A simple thought pops up in my mind far too often than I would like to admit, “but – what should I do?” Or better yet, “what do you want me to do?” This inability to make up my own mind without having the approval of another can be down right daunting – and unfortunately for me even more so – haunting.
Age 25 will be the year I remember most. This year brought me joy, damage, disillusionment, disconnection, love, and inner peace all within ONE year.
After an evening with friends – including my date – things went south, I blacked out and awoke to my male friend next to me and oblivious for a while to what happened.
Three months later my belly is growing and I begin to internally freak out. My impulsive indecision kicked in and when I finally made a choice, the woman on the other end of the line said, “ma’am, we don’t do the procedure that far along – you will have to go to Atlanta.” My heart skipped a beat – I knew what this meant and after my teenage years as a Life Teen participant in church, I saw the work that was done to late term pregnancies. I was not going to be apart of that.
Even at almost four months I hoped, prayed, wished, rain danced for a miscarriage. It didn’t happen.
During my disconnection with my body, I began dating an amazing guy. He was in my eyes perfect for me. I couldn’t tell him I was expecting a child from a rape I couldn’t remember. I didn’t want to lose him. So, I hid – I hid my growing belly for months, mind you he asked questions and I I kept saying, “beer gut.” It was my excuse to anyone who questioned my somewhat over bloated stomach.
My wise younger sister became strongly concerned and one day, as we lived together, just came out and asked, “Are you pregnant?” My gut reaction, “No” pause – “Yes” after discussion she jumped on the phone with multiple adoption agencies. I am forever grateful to her for helping me finalize my decision.
Jump to seven months and my mom sheepishly grazed my dress to fix a bow, then started to feel my stomach and began to ask if I was really constipated. I broke down into tears and told her everything. The first thing she said besides, “we’ll keep it,” to which I replied, “Thank you, but no,” was that I needed to tell my beautiful boyfriend. Oh, God. No!
I packed my bag with intention to head back to the city I lived and returned to his place. I told him, but of course he already knew – he knew because he’s intelligent and he knew me. He was not kicking me out of the door never to return again – instead he embraced me and my belly. He stayed by my side throughout the birth and to this day. I love him madly – wise decisions and all.
At seven months after telling everyone, I finally saw a doctor. Yes, I indecisively lived with the pregnancy without advice from any medical professional – I played tennis, I ran, I tubed, I swam, I moved (all with the intention of a miscarriage). My doctor, who was incredibly accepting, offered a list of families – she chose one and I muttered I wanted a closed adoption swift and quick.
After returning to work I told everyone for I felt free now. Quickly, I began to hear stories of adoption gone right and gone wrong. I learned how I was to be taken care of from a family to ensure the babies health. I was not experiencing any of this at the time. Again, unable to make up my mind and unable to meet with the family to ensure a bright future, I found another family. This one fit perfectly and from closed the adoption went to open. As an open adoption I felt more love behind it – I was apart of this entire experience instead of just a piece of it.
Jump ahead years later and to this day I am still happy with my (in) decisions. A baby is happy and home and I am happy knowing this. I reconnected with my self simply by accepting this fact – I am whole, I am enough, I am happy + she is healthy, alive, and happy.