The Girl Who Couldn't Say No: Memoir of a teenage mom

by Tracy Engelbrecht

  I sat on a rickety metal stool next to a rickety metal bed and stuck out my arm as instructed. Then she started whacking me on the inside of my elbow and muttering to herself. I was a bit taken aback by this – it really stung. Bear in mind I wasn’t used to these technical medical procedures. Still, when in Rome and all that.

  “I can’t find a bloody vein. We’ll have to try the other arm. Give here,” she said.

  What? No vein? Surely you need veins? Where are mine, then? This was a worrying development. She tied a bondage-like blood pressure cuff around my other arm, and tightened it until it was a satisfactory shade of purple and I couldn’t feel my fingers. Then she started smacking me again. I couldn’t feel it this time, as all the nerve endings in my arm had withered and died.

  “Ah! Here we go. Found one.” She didn’t warn me before sticking the needle in, so I didn’t look away. Some people have no problem with needles entering their bodies. Apparently I do. A big one. Little twinkly lights flashed in front of my eyes and my stomach lurched. The ghost of breakfast past (one mealy Golden Delicious apple) was getting restless. I was still watching as she grunted in irritation and jiggled the needle around like she was stirring stodgy fruitcake batter. Urg…

  The last thing I heard before I hit the floor was, “No bloody veins, man! Pass that other arm again…”

  When I came to, I was lying flat on my back with a bright spotlight shining directly into my eyes. I couldn’t see anything and for a second I couldn’t feel my legs either. Then I felt something tube-like being pulled from my hand – it was hot and cold at the same time and very sore. I nearly panicked. Okay, I totally panicked. I think I may have screamed. Somehow, I’d managed to convince myself that I was in a sort of government-interrogation-slash-torture facility somewhere in Central America. Then I heard a voice. It took a moment to realise that it didn’t belong to a greasy, cigar-chomping general named Salvador. And it wasn’t saying anything likthaanythine, “Dee bluepreents! Where ees dee bluepreents? Talk now and we won’t keel youse… Enrique! Fetch dee clamps! Hur hur hur…”

  It was my young nurse. “Hey, Tracy. You’re okay. You just fainted, sweetie. We’ve taken the blood from the artery in your wrist instead. It’s all over.”

  More crying from me. I was so relieved to find that I hadn’t in fact been sacrificed in a satanic ritual, nor had any sort of encounter with a red-hot poker. Her squeaky voice was comforting – just like your mother’s when you’re five years old. I looked at her baby face and saw she wasn’t that much older than me. She must have been a student nurse. And she was so kind. Boo-hoo-hoo! Again.

  I sat up and sipped the water she gave me. Then I realised what an absolute tosser I’d made of myself. I groaned. Oh, my God! Who makes such a fuss over a little needle? I was so embarrassed, I would gladly have hopped onto that sacrificial altar if it meant I didn’t have to see any of those people ever again. Boo-hoo-hoo! Yet again.

  “I’m s-s-sorry… I’m really s-s-stupid!” I wailed. Hormones and nausea and self-loathing boogied together in psychedelic Technicolor and turned me into a quivering, drooling, snot-oozing wreck. I knew this wasn’t making me look any less psychotic, but I couldn’t stop crying. Until I had to – to vomit into a handy metal dish. I hung over that dish for some time, long enough to realise it was the type they used during operations to catch gallstones or appendixes or other diseased, squishy bits… Imagining the previous tenants of the metal dish, my stomach did a Highland Fling, then double, half-pike somersault. Lock of hair fell out of ponytail and into vomit. Realised I had vomit in my hair. Appalled. Vomited again.

  And so it went. They eventually managed to suck nine test tubes of blood out of me that day. Nine! Can you believe it? They tested my blood type, Rh factor (One of those things I’d heard of but didn’t know what it actually was, as such. Like emo, or tantric sex), HIV and syphilis. They told me they tested all pregnant women for syphilis. That had better be true, otherwise I’m seriously insulted. But that accounts for only four test tubes. What about the other five? I’m sure they needed them all for official, health-related purposes. I’m almost positive they didn’t drink any of it from an oversized silver chalice, and they certainly didn’t bathe in it. You’d need at least a hundred test tubes to get any sort of depth in the tub.

  At last, the blood-taking ordeal was over. I had more blood drawn throughout my pregnancy, and it was horrible, but never as bad as the first time. But my veins were always (and are still) totally invisible to the naked eye and only accessible by means of a magnifying glass and a chisel. I don’t hate the procedure as much as I used to, but would still probably choose the red-hot poker, given the choice.

  Young Nurse went off on a tea break (teatime is the central theme in the civil service, as I think I mentioned before), so an older nurse took me back to Dr Evilme bo Dr Evs office. She was short and dumpy with a face like a happy raisin. No-nonsense grey hair, military haircut and military-issue glasses. A definite beefiness about the arms, implying years of manhandling difficult patients. Even snivelling hurlers like me. This lady could make you take your medicine. And you’d like it. She was the personification of bossiness. She was tiny and domineering and loud. And yet, everybody we passed seemed to know her and love her. She greeted everyone and stopped to chat with a couple of patients in the hallway. She knew everything about everybody and actually seemed to care.

  Of course she intimidated me, so I kept my mouth shut and walked. She seemed about to say something. I held my breath.

  “So…” she paused. Right, here it comes. The $64,000 question. I braced myself to be annoyed.

  “So… I really don’t see what the big deal is,” she remarked casually. “I mean, you’re old enough, don’t you think? Everyone should stop freaking out.”

  Erm … excuse me? What was that? I couldn’t believe my ears. I’d always wanted the chance to use the word incredulous in a sentence (even in my own head) – and here it was. Had to stop walking, in case I tripped over my chin as it hit the floor. Was she mad? Was she being sarcastic? Even worse, was she trying to Put Me At Ease?

  As excruciating as it was, she probably was trying to make me feel better. And it worked, after a while. She stayed with me (having no young sailors to bully just then) and chatted idly about all the young mothers she’d known. No one tragic, just ordinary girls like me.

  “So, you’re keeping the baby?” she asked. I nodded.

  “Yes I am.” To be honest this was news to me. She’d caught me off guard and got me to say what I really wanted without trying to figure out how it would sound. Even so, I said it quietly, waiting for the torrent of “yes, buts…” that would come. There weren’t any. She just nodded: of course I was keeping the baby. As if it was a silly question really.

  “That’s good. You’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

  Later, I sat back on the sticky leather chair opposite the doctor. As threatened, she spoke at length about “My Options”. There was a firm emphasis on what a good idea adoption was, as it would just not be possible for me to be a mother at my age. I just Wasn’t Ready, she informed me gloomily. I listened, but I’d been through all of this already on my own. For days now, this was all I’d been thinking about. I’d already considered all the usual options, swinging wildly from one harebrained scheme to the next.

  I listened to her predicting my future: a 8">my futu wasted life of resentment and waitressing, head lice, ringworm and Child Welfare visits… And I thought I was a drama queen? I noticed a certain juvenile defiance creep into my attitude and posture. Arms folded across my chest, eyes downcast, lip curled, proving the doctor right with every sulky roll of my eyes. And pissing her off, too. I was exactly as immature and stupid as she’d thought. Fortunately, Sensible Tracy spotted this turn in demeanour and wasn’t about to let me stuff things up. She kicked me hard on the ankle and I sat up straight, Moody Teenage Tracy banished back to her playpen. For now, at least. Moody Teenage Tracy was to grow up eventually: she became Moody Grown-Up
Tracy, the only difference being that she now knows bigger words and nobody can send her to her room. I’m looking forward to Moody Middle-Aged Tracy and Moody Mouldering Ruin Tracy one day, too. It all sounds like a ton of fun.

  No matter what this miserable doctor or anybody else had to say, I’d already decided. The decision had been made the night the Whatever Girl hijacked my body and my brain. Maybe even long before that.

  However, a decision is not a plan. Any self-respecting Virgo can tell you that. I’d hoped to go to my parents with a good, solid five-year projection. With bar graphs. Spiral-bound, maybe. Unfortunately, a five-minute plan was as far as I’d got. It started with a trip to the loo.

  I’d wanted to be ready when they asked the Big Questions. (Not “Who am I?” That one had already been answered, in my own mind, at least. I was “Tracy The Slutty Pregnant Slag, A Burden On Her Family And Society At Large”.) But there were more pressing matters to attend to, such as, “What the hell did you think you were doing?” And “I hope you’re proud of yourself now.” What can you say to questions like that? Nothing very satisfactory, I’m afraid. They’re not real questions anyway. They’re just something to say to kill time while your head catches up with events.

  The $64 000 question, the number one question I was asked by everybody back then (including friends, nuns and random strangers) and am still asked to this day is, “Where’s The Father?” I have some theories about why people do this. I think it’s the same reason people watch Jerry Springer. They do it so that they can pretend to feel shocked at what the world is coming to. They want me to look uncomfortable and admit I don’t know who he is. Or just look at my feet and start crying. They want me to be a Bad Girl. And if I’m not a Bad Girl, then I must be a Stupid Girl. Either will do. Either would prove that they’re better than me. They know they are, of course, but they want to hear me say it.

  It’s stupid, but it still bothers me, even today. Never mind my mothering skills, never mind what kind of life I’m giving my child, never mind how good we are for each other. I could be crowned Mother of the Year. I could give my child one of my kidneys or rescue him from a burning building. It would never be enough for them, just because I don’t have that blasted ring on my finger. And even if I did get married one day (the day monkeys fly out of my butt – watch this space), those damn busybodies will still tsk-tsk knowingly among themselves, because that would just be a consolation prize, wouldn’t it? I’m not fooling anyone, am I?monnyone, It’s second best and it’s so unfortunate. (I hate that word – “unfortunate”. It’s like nails on a blackboard to me. I can’t stand people who use it to describe other people’s lives. They make me think unkind thoughts.)

  Some people are just nosy and I try not to be bothered by them. It’s difficult, but I’m making progress. When the bad thoughts come, I just smile, breathe and avoid blunt instruments. There are some people walking the streets today who don’t know how close they’ve come to Death by Enraged Unfortunate Teenage Mother. Smile and breathe… punching people in the face is bad… put the brick down… there you go. No, NO! Back AWAY from that shovel… breathe… and smile. Poor Sensible Tracy. As if she doesn’t have enough to do, she’s run ragged trying to keep the homicidal urges in check. Note to self: Sensible Tracy needs to get laid. Investigate options.

  Every girl plays the “what if” game at some time in her innocent (or not) adolescence. Usually at pyjama parties with other giggly teenagers, or in shocked, gossipy whispers after hearing of some other Unfortunate Girl in Trouble. Can’t you just hear those capital letters clanging into place? What would I do? Long before I ever even met David, I thought I knew. Before it actually happened to me, my friends and I thought we had it worked out. One said she’d have an abortion, one chose adoption and Cathy said she’d go away to have the baby, then pass it off as her mother’s child. A bit loopy, that one. She’d definitely read too many romance novels, and she was very worried about her family’s standing in the community. If I remember correctly, where her family stood was mostly on the brink of divorce, bankruptcy and psychological collapse. Go figure.

  The consensus was that our boyfriends would dump us, our parents would kill us and our lives would be over, the last two being entirely separate issues, in case you were wondering. You can always count on middle-school girls for drama and great lashings of hot air. We all said these things, but how many of us really thought about what they meant? We were all adamant that we knew what we’d do. We were young, and it wasn’t something any of us were seriously considering (although, God knows, there were those who should’ve been. I wasn’t the only hussy in the bunch, I’ll have you know), because we all knew in our hearts it would never happen to us. We were all way too clever, way too good. We weren’t like those Other Girls. We had the theory sorted, and that was all we needed. Smug? Well, of course, yes.

  But then reality jumps you in the alley, knees you in the groin and head-butts you in the face, and smugness gets swallowed along with your teeth. It’s different when it’s real. It’s different when it’s you. “What am I going to do?” is much harder to answer than “what would I do?” Can you ever really decide something as huge as this without it having happened to you? I don’t think so.

  At first I tried to figure it out the Sensible Way. I was confusing The Decision with The Plan. I didn’t know they were completely different things. I thought you made The Decision with a list, bullet-points and checkboxes, eliminating the impossible until you’re left with a solution. But that’s where I was wrong. The Decision comesmincision straight from the universe into your soul, bypassing the brain entirely. It’s a tiny thing, so you don’t notice when it wriggles under your skin and makes its way to the centre of you. Small and unsure at first, it grows stronger every day until it’s loud enough for you to hear. And then you realise you’d known all along.

  Sensible Tracy couldn’t understand this. These feeble notions of destiny and souls just irritated her. She was all about the numbers. Pros and cons of each option, colour-coded and graded according to probability of success. She was so proud of that list, I didn’t have the heart to tell her to bugger off.

  Sensible has lists for absolutely everything in my life: lists for work, lists for home, lists of life goals, lists of cheesecake ingredients, lists of lists, and her favourite: The List of Every Bad Thing I’ve Ever Done In My Life. It’s a long list, updated virtually daily.

  Sensible Tracy brings out The List whenever I’m feeling down – just to remind me that anything I might be unhappy about is probably my fault. She’s added a handy search function for user-friendliness, and can locate any Bad Thing in less than three seconds, no matter the magnitude or point in history. It can be sorted alphabetically, chronologically or by category of fuck-up. She’s sensible, but I didn’t say she was sane. There’s got to be someone she can shag?

  Naturally, she made a list of her options:

  Sensible Tracy’s List of Options For The Hopelessly Pregnant Teenager (including panel discussion)

  Adoption? No, no. Definitely not going to happen. Why? Don’t know. It may have seemed like the logical choice. There was a time (for about five minutes), just before confirmation of the pregnancy, when David and I had discussed adoption. We had “decided” it was the only option. He hugged me and we cried together. We said things like, “it’s for the best”, and “it’s the only way”. The relief was plain on his face and it made me sad. That look of last-minute reprieve in his eyes was probably the reason I went to the hospital by myself. It was the first sign that I’d be doing this alone, no matter what was decided.

  Although I had agreed to it, I was aware that adoption wasn’t my real choice. It was still one of those adolescent, pretend, “What If” decisions, and I knew it would change. Still, it was something to say when no other words sounded right. So we said it.

  Abortion? No, again. Firstly, it was still illegal in those days, so it was never referred to directly. It was called “Doing Something”. You’d have to
find a doctor willing to Do Something, without telling him exactly what it was you wanted him To Do. And it just felt wrong. I clutched my belly protectively whenever someone mentioned it, even before I had much belly to clutch.

  I don’t think I was being dramatic; I wasn’t taking a brave moral stand or anything. I understood that for some people, sometimes, it’s the choice they have to make. I just didn’t think that I was one of those people, or that this was one of those times.

  Surely there had to be other choices?

  Another list, I’m afraid.

  Sensible Tracy’s Sub-List of Options For Keeping The Baby

  Have the baby and marry David

  Have the baby and hand him over to my parents to raise

  Have the baby and raise him myself, with help and support from my parents

  Let’s review.

  Option number one: Do I look stupid to you? Don’t answer that. Believe it or not, there were people who thought we should get married. I could understand if the suggestion had been offered only by silly children my own age, but it wasn’t. There were some perfectly sane looking adults wandering around, who assumed I’d be waddling down the aisle before the year was out.

  Can you believe the things people come up with? Up until then, I’d always believed that adults knew better. I thought they were in charge and could be relied upon to do the right thing and give the right advice. I was flabbergasted to discover that while some adults are reasonably intelligent and doing their best, there are equally many who are completely fucking bonkers. And you can’t tell just by looking at them. Disguised as normal people, like teachers or kindly old ladies in Shoprite, these nutjobs wield immense authority over the lives and choices of innocent young people too dumb to know better. And the poor kiddies never know that the citizens in charge are smoking their socks. What a scary thought. It makes you wonder just who exactly is driving the bus here? I mean, really. To get married at my age to someone I barely knew, let’s face it – and bring a child into such a dodgy situation? Good grief. That’s a whole episode of Ricki Lake all by itself. Marriage for the right reasons is hard enough, but for the wrong ones? That’s just madness. At least I knew that.