Long Blue Line: Based on a True Story

by E. McNew

  A bright Saturday morning blazed through my bedroom window and made a mean attempt to ruin my slumber. I thought Thank God for my thick purple curtains, as I stretched. As I was painfully trying to open my eyes, I was startled when I heard a knock on my bedroom door. “Who is it?” I groaned. “Hi Elizabeth, it’s Huey,” my older sister’s boyfriend called from the hall. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” I was pretty irritated that, out of all people, Huey was at my door. Jeez, does he want to put a move on me too? Maybe Lilah’s last birthday really did him in and it was time for a newer model. Dirty pervert. Why the hell is he at my door? I told him that he could come in, and I was relieved to see that Lilah was following behind him. At least with Lilah there it wouldn’t be totally creepy and awkward with him in my bedroom.

  The second he started talking I knew what his intentions were. He talked about a former colleague of his who used to perform abortions. “It’s quick and painless. Most Doctors will use metal instruments, but Dr. Smith only uses leaves from a seaweed plant. He soaks the leaves in a saline solution before the procedure, and he uses it to scrape out the contents of your uterus. It won’t cause cramping or pain because the seaweed is soft.”

  I wanted to vomit as he was holding up his fist, as if his wrinkly hand, with grey knuckle hairs, were my uterus. He was trying to show me how a seaweed abortion worked, and I was lucky enough to get a reenactment to go along with it.

  Seriously, what in the hell was that all about anyway? Seaweed…abortion…? Seriously dude, you’re an idiot, I affirmed. I gave him my attention but never confirmed to him what my decision would be. I thought it was incredibly insensitive of him to refer to my unborn child as “contents.” I could not understand why terminating a pregnancy was so freely accepted as an option, almost to the point of being favored.

  This was my child we were talking about. I consciously chose to give this child life. It should be no person’s decision as to who lives or dies, especially such a pure and perfect creation of God. Our world needs more innocence, more purity. This baby would forever be a part of me, who I was, and what I stood for. I knew this child’s soul. I could envision the face of this child. I saw the smile, heard the laugh…and felt the embrace. These feelings were so intense that they could not be classified as only feelings. It was more than that. It was more than a natural inclination to protecting the human species. It was more than a teenage girl with baby fever. It was meant to be and supposed to happen. She was meant to be. Unable to see past the next year, I did not quite understand how important this small angel would eventually become to the world, and some of the desperate people in it.

  I was getting sick and tired of people being so adamant about this abortion thing. They were acting like it was just another common thing to do and that it was perfectly okay. I chose to become pregnant! Making that decision followed by an abortion would be completely senseless, and it would ruin me forever. I had to find a way to get people off my back. I knew exactly what I needed to buy some time.

  “Thank you for calling the Women’s Clinic, this is Chelsea, how can I help you?” the receptionist said. “Yes, I need to make an appointment to have an abortion.” I confidently announced. The receptionist asked me a series of detailed questions, and I noticed that her voice sounded very caring but somber. That must be a really horrible job; making appointments to schedule the killing of innocent babies, I thought. After answering all of her questions, she confirmed that it would be four hundred dollars. “That will be fine,” I stated, knowing that I would not need to worry about coming up with the money. After she collected all of my information, it was time to schedule the appointment date. I told her that my schedule was open, so she could just choose the day. “Will October 6th be okay, Elizabeth?” she asked. “Sure! Go ahead and book me,” I said. Chelsea must have thought that I was a whack job with how enthusiastic I sounded about this abortion. I just wanted to hurry up and get off the phone so I could announce the fictitious death of my baby and have a moment of peace.

  This particular scheduled day was not just any day. This was my mother’s birthday - a day that I would recognize for the rest of my life.

  I took this as a clear sign. This was not a coincidence. This was God trying to show my mother that this baby was meant to live. When I informed my mother that I scheduled my appointment to have an abortion, she seemed relieved. She did not seem to care much about the fact that it was on her birthday. She even said that she would give me a ride to Reno where the abortion was to be performed. After talking with me about my options and having some time to realize that I was truly pregnant, I think she just wanted this problem to go away. She was going through the stages of grief: shock, denial, bargaining and anger. I was eagerly awaiting the acceptance stage. I knew that I would have to be very patient.

  What my mother did not know was that I had only scheduled this appointment to get everyone off my back. There would be nothing left for anyone to say if they thought that I had accepted the decision to terminate the pregnancy. What could they say? “Congratulations” or “I’m sorry.” I was outsmarting them. I was way ahead of the game, and for a moment, I felt a small twinge of control again.

  Over the next few weeks I was able to live in peace without any harassment. The few days before my appointment arrived, I felt the tension arising once again. The day before, my mother confirmed that she was giving me a ride to the clinic in Reno the next morning. I just couldn’t beat around the bush any longer. “I am not having an abortion, and no one is going to change my mind. I will never be able to live with the fact that I took an innocent life, and I would rather choose adoption if it comes down to it. I would be reminded of the fact that I KILLED my baby every year, for every birthday you have,” I boldly told her from the door of my bedroom.

  The screaming match began. She had prepared herself to get rid of the dilemma and forget about it, she did not expect that this “dilemma” would be permanent and not go away so easily. “When my baby is older I will tell it that you wanted me to kill it!” I angrily yelled at her. “Good! You’re an idiot,” she screamed back. “You have no idea what you are getting yourself into!” The yelling back and forth lasted about ten minutes before it was over. Neither of us heard much of what the other was saying. My ears were ringing. Not too long down the road, my mother apologized sincerely for things that were said. I ended up apologizing back. I have learned that it is never wise to make any statements based on emotion. You only end up hurting the people you care about, and even worse, yourself.

  I was sad, but I was also relieved to know that my decision was strong, firm, grounded, and exposed. I was sad because I knew that my family was disappointed in me for the decision I had made. At least now, life could carry on without questions up in the air. I did not even bother calling to cancel my appointment.

  I thought that the clinic deserved to lose money from my no-show. I thought it was an evil place that killed innocent beings on a daily basis. For all I cared, the entire building could burn.

  Chapter 5

  Finally having made the clear decision that I was going to have the baby, it was time to decide how I would finish school. I received a phone call one Friday afternoon from a woman with a very friendly and cheery voice. I had no idea why this woman asked for me. I was so down in the dumps that others who seemed extra happy just pissed me off. I wanted to be happy too. I wanted to be excited and brag about my future baby. The excitement went out the window entirely when I realized that because of my age, I would not have support from my community for this pregnancy. It was shameful in their eyes. I desperately needed an adult to as least act like they cared.

  “Hi Elizabeth, this is Mrs. Snow! I am calling to find out if I can work with you to help you finish your high school education. I understand that you want to do independent study for your pregnancy, but we have a really great program here. It is called the Young Parents Program, or YPP. You’ll come in for half of the day, we’ll feed you breakfast and lunch, and we have a
great daycare along with parenting classes for the remainder of the day to help you get ahead. Can I meet you in person?” she pleaded. Mrs. Snow genuinely sounded thrilled about this program.

  It also seemed as if she might have had several teen parents turn the program down based on the hopeful, yet uncertain, tone that I sensed. I did not know much about the program, but I knew that it was in the building down the street from the football field and away from the main campus. I always thought that the kids who went there were the troubled drug addicts. “Um…sure, I guess I’m willing to come take a look at the place,” I unenthusiastically said. I told her that I could come in on the following Monday to give it a test run. I had no clue what I was getting myself into, but deep down I really needed the extra support, and I was hoping that I could find it there.

  Once the shock of my decision started to fade, my mother slowly got back to normal with our relationship, and the old conversations that we usually shared seemed to level out. When this happened, it was like a breath of fresh air. It had made me sad and stressed to have negative vibes and unspoken anger consuming our home, and it honestly had put my life and happiness on hold.

  When I explained to my mother the conversation I had with Mrs. Snow, she seemed happy about the whole idea and agreed that it would be best to give the Young Parents Program a try. As far as becoming a teen parent was concerned, I needed all of the advice and education that I could get. When I was planning this entire pregnancy, my vision of actually being pregnant was way off from what reality proved to be.

  I did not see myself as a teen mom. I saw myself as an adult with her first baby on the way in a society that had no objections to it. I now understood that I would face criticism and the disapproving turning of heads, probably on a daily basis. I came to the realization that if this was going to work in my favor in any way at all, I was going to have to become the best teen mom that I could possibly be. I was going to need to rise above and beat the statistics. The first step that needed to be taken was to graduate high school.

  I was painfully tired on the morning of my first day. I remember feeling so overwhelmed from just moving to get out of bed.

  From the time that I was a baby, I have always hated mornings. Any small disturbance quickly set me off like a Mentos dropping into a Pepsi - fast, intense, and sizzling over the edge. I recall getting ready for kindergarten on a distant October morning.

  Talk about a terrible morning. I was only five, and all I knew was that I had to hurry up and put my socks and shoes on. We didn’t want to be late for the bus. In a hurry, I found my sneakers tangled up on the brown carpet in my bedroom, grabbed a pair of socks and carried my stuff to the bathroom where I plopped down on the floor. I had recently learned to tie my own shoes, so I wanted to make sure I had no interruptions as I was focusing on this delicate process. I never actually made it to the shoe part. THOSE SOCKS! They were plain white socks; I thought I would have no grief with them. My heart sank the second my tiny little piggys attempted to snuggle to the end of these particular socks. “THESE ARE THE WRONG ONES!” I was hysterically trying to explain to my mother that the seams at the end of my toes felt funny. She was dumbfounded. For the life of her, she could not comprehend why an almost microscopic seam would bring me to such hysterics. I later learned that I sat on that bathroom floor for an hour twisting the socks around my feet, over and over again, because I could not get it right. One way or another those obnoxious seams would, very rudely, bombard the cracks of my toes. My mother, at that point, was at a loss. We missed the bus, we were late for school, and I was at the maximum meltdown point that any five-year-old could possibly be.

  Finally, as if the good Lord sent down a guardian angel to guide her, she pulled both socks off of my feet, yanked them inside out, quickly put them back on my feet, and all was well. The day was free to resume as usual.

  As we were driving a short distance down the street, which was less than a mile from my new school, I became nervous since I had no idea what to expect. She was dropping me off for the day and I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to be stuck in a room with a crowd full of annoying and immature screw-ups. I walked into the portable classroom building and was surprised that it looked like a regular classroom. Mrs. Snow greeted me, and she was warm, friendly, and enthusiastic.

  She had short, grey hair but her skin appeared youthful and her personality even more youthful. I liked her right away. She asked me a few questions and had me fill out some forms, and I never felt any sort of judgment coming from Mrs. Snow. Her heart was no doubt in the right place.

  There were only three other girls in the class. They were all Hispanic and speaking to each other in Spanish when I walked in. I was worried that they might be talking about me. One looked to be about six months pregnant, and the other two did not appear to be pregnant at all. I assumed their babies were at the daycare Mrs. Snow had told me about. After I was introduced to the class, I found out that the girls were all older than me. Great. I really am an idiot for getting pregnant. I could have at least waited a freaking year, I was thinking to myself. The girls were 16, 17, and 18. I didn’t think that I was going to fit in very well. I didn’t see how I was supposed to make any friends if they wouldn’t bother to speak English to me. I felt left out.

  After finishing the paperwork and getting acquainted with my new surroundings, I sat down at one of the tiny chair-desks that were lined up in a row and facing the whiteboard. I wondered how in the world I was supposed to wedge my pregnant body in one of these things once I got big. It was inevitable. I just hoped that my boobs would stay preserved.

  A few minutes after taking my seat, one of the cafeteria kids wearing a dorky looking hair net entered the classroom pushing a cart full of trays. Oh, joy. It must be breakfast time. Mrs. Snow handed each of us a tray and a carton of milk. Breakfast included a cinnamon roll and an apple. I devoured the cinnamon roll. It was amazing. It made me thirsty, but I was always thirsty in the mornings anyway. I opened the carton of milk, which I normally didn’t consume as a beverage alone, and chugged away. I drank the entire carton in about ten seconds. This is when I realized that along with being pregnant, I would be forced to suffer through the crappy symptoms. It felt like the milk was about to come back up.

  My fear of throwing up came to me full force. As I was feeling an adrenaline rush and hot flashes racing through my still tiny body, I decided that I could not throw up in front of the class on my first day. I would never be able to live that down. I would be known as the girl who puked. I tightly closed my eyes and mouth, slightly dropped my head, and focused on my breathing. I meditated my way out of throwing up. Thank God! That was definitely a close one. I was only ten weeks along, and this was clearly only the beginning of the horrible symptoms.

  After Mrs. Snow issued my books and assigned my first homework assignment, it was almost lunchtime. “For lunch we will head down to the daycare and spend the rest of the day in groups doing projects or sharing our concerns as teen mothers,” she announced. This had me thinking: Great, now I get to spend the next few hours listening to pathetic pity stories. We all walked to the Daycare Center as a group.

  It was away from the main classroom and down a gravel road. The building was hiding behind trees at the end of the football field, and to get there we had to walk down an extremely steep hill. I thought it was pretty ridiculous that they had pregnant girls make this walk. Maybe they secretly wanted us to slip and fall. It was obvious that this daycare was hidden away from the rest of the school. Of course, the school and the town wanted to hide this shame. South Lake Tahoe is a tourist town - a town that caters to outsiders by offering them brightly lit casinos, boat rentals, shopping, and concerts. The facade, put on for the tourists, annoyed me. Beauty can be deceiving.

  Finally arriving at the daycare, we walked through the front door. The building looked old and beat up. There was what appeared to be finger paint on the windows next to the door. I wasn’t sure if this was artwork that had been done by the k
ids being cared for, or if the kids-with-the-kids had done it. Either way, it made me feel like I was in first grade again…except I was pregnant. I hoped I wouldn’t be asked to contribute to it. It was just strange.

  Lunch was served but I really did not want to risk the possibility of throwing up, so I just picked at my tray. There were a few babies in the room and a few more young mothers as well. Some of the mothers chose to study at home and take only their parenting classes at the school. When Vanessa walked in, I was relieved. At eighteen she was six months pregnant, and she spoke English and appeared normal. She was cute and seemed to be much more mature than the other girls. I immediately made conversation with her and asked her questions about morning sickness. Meeting Vanessa definitely perked up a day that had been long and confusing.

  After everyone finished lunch and the mothers tamed their screaming babies, a public health nurse walked in. She was going to lead the day’s group activity and ramble about the importance of breastfeeding. I couldn’t tell if the chubby nurse was naturally nasally or had a cold, but her loud breathing got on my nerves, and I wanted to chuck a box of tissues at her head. I did end up learning some valuable facts on breastfeeding though, and I had already decided that I would probably nurse my baby for at least a year. That’s what Lilah did with her daughter so I figured it was the right thing to do. She actually nursed her daughter until she was almost two and, at that time, my snotty preteen-self gave her hell for it. I thought it was gross. Anyone with a baby, who could walk and talk, should not be able to dine on your boob just anytime. I was completely merciless to her.