared to death, and I didn't know what to do.
A few months earlier, I had just turned 17. I was now old enough to rent R-rated movies! I was working at our local small-town gas station, and I was able to buy my first car, a 1971 Chevelle. I bought it from my stepdad, so he gave me a good deal and help me fix it up that summer. I didn't really have anything to do besides work and fix up my car. My parents were part of a very strict religion, so I was not allowed to have friends over or go anywhere with them. That summer was really hard. It was the very first summer that all of the kids in my class had their licence, and since I worked at the gas station nearly every day, I would see them come in groups, laughing and having fun with their friends. Picking up sodas and snacks, driving around town, going to the lake, going shopping, having a great time. I wanted to be a part of that so badly.
All of the other girls in my class had gotten their hair cut short over the summer, and so I cut my blond hair myself in an effort to be cool. I was always trying to be one of the cool girls, but I never quite made it. I had a few good friends, but I was never popular. Maybe it was because I laughed a little too loud, was a little too hyper; or since I was never allowed to be in any sports, we didn't have anything in common. Whatever the reason, people in my class always thought I was weird. I started my first day of 11th grade, optimistic that this year, things were finally going to change for me. I just knew it.
I registered for shop class in an effort to appear cool to the boys in school. Up until then, boys didn't really like me. I wasn't popular or particularly pretty. I wasn't a part of the social scene at school. But there was one boy I really liked, R. I worked with him, and we goofed off at work, but R didn't give me the time of day in school. He was in shop class too. Our shop class included all grades in high school, so there were seniors in our class as well. I tried to make R jealous by sitting next to one of the seniors that showed an interest in me, P. My plan didn't work. R avoided me even more, and P decided he wanted me for his girlfriend. I was flattered by the attention. After all, boys really hadn't paid much attention to me. Two weeks later, I was convinced I was in love, and we took a drive when my parents thought I was at work. One thing led to another. Famous last words...
The next day at school after I dumped the bag of used pregnancy tests in the garbage, I told my boyfriend, P. He didn't believe me. In fact, he told all of his friends that I was a slut. The rumors flew around our small school. I was absolutely devastated. P stopped talking to me. All that frigid winter, I was so sick that I threw up every morning in my computer keyboarding class. My best friend Jessi covered for me, telling our teacher I just left to pee. She was worried about me. Of course, I had told her I was pregnant as soon as I found out. Everyone else found out because P told everyone I was pregnant and I was a slut so it wasn't his. The teachers gave me pitiful looks, and the girls in my class avoided me, like what I had was catchy.
I knew I had to tell my parents. It was only a matter of time before they would catch wind of what was going on right under their noses. I was a small thing, and it was my first pregnancy so I knew I wouldn't show for a long time, but I was afraid my mom would hear the rumor and confront me. So one night I told her. I don't know what I was hoping for. Maybe I had a little glimmer of hope that she would hold me, rub my back, and reassure me that everything would be ok.
That was not what I got. I was yelled at and told that I was a slut and she wished I wasn't her daughter. She then told me to put it up for adoption, told me to call my dad and tell him, and left the room. My stomach was in knots. I dialed my dad. I wasn't as scared to tell him. Even though we hadn't been very close, I knew that he would be more forgiving. I told him I was pregnant and I will never forget what he told me. He said, "Well, you can't do anything about it now, so congratulations, and it will be alright." He was the only one that I felt gave me any sort of comfort.
Time passed, as it has a tendency to do, and as my belly grew, people slowly came to accept my condition. There were still jerks who called me a slut, and said the baby wasn't P's, including P's mother-my baby's future grandmother- who, when I would call to speak to P, would scream obscenities at me over the phone. P still didn't believe the baby was his, but I still would call to try to see if he would come with me to appointments. And my own mother still treated me unkindly. The emotional abuse she heaped on me over those next months was so hurtful. But there were nice people too. Kind people who donated baby things, said comforting things, and helped me find a place to live, as my mother told me I had to move out once the baby was born. Her reasoning was that I was going to be a bad influence on my brother and sister who were 12 and 10 at the time.
I went to all of my doctor appointments on my own. I was the only one to hear my baby's heartbeat for the first time. I was the first one to see her tiny body on the ultrasound. She was sucking her little thumb. It was then that I firmly decided I was going to keep her. I had felt her little fists in my belly, I had felt her little hiccups jolting me from inside. I knew that she had been given to me for a reason, and I knew that even though it was going to be hard, I would always have her.
P came around for awhile. While he was not happy with the idea of my keeping the baby, (he wanted me to get an abortion, at first) he eventually started hanging out with me for a few hours a week at his house. He still never came to appointments. After all, he was much too busy getting high with his friends and going to parties. And he and his mother were still not fully convinced the baby growing inside of me was his.
My mother sort of gave up on me after that. I was now allowed to hang out with my few friends. After all, nothing worse could happen than what was already evident under my sweater. P and I went to prom together, and I squeezed my 6 month pregnant belly under a sparkly lavender gown. I felt pretty, but I was not as happy go lucky as my friends. I already felt years older. As I sat on the bleachers watching my carefree classmates dance (P had already left with his friends), my mind drifted, wondering what was going to happen to me and my baby.
I spent that summer in a depressed haze. I was terrified and at the same time naive of how I was going to raise a child. So I worked a lot, and just stayed home, curled up in my bed, thinking of my friends having fun, doing trivial teenage things.They were sweet girls who always tried to keep my spirits up, and tried to get me out of my house, but I couldn't help but feel jealous and resentful that they were so carefree. I had much heavier things to think about.
Labor began a hot summer day in August. My mother, while still very upset and disappointed in me, knew she was still responsible for me so she had been making sure I made it to my appointments, and brought me in to be checked by the Dr. The Dr sent me home to rest while labor progressed. I think mom was starting to realize that this baby had her blood as well, and she would be a grandma. She knew I was in labor, and made me walk to speed things along. I even still went with my best friend Jessi to her senior pictures photo session! The contractions kept coming, and I was starting to get nervous. I drove home, and mom made me walk some more.
By 11 pm, I was writhing on the couch, crying in pain. Mom decided to take me to the hospital. My sister and brother in the backseat of the van, me in the middle, my stepdad driving, and mom in the passenger seat. It was lightning, and my sister was crying because she was scared. Not of the lightning. She thought I was going to die. While they waited in the waiting room, I was taken to Labor and Delivery. I had a kind old nurse who helped me to calm down enough to let my inner strength rise up and take over. I was so mad that P stayed out partying and didn't come to the hospital, that I was able to give birth without any drugs at all.
With my last bit of strength, I pushed my baby into the world. The nurses cleaned both of us up, and moved me into a recovery room. I was handed a little bundle in a white blanket. I looked down at her tiny little face, and while the tears ran down my nose onto the blanket, I rocked her and nursed her. I named her Jaeli Joy- I picked the name Joy because I wanted so much more happiness for her in her life than what she started with. I didn't know how I was going to do all of this parenting stuff on my own. I was responsible for this little being, and I wasn't even an adult! Overwhelmed, I lied awake that night in the hospital, mourning my lost childhood.
Reassured by the paternity test, and smitten with my sweet baby, P's mom had fantasies of us being married. Thank goodness I found the courage to break up with him. He was never father material. Over the years, I slowly figured out how to parent. I was married, had another child, divorced, remarried, and had 4 more children. Life took me in a hundred different directions, but Jaeli was always by my side. She was my little light that kept me moving in the right direction.
Now, Jaeli is almost 14 years old, and I am amazed by her. She is smart, artistic, kind, generous, and beautiful. She is a wonderful help to me and the other kids. She has such a big heart. I don't know how a child can go through so much and turn out to be so absolutely wonderful. She is the reason why I am where I am today. I always knew I needed to be there for her, and I knew she would be there for me. With her sweet little face, she helped me through some very hard times. We both needed each other. She is my first baby, the one who helped me become a mother, the one who saved me.
Dedicated to Jaeli Joy
what an incredible story, both so strong.
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