“So what birth control do you use?” she asked, looking me right in the eyes.
“The rhythm method. We’re just really careful. I heard Mom and Dad used the rhythm method.” I looked down at the joint, not really seeing it.
“Yeah, and how many kids did they have?” she said, laughing. I swallowed the lump in my throat as I thought of the six of us, results of the rhythm method. I felt my face flush and my stomach sink to the floor as I realized I could actually be pregnant. I handed the joint back to Laurie before taking another hit.
Everything in me contracted. NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!
“Oh my God. I have to call Rob.” I got up out of my chair and went to the phone and dialed, desperately pleading inside for him to answer. He picked up after the third ring, and I begged him to come over right away. “I’ll explain when you get here.”
I went back to the living room to sit with Laurie. “Colleen, I think you should call Planned Parenthood and make an appointment for a pregnancy test,” Laurie said. She took another hit and then snuffed out the joint. This was all happening so fast, but I knew she was right. Laurie got up, found the phone book, and dialed the number. I made an appointment and then waited, sitting in the chair and looking out to the water and the seagulls, a rising terror growing in my heart about what my future would hold now.
Rob arrived about a half hour later. I ran up to him, panicky and trembling. It didn’t help that I was mildly stoned. I grabbed his arms and looked up into his face. “I might be …” I could hardly say the word “pregnant.” I buried my face in the crook of his neck and began to sob. He wrapped his arms around me and shushed and comforted me with his gentle voice, while inwardly I reproached myself.
How could I have let this happen? I’m so stupid.
What will Mom say? Oh God, I can’t tell Mom.
If I can’t tell Mom, what do I do?
She thinks I’m a good Catholic girl.
Rob led me up to my room, and we lay on the bed, with me curled against his chest. I cried, fretted, and worried. I had no idea what to do. “Colleen, baby, everything will be okay. Let’s just wait and see what they say at your appointment tomorrow. Who knows, maybe you just have the flu,” he reassured me.
The next day, Rob and I had to skip our morning classes to make my ten a.m. appointment. Planned Parenthood was downtown, about four miles away, so Rob insisted we take a taxi; we didn’t know the buses well, and he knew I couldn’t comfortably walk that far. I appreciated the extravagance.
I was asked to give a urine sample. As I sat on the toilet, I was trembling so much that I peed more on my hand than into the cup. Saying a silent prayer—something I’d vowed not to do when I was in the hospital—I held the cup in my hand. It was still warm from my pee. Please don’t let me be pregnant. Please. I went to the exam room, sat in the chair, and wrung my clammy hands. Please don’t let me be pregnant. Please …
As usual, God failed me. A tall, stocky, middle-aged nurse bustled into the room with my test results, all business. “Well, it looks like you’re pregnant. What do you want to do?” I sat on my hands to avoid wringing them any further and looked at the floor in shame. What was I going to do? I had no idea. There was no precedent for this in my world. I didn’t know anyone who’d gotten pregnant outside of marriage. I’m such a bad person. I’m worse than bad, I ruminated.
“Can I get my boyfriend?”
She looked at her watch and sighed. “Yeah, sure.”
I walked out to the lobby, my legs hardly holding me up. I saw Rob’s face immediately and beckoned him to me. He rose quickly and scurried over.
“I’m pregnant,” I whispered, catching him up before we walked into the room. Rob nodded, grabbed my hand, and gave it a supportive squeeze. I sat down in the one available chair, and Rob stood beside me, holding on to my shoulder. We waited for the nurse to stop writing down her notes. After what felt like an eternity, she looked up at us over the top of her glasses.
“So, do you two have a plan for this pregnancy?”
Rob and I looked at each other. “No, we don’t,” Rob answered softly.
“Well, you basically have three choices. You can proceed with the pregnancy and have the baby, you can give the baby up for adoption, or you can terminate the pregnancy.”
I looked at her hands and noticed she was wearing a wedding ring. Does she have children? I wondered. She must think I’m awful, getting pregnant without being married. She must think I’m the scum of the earth.
Rob and I couldn’t respond. I just sat there. The swirls in the tile floor swam in front of me as tears welled in my eyes. I couldn’t believe this was happening. What would Mom do? What would people think of me? How could I possibly handle this? I’d hardly adjusted to a new vision of my life as an amputee. I could barely see what my future would look like as I made my way through it with only one leg. Even if I closed my eyes tightly and concentrated hard—which I did while the nurse and Rob stood by waiting—I couldn’t summon in this moment my childhood vision of my life as a mother.
The nurse’s voice softened and so did her eyes. “You have some time to think about this. Here’s the number of an ob-gyn who can help you with whatever decision you make.” Then she narrowed her focus on me, and her voice carried the admonishing tone of a Catholic nun. “And I strongly suggest you also talk to the doctor about birth control.”
“How much does an abortion cost?” Rob asked the nurse. I jerked my head up and looked at him, stunned. My face flushed in embarrassment. How could he ask such a bold and loaded question so casually?
“About three hundred dollars,” the nurse answered matter-of-factly.
What was this? A business deal? Didn’t my feelings or opinions matter? My breathing became shallow. I felt a pit in my stomach and dread in my heart.
“Well, thank you very much,” Rob said, taking the piece of paper from the nurse.
We all stood up, and I grabbed Rob’s hand. We paid for the office visit, and Rob called for a taxi to take us back to my house. As we waited outside, I was too afraid to say anything. Rob was quiet, too, which unnerved me further. He started rubbing my back softly, like we were in this together, but it sounded like he’d already made his decision. I wanted him to leave me alone, so I walked around the corner of the building, not wanting him to notice my tears, which were flowing heavily.
Goddamn it! Hadn’t my body betrayed me enough? Hadn’t I been through enough? How could God let this happen to me? After the accident, everyone told me God doesn’t give us more than we can handle. Well, I couldn’t handle this! This was way too much for me. I couldn’t be pregnant. I couldn’t carry a child for nine months. I hardly knew how to get through each day. People thought I was handling my amputation well, but I wasn’t. They had no idea.
After walking tentatively around the corner, Rob said, “Colleen, we can’t have this baby.” His voice was soft and low.
“Goddamn it, I know!” I yelled, taking a few steps away from him. How could he be so quick to want to throw this away, while I still couldn’t believe it was even true? I didn’t want to deal with this at all. My love for Rob was so deep it was like breathing to me. We’d been together two years; I wanted nothing more than to marry him, plan a family, do all this the right way, but by now I also knew Rob wasn’t cut out for it. I trusted Rob’s deep love for me, but he was a free spirit. He had places to go, literally, and he was a solo traveler. Though I had a huge place in his heart, he could live without me. I wasn’t sure I could live without him. He’d helped me redefine myself after I lost my leg, and I believed if I lost him, I’d be losing another part of myself. But I knew, too, he wanted this baby to go away so he wouldn’t be forced to stay with me. He needed to know he could leave whenever he wanted and not be tied down to a family. I looked at him now and saw how much he’d given me. I could feel the familiar need to protect others from my suffering. I couldn’t indulge the anger I felt. Instead, I needed to consider what to do. The choice would not be easy; the ri
sk of loss would be great no matter what I did. What was I most willing to lose—Rob or myself? And wouldn’t I lose a piece of myself no matter what I decided?
The taxi arrived, and we both got in, distant and silent. I stared out the window as we drove home, wishing it would rain. Hard. I couldn’t appreciate the flowers or the sun glistening off the water in the bay. I wanted to crawl into bed, listen to the steady beat of the rain on the roof, and hear it echo the pounding of my heart.
After my accident, I had been exalted as a survivor. Peers and adults looked to me as a shining example of how beautifully one can rise above a tragic turn of events. What I considered basic survival everyone else viewed as admirable. What would they think of me now? I knew I couldn’t take a chance on a baby right now, not when I was still figuring out my life—not only as a college student, but also as an amputee. The pregnancy alone could do me in. I’d been warned that if I gained weight, my prosthetic leg wouldn’t fit me any longer. How would I walk if that happened? How could I even bend over and put it on to begin with? But on the other hand, how could I have an abortion? As far from God as I felt, a huge part of me was as Catholic as I’d ever been.
The particular timing of the pregnancy was terrible for other reasons besides the fact that I wasn’t ready to become a mother. I was scheduled to return home that weekend to attend my brother Matthew’s high school graduation. I had already made arrangements to take the Greyhound bus to Seattle, and while I was dreading the thought of a stuffy two-hour bus ride, I dreaded even more seeing my family.
Would anyone be able to tell I was pregnant? Would my mom take one look at me and simply know? There was no getting around it. Family obligation dictated I show up, even if I said I felt ill.
Friday came, and I woke up feeling sicker than ever. I had to throw up repeatedly. Each time I slid my toothbrush down my throat, I wished the tiny germ of a fetus would come up with my vomit. Each wave gripped my stomach, and the skin on my torso tingled uncomfortably, like it would if I were hearing fingers on a chalkboard. A ring of cold sweat glistened around the perimeter of my face. I wanted to heave this interloper out of me. I couldn’t stop crying. I skipped classes again that day because I couldn’t muster the energy to walk the half mile to campus. I lay in bed, exhausted in a way I had never experienced, not even in the hospital. I drifted in and out of a light sleep, skimming over dreams that felt so real. I saw myself with long greasy hair and bloodshot eyes surrounded by dark circles, sitting alone on the altar at church, the whole congregation pointing at me, scowling, condemning me to hell. I saw myself weighing over three hundred pounds, full of fat and baby, stuck in the overstuffed chair in the living room, unable to get up, unable to walk because my leg didn’t fit me anymore.
I awoke to my own sobbing.
When Rob came over to take me to the bus station, I was still in bed. He kissed me softly on my eyelids. “Colleen, we have to leave in half an hour or you’ll miss the bus. You haven’t even showered?” I heard the care and concern in his voice. “Here, let me help you get up.” I wanted to resist, but Rob pulled the blankets from me and gently pulled me out of bed. I knew I had to put this crying jag on hold and hurry, but every movement felt heavy, like trying to swim through quicksand. As I showered, fighting the incoming tide of my emotions, which threatened to flood over me, Rob haphazardly packed my things.
I didn’t want to leave Rob, but I couldn’t think of any way to get out of this. In my family, we were always there for one another—no matter what. After a tearful good-bye, I picked up my bag, which was infinitely lighter than my heart, and boarded the bus.
I was late getting to the bus station, and the only seats available were in the back row, near the gas fumes. I stored my bag and sat down near a window. As the bus lurched forward, so did my stomach. I swallowed the bile and lay my head against the cold, sweaty window, wondering if I should tell Mom and simply face her admonishments. Just the thought made my stomach heave again. What would she say? I could imagine her screaming. I could see her yelling at me. But mostly, I could see the disappointment in her eyes. It would be bad enough to admit to Mom I was having sex. Aside from the moment in my hospital room, right after the accident, she and I never talked about it; I just assumed she knew Rob and I made love, but I didn’t know for sure. Good Catholic girls don’t have sex before marriage. She certainly didn’t. But to tell her about a pregnancy, too? I thought about how people must feel in those rags-to-riches stories—how they go from being a nobody to a somebody—like the actress Jean Harlow, who was “discovered” at a drugstore hamburger counter and skyrocketed to stardom. I knew a little of what sudden fame felt like. I knew what it was like to have people’s view of you change. After my accident, I went from being the quiet wallflower of the family to the admirable survivor. I didn’t want to fall from grace. People would scorn me. They would be so deeply disappointed in me. No one would understand that I secretly lived a numb existence and that being with Rob was the only thing that even touched on a sense of vitality or reality for me.
On the ride into Seattle, gas fumes and fear rolled into a toxic ball in my stomach. The bus pulled into the station, and I could see Mom waiting outside and my youngest brother, David, standing beside her. I dreaded the thought of meeting Mom’s eyes, certain she would be able to tell I was pregnant just by looking at me. I grabbed my bag from the overhead compartment and walked down the aisle, willing myself forward. I took the three steps off the bus one by one, as I do with all steps because of my prosthetic leg. I looked up and saw Mom waiting near the foot of the stairs, grinning widely. But when she took a closer look at me, she gasped. “Colleen, you look horrible!” she clucked, her motherly concern kicking in. “Are you okay?” She pulled me into her and hugged me tightly. I knew I didn’t deserve her compassion.
“Oh, I just feel sick. I had to sit at the back of the bus, and the fumes got to me.” I hugged her back, wishing she could take this all away from me, wishing I could be a little girl again, sitting on her lap. I stifled the tears; she wouldn’t understand them.
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. You’ll feel better once we get home.”
I gave David a quick hug, and we headed for the car.
On the half-hour drive home, Mom asked about school. I talked about everything I could think of just to keep the conversation going. I rolled down the window, once again feeling sick.
When we got home, I went to my bedroom to lie down. My room, our house, held so many wonderful memories of growing up. Could I possibly ever recreate this kind of safety and joy for a child? With stark and sudden clarity, I understood that my childhood dream had been thrown out the window when I lost my leg—and that’s why I couldn’t imagine it anymore, no matter how hard I tried. Even if I had six kids, I wouldn’t be like my mom. I would be an amputee mom.
I dozed in and out of a light sleep, unable to keep the nausea at bay. I finally went into the bathroom and tried my toothbrush trick to vomit, but I only gagged loudly. I swallowed and swallowed until there was nothing left to swallow. I tried to be quiet, but the bathroom was next to Mom’s bedroom, and she heard me. I heard her feet scamper to the bathroom doorway. She knocked lightly and spoke to me from the other side of the door.
“Colleen, this doesn’t sound like car sickness. Should I be worried?” She sounded genuinely concerned.
“No, I just don’t feel good, Mom. I’ll go lie back down.”
“Well, we’re supposed to leave in half an hour,” she reminded me. “You should really be getting ready.”
In a panic, I got up off the bathroom floor, wiped my face, and opened the door. Mom’s eyes held a mixture of worry and impatience.
“Do you think you can even go?” she asked.
“I don’t know!” I yelled, not intending to. Of course I didn’t think I could go. But I would.
She looked as shocked at my outburst as I was. “Don’t take that tone with me, Colleen. I’m sorry if you’re not feeling well, but this is Matthew’s graduation.” I
was the good girl, not one to yell at my mother. She and I got along well; that was the expectation. The one thing I wanted was to have her help me, but even for as loving as she was, I didn’t believe she could handle this.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I said, hating that I was whining, and feeling bad for snapping at her, for doing anything to erode our relationship. “I’ll hurry and get ready.” I put on my nice pants and a shirt and went back to the bathroom to freshen up. Brushing my teeth and putting on makeup helped me feel a little better. I kept swallowing the bile. I kept swallowing my fear and my urge to fall apart.
My five siblings were downstairs waiting. I hadn’t seen them for about a month. I gave hugs all around, stifling the sadness that crept up.
“What’s the matter, Coll?” asked Mary Beth.
“I got really carsick on the bus ride down.”
Mom cut in, hustling us out the door. “Kids, we need to get to the auditorium. Everyone in the car!”
At the high school, about a half hour into the graduation program, a wave of nausea swept through me, threatening to explode. I had to get to a bathroom NOW. I stood up. “Excuse me, I have to get to the bathroom.” People scurried out of my way. Navigating through the myriad of legs with my clunky prosthetic was tricky. I was slowed down further when I got to the aisle and had to descend the stairs one at a time because of my leg. My stomach lurched. I kept swallowing, cursing my leg for slowing me down. I hurried to the bathroom, got into a stall, locked the door, and threw up into the toilet. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and anger and frustration covered me like a fog.
I knelt on the floor with my head over the bowl and flashed back to my own graduation—how I’d been both on the top of the world, reveling in the admiration of everyone who saw me as a victor in the face of adversity, and battling daily fantasies of ripping the head off of the man who had taken away my leg. Those were confusing days, but not as confusing as this one.
A Leg to Stand On Page 6
