“I don’t know what to tell you, Pattie.” The doctor shrugged. “From what I could tell, I’m pretty sure you are, so . . .” He started writing on a prescription pad. “I’m sending you to the clinic next door to get a pregnancy test.” He ripped off the piece of paper and put it in my hand, annoyed.
My mother let out a muffled groan. “Dear God, Pattie, please don’t tell me you’re pregnant.”
I rolled my eyes at both of them. “I’m not pregnant!”
I had been on birth control since I was fifteen, at my mother’s recommendation. We were sitting at the kitchen table one day when she brought up the uncomfortable topic. “I think it’s time for you to start taking the pill.” I looked at her in disbelief. What? I was still a virgin. As a matter of fact, I had no plans to sleep with anyone just yet. That day, I felt my mom basically gave me permission to have sex. When I started taking the pill, I did so religiously, or so I thought. There was no way I was part of that 2 percent group of women who experience a “margin of error.”
I wasn’t pregnant. I couldn’t be. It was impossible.
Nevertheless, my mother and I walked to the clinic next door. Neither of us said a word. My mom probably didn’t see any point in questioning me again. We’d find out the truth in a matter of minutes. I stared at the cheesy posters on the wall in the waiting room. One told me to get checked for such-and-such disease. Another reminded me to eat more fruits and vegetables. The walls looked muddied. Dim and dirty. Why am I here? You can’t imagine the temptation I felt to bolt.
“Pattie Mallette?” A nurse’s head peeked through a half-open door into the room. “You can come in now.”
My confidence was unsinkable. Doctor, nurse, whatever—no one was going to tell me I was pregnant.
After a urine test and a few more minutes of waiting, I stood in another room, having offered the only chair available to my mom. She probably needed it more than me. She was the one who looked like she was going to faint at any moment.
The door opened and the same nurse who had performed my test came in. She nodded sympathetically and said, “Pattie, the doctor was right. You are pregnant.”
In the background I heard my mother say faintly, almost in a whisper, “Oh, Pattie.” Her voice was soft, but the sentiment rang loud and clear—disappointment. Absolute and utter disappointment.
I almost lost it. Lies, these are all lies. I looked at the nurse like she needed to get her head examined. “No way. There is no way I’m pregnant. You’re gonna have to do it again. The test is wrong.”
The nurse repeated more firmly, “Pattie, you’re pregnant. The test is 99.9 percent accurate.”
I didn’t budge. “Well, then there’s still a chance I’m not pregnant. Do it again.”
At my prompting, she did another test.
While waiting the second time, I started doubting myself. Though the denial was powerful, I entertained the maybes. Maybe not taking a pill on time. Maybe even missing one or two. When the nurse came back, she repeated her earlier diagnosis. I had no more wiggle room to deny the obvious. I was going to have a baby.
I was leaning against a wall when the nurse told me the results from the second test. I crumpled down to the ground like a rag doll. I was in shock, overwhelmed by the enormity of the situation. A baby? Now? The timing couldn’t have been any worse.
I wasn’t married. I wasn’t old enough. I wasn’t responsible. I was back sowing my old wild oats. A baby didn’t fit anywhere in that picture. A baby didn’t even belong near that picture.
I had nothing against children. I loved kids. I’d always wanted to have babies. But I had romantic hopes around that dream. I would have a husband. A handsome, supportive, loving husband. And a beautiful home. We’d be able to provide a stable environment for our kids so there’d be a minimum chance they’d have a messed-up life like mine.
But a baby in my life situation? It was a nightmare come true. Half praying, half crying, I sobbed, “Oh, God, no, no, no! What am I going to do?”
While my emotions ran the gamut at maximum volume, my mom was quiet. Though it was rough having her witness one of the most sobering wake-up calls in my life, I was glad she was there. It meant I didn’t have to uncomfortably break the news to her later. She comforted me as best as she could by reassuringly patting my shoulder.
I stumbled around for days, disoriented and still in shock. I couldn’t process the logistics of the pregnancy—especially the fact that in less than nine months, I’d be the mother of a flesh and blood, living and breathing baby. It was a dream, right? And I was going to wake up real soon?
My mom also had difficulty with the news, but she had already determined a plan. Well, at least a plan of what was not going to happen. “I’m done raising kids,” she told me in so many words. “If you choose to have this baby, you cannot live here.” I’m not going to lie. I was bitter. Angry. Hurt. I felt rejected and abandoned all over again.
When my mother hinted that I’d be mainly on my own in this process, I couldn’t afford to pretend anymore. I had to wake up and not only face uncertainty but also make the trek into the great unknown. Without the faintest clue how. And alone.
During my pregnancy I was strongly advised to abort the baby, but I refused. I was shocked by the amount of pressure I was getting to take that route. I had to fight for my right to keep the baby. Abortion wasn’t an option I even considered. My decision was ironic considering that when I was on the high school debate team, I made many convincing arguments for a woman’s right to choose. The only other alternative to keeping the baby was adoption, but I don’t think I would have emotionally survived that decision. I wanted my baby.
After researching a bunch of pregnancy centers from the yellow pages, I found a home at the Salvation Army’s Bethesda Centre in London, Ontario. When I toured their facilities, I knew in my heart that it was the place for me. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about the place felt warm. It felt like home. And I decided it would be. It was where I would live, be educated, get counseling, and receive prenatal care and parenting training. My mom and Bruce didn’t blink at my decision. I guess they figured if I was old enough to make a baby, I was old enough to figure out what to do about it.
There was one more thing I needed to do—tell Jeremy. I hadn’t spoken to him in weeks. I thought of our baby and I thought of us as parents. Had a category been available, Jeremy and I could have easily been voted our high school’s “Couple Most Likely to Not Succeed.” We were young. We were foolish. We weren’t ready to be parents.
I called him and told him we needed to talk in person. I have a feeling he knew why. It wasn’t often I asked him for a face-to-face conversation. When we met, I was nervous, as one would expect. It was hard to look him in the eye. I hadn’t a clue how he would react.
At first he didn’t believe me, telling me the baby was probably some other guy’s. After I gave him a few days to let the news sink in, though, he finally came around enough to take my word for it. I knew he was still partying at the time, so I was firm about what I expected if he wanted to go through this together. “I’m pregnant,” I told him. “If we’re going to make this work, that means we’re both pregnant. And it means you’re gonna have to choose between me and the baby or alcohol.” I made my expectations clear. The drinking had to stop. The partying had to stop. The fighting had to stop.
That night Jeremy got trashed. The disease of alcoholism took first priority. I knew in my heart he had made his choice. I was on my own, and so was he. The next day I told him that actions spoke louder than words and I would be leaving for London. I made plans to start my new life at Bethesda by myself. I didn’t need anyone. Not my parents and not Jeremy. I was on a mission to prove how capable and responsible I could be.
CHAPTER
Eight
Emotions all twisted and hormones run wild
The weight of an adult, the fears of a child
Questions are racing, awaiting reply
Confusion s
ets in, I sit and I cry
I feel like I’m trapped in this nightmare I’m in
I feel like I’m losing, there’s no way to win
My dreams have been broken, my plans rearranged
My attitude’s different, my body has changed
I have to be careful of each move I make
And remember someone else’s life is at stake
It’s a lot to remember and a lot to go through
But somehow it’s worth it to go on so blue
I’ll find some more dreams and I’ll make some new plans
’Cause I know I’ll recover with my blood in my hands.
I was two months pregnant in the beginning of August 1993. Early on a summer morning, my mom and Bruce drove me to the Bethesda Centre, a large, nondescript brick building nestled in a quiet neighborhood off one of London’s main city streets.
We pulled up to the front entrance. The tight knot in my belly unraveled. This was it. My new home. I felt anxious and uncertain.
After I unpacked from the car the few pieces of luggage I brought for my eight-month stay, my mom and I said our goodbyes. It wasn’t a tearful parting, but that didn’t come as a surprise. It didn’t even bother me. I was bent on maintaining my independence from her. Even though I was petrified starting this new chapter in my life, I didn’t let it show. There were no tears. No quivering lips. I wouldn’t even let my eyes water. I maintained a strong and confident composure, pretending I was leaving for summer camp: I’ll be back before you know it, Mom. I won’t forget to write and send pictures. I’ll miss you. Bye. But this certainly was no summer camp. I wouldn’t return home having learned how to swim or ride a horse. I’d return with a baby.
I mastered a brave front while waving goodbye to my mom. When the car rolled down the small hill of a driveway and all I could see was fading taillights, the floodgates opened. Down tumbled tears of shame. Tears of remorse. Tears of fear. Tears for the unknown. As I gasped for air in the middle of a sob, I forced myself to calm down. All I wanted to do was check in and go to my room where I could be alone. I was engulfed by a sense of loneliness yet wanted to fester in those feelings by myself.
I picked up as many bags as I could carry and shuffled into the lobby. I looked around at the humbly furnished room. The linoleum floors shined and a few old paintings colored the drab walls. Through an open door in my immediate view, I could see a few teenage girls with rounded bellies sitting around a large square table making crafts. They were laughing, having fun. I hope they like me.
I was numb throughout the intake process. Most of it was a blur; I resorted to coping the best way I knew how—get through the hard part with as little emotion as possible. A sweet staff member led me to my room, talking the entire way about how wonderful the center was, how terrific the rest of the girls were, how much fun everybody was having, and how she just knew I was going to love it here.
I nodded and smiled, letting her run the verbal show. It kept me from having to let out as much as a peep. I was afraid if I had the chance to talk, I wouldn’t be able to hold myself together. And I didn’t want to collapse like a house of cards in front of a stranger. She’d probably just feel sorry for me and blame my emotional outburst on hormones.
Once I settled in and got comfortable, Bethesda ended up being a haven for me. I found a home where I’d had none. An acceptance I couldn’t find elsewhere. The place had obvious idiosyncrasies, though. Just imagine what it’s like living with ten pregnant teenagers. Hormones raging, emotions of different frequencies slamming into each other. One girl is upset at the world; another can’t stand her changing body. One girl is scared of raising a baby alone; another can’t stop crying at sappy commercials. We were emotional Gumbys, being stretched in all ways from the nonstop hormonal party in our bodies.
And then there were the cravings. This one wants ketchup chips for breakfast; that one can’t say no to chocolate of any kind. This one can’t stomach anything except ginger ale; that one lives on grilled cheese sandwiches. Some of us would even make runs to the local grocery store to pick up whatever we wanted so we could eat our hearts out.
We were a hodgepodge of scared, young moms-to-be. Bethesda was home to all kinds of girls—girls with a wild streak, girls who always made the honor roll, girls from broken homes, girls from rich families, girls who were recovering addicts, and girls who were goody-two-shoes. Though we came from different backgrounds, we had two things in common: we were young, and we were pregnant.
I appreciated the instant camaraderie. It was comforting to know I wasn’t the only one treading unknown waters. Together we battled and shared our loneliness and our pain. We tried to encourage each other as much as possible. Some needed the support more than others. Like the girl who always cut herself. She’d lock herself in her room and slice her body with any sharp object she could find. I never knew how to help her.
There was plenty to do at the home. We didn’t sit around all day watching TV and eating bonbons using our ever-growing bellies as a tabletop. Half of each day we had to go to school, which included basic classes we would have taken in high school like math, science, and English. We also took parenting classes. We had individual counseling sessions. We had devotions. We cleaned and helped to maintain the facilities. We would even get a little creative and put on fashion shows, parading our big bellies around.
Every once in a while different speakers would visit and talk to us about the realities of motherhood. They helped shoot down any romantic fantasies we had about parenting. So many kids think having a baby is like having a doll. You spend all day dressing them up in cute clothes. You cuddle with them and take them places where people fawn all over them. And of course they never cry. While some of those ideas may be true to a certain extent, there was a whole lot more to having a baby than most of us at Bethesda realized.
There’s nothing cute or exciting about sleepless nights. Colic. The cost of diapers, wipes, and formula. Postpartum depression. The end—at least for a while—of going to movies and parties with your friends. The loneliness. The end of “me” and the beginning of “we.” Never mind having to battle all of this on your own. In short, motherhood is a difficult journey. I’ll never forget what one of the speakers told us: “Being a teen mom is no picnic. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
Something about what she said hit home. That day I determined that if I was going to keep my baby, I had to be prepared for the worst. No matter how hard it would be, I resolved, I would be the best mom I could be and give my baby one hundred percent of me.
Though I was determined I was going to be a good mom and had put my partying days behind, traces of my past would surface from time to time. It was one way I paid the price for the years I spent getting high. During my stay at Bethesda, I had several LSD flashbacks.
One night I abruptly woke up with a debilitating feeling of fear. It was the exact sense of paranoia I felt when I used to experiment with the drug. The fear enveloped me like a wet blanket, drowning me under crushing waves of anxiety. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. The fear settled heavily in my spirit and completely overwhelmed me. I freaked out, jumped out of bed, and staggered out of my room.
Somehow I ended up curled up in a ball under the pay phone in the hall. A night shift staff member was sitting at her desk. Without so much as looking up, she barked, “Go back to your room.” What was she thinking? That I was on the ground because I was trying to sneak out? Maybe steal a cookie from the kitchen or have a late night gab session with one of the girls?
I didn’t want to go back to my room. Aside from being yelled at, I felt safe being in the open. At the very least I could be seen and heard, maybe even helped. In my room I was alone. I could disappear in the paralyzing fear and no one would know. At least huddled under the pay phone, I had a chance.
The flashbacks happened a few more times. Each experience was different but lasted between fifteen and thirty minutes. The last one happened one e
vening when I was out to dinner with one of the girls. In between a sip of Coke and a bite of a juicy cheeseburger, the room started changing. It was another trip, minus the acid. The dining room spun in and out of different dimensions. I excused myself to the bathroom, trying to act as normal as possible, not letting on that I felt as if I was in another realm. Twenty minutes later, the world returned to normal (at least to my new normal), and I returned to the table. I’m so thankful that was the last flashback I ever had.
As much as Bethesda had going for it—and as good as it was for me—being there still wasn’t always easy. I got homesick. And I wasn’t always happy.
I didn’t write much in my journal during this time. The few pages I scribbled focused on how miserable I was: “I’m so unhappy, but I play along to my friends and family. . . . I could sit in my room and cry for days, but I could also tear apart every f—ing thing in this place. Crying’s safer, it keeps me out of trouble. I’d sure like to let some of this anger out, though. God help me.”
It wasn’t until I was more than halfway through my pregnancy that I knew my spiritual life needed a major adjustment. I still had not forgiven myself for taking steps backward. I was stuck in shame. Though I wanted out of the emotional quicksand where I stood, I couldn’t move. John and his wife, Sue, kept me from sinking any deeper.
John visited with me a few times at Bethesda. I especially looked forward to seeing him; he always made me feel a lot better, less homesick. John and Sue were like second parents to me (and still are today). I loved this adorable, hippie-looking couple. I remember spending the night with them at their home once while I was pregnant. They prayed with me and actually tucked me into bed. It was such a sweet and intimate gesture. I felt so loved, so cared for. With her thick brown mane and dark, piercing eyes, Sue was beautiful inside and out. She showered me with affection and always encouraged me. John was a bottomless vat of fatherly advice; I always felt I could talk to him about anything.
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