Hell Bound Heretic

7-11

Awkward is the best way to describe the couple weeks that followed our little pregnancy announcement.  Andy’s parents were civil, and we kind of just ignored talking about the pregnancy when we would go to our various meetings at rehab.  We focused on Andy’s sobriety and did not talk much in way of the future that concerned the baby.  

I moved forward with my appointments to try and gage how far along I was and if I was going to give birth to a jellyfish since I did not live a life of someone who knew she was with child the first four months of said fetus’s existence.  Luckily, Andy’s habit in Utah had stressed my finances to the point that luxuries such as alcohol and smoking had become purchases that I could not rationalize for myself anymore. Even though I knew I had done very little to harm to the baby, waiting for that first ultrasound was torture.  If this kid ever has a learning disability, depression…hell, a cross eye, I am going to blame myself. Andy got permission to accompany me to the appointment and was determined to not learn the sex of the child.  I wanted to know.  I know, why does it matter, just see what comes.  But damn!  Everything is so gender specific, and besides, I wanted to mentally prepare myself for what I was going to have to deal with the rest of my life.  Boys are trouble.  Girls are drama.  Did I need to save my money for broken bones or for therapy bills?  

We went in and answered all the questions.  And the big moment came, shlopping that goo on my stomach and taking a look see at the sneaky little dweller within.  And there he was, balls as big as oysters.  This kid had already learned and exhibited the level of discretion that both of his parents practiced.  My son, balls to the wall.  

Based of his size, the due date they have us is July 11th, 2010.  It was a lot to take in over the course of twenty minutes.  SEX…SIZE…DUE DATE…ORGANS WHERE THEY SHOULD BE AND ON DEVELOPMENTAL SCHEDULE…everyone should be so lucky to have their first pre-natal visit be so overwhelming.  I did not even have to try and figure out what the hell I was looking at on the screen.  He was totally a little human.  There was this horrible sound of a cross between an animal dying while coughing, and the little human on the screen bounced.  A single sob combined with laughter was how I said hello to him for the first time.  

The doctor left and I dressed while Andy just sat on the chair, grinning.  I missed that smile.  A genuine smile behind a face still healing from making out with a deployed air bag.  I hate loving that goofy son of a bitch so much.  I walked over and straddled him and buried my head into his long, softer skin than a man should have, neck.  Rehab has rules about the level of physical contact with the clients so this was the first time we had really been able to hold each other in three months.  It sounds romantic but remember that Andy is 6’1” and 140 pounds and I am 5’3” and the same weight.  It is not so romantic when the scene looks like a praying mantis about to consume a ladybug.  When the length of lap sitting is dictated by how long the man’s extremities can hold out before they fall asleep, you know you should lose some weight.  Too late for that now!

I did not have to wait for his limbs to go numb before I shot up and inhaled like when I was 23 and trying pot for the first time.
“Andy!  July 11th!!!”

“Yeah…I heard.”

*counting on my fingers* “…January, February, March, April, May June, JULY!!!  Seven!  JULY 11!  SEVEN ELEVEN!”

His eyes got all round and Andy’s mouth dropped into this perfect little O.  

“Holy shit.”

Because, you see, almost exactly a year ago from that doctor’s appointment, I had just moved to Salt Lake City.  I had been there for all of a week.  It was cold, I did not know anyone, and I wanted to get out of the room I was renting in an old brick rumbler in the Sugarhouse district.  I went to 9th and 9th and got some of the best drip coffee I have ever had at this hipster hang out, The Coffee Garden.  Utah can suck it in a lot of ways, but damn I liked that coffee.  I think it was Ibis coffee beans they used, and it was delicious.  I totally am digressing from the story but good drip coffee is hard to come by and such information should be shared.  Anyways, next door is this old movie theatre that has two movies on their billboard and are typically independent films.  They were showing Revolutionary Road so I went.  I had nothing else to do, and did I mention there is cat that wanders around the theatre?!  Old empty movie theatres with cats, the crazy lady in me was hooked.  It was an alright movie as I recall, but I could not concentrate because all I could think about was that I wanted, no, I needed a Slurpee.  Half coke and half cherry.  And please be thick, because what is worse than driving up, walking in and finding the Slurpee machine with a bunch of clear syrupy shit spinning behind the levers?  Sex offenders…maybe.  

God, I was so happy for that movie to end.  It was around midnight, I ran out, brushed all the snow off my car and drove to the nearest 7-11.  I filled my cup with the flair of a pro.  I have been consuming those slushy fake colored concentrated sugars for some time now.  You got to tap it a little to get all the air bubbles out.  Otherwise, you get in your car and it has sunk like an inch in the cup!  It is the equivalent of a tall man with a small penis.  A little misleading, a little disappointing, but you are too lazy to say anything or find something better so you just work with what you got.

I stood there at the counter, paying for my cheapest and most satisfying late night cravings when this voice behind me chimed in…

“Got a late night ahead of you?”

I assumed the voice was talking to the cashier and did not acknowledge it.  The cashier kept looking at me, and then behind me, back at me, and then behind me again.  I turned around and there he was.  Crouched over the donut display, twenty-four pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon in hand, peering at me from under a brown beanie.  

“Oh…are you talking to me?”

“Yeah.”  *looks at my Slurpee, and then outside at the mass amounts of huge fluffy snowflakes whirling about*  “Who the fuck buys a Slurpee when it is snowing outside?”

“Me, asshole.  That’s who.”

And there, at 7-11, was where I met my husband.                        

  

Surprise, we are pregnant! …please don’t cry

I can sum up my family’s response to me being pregnant in one paragraph.  Laughter, then questions about my plan, and complete support.  The order of that does differ with every member, but it was a protocol that they all followed.  For how how different every single one of my siblings are and the inexplicable logic my parents sometimes follow, it is these instances that I know we all did something right.  It these instances that make me sad we all are so scattered across the states.  It is these instances that I want to go back to our blue Ford van with the blinds and curtains and the ladder on the back where all seven of us are driving down some highway in the middle of no where with Gordon reading his stupid fantasy novels that have pictures of dwarfs on the front in full armor and what seem like large axes, Susan is trying to teach me a card game so it is not just her and Karen playing, and every time you look over at Ken, he is has one less article of clothing on as the heat climbs inside our large carbon footprint vehicle.  I am 28 years old and have yet to see one person naked more times than I have seen Ken naked.  Mom is undoubtedly sleeping or looking longingly at her purse that Karen got carsick in, and Dad is driving.  Always driving, until we stop for gas or a bathroom break, where he proceeds to put one foot up on the bumper and begin his stretches for what appears to be a marathon.  I suppose you could consider driving a marathon on some of those trips we took.  His shorts creep up his thigh revealing skin the sun obviously does not often come into contact with as he stretches and groans and then continues on to run in circles in front of the car in a high step prance, getting his knees notably high for a 5’5” guido.  All of us kids did not know whether to laugh at him or the faces of the rest of the people filling their cars.  Either way, my father never stroked out on our family road trips so I guess it did not hurt.  

Telling Andy’s family was not going to go so smoothly.  I knew this.  Andy is an only child, with parent’s that probably have been through just as much as my family has, but no one would know, because nobody talks about those things.  We could not even tell them that we were living together, I was no fool into thinking informing them that the girlfriend of their son that is currently in rehab for heroin is pregnant, was going to go any other way than complete devastation in their eyes.  

I told them Wednesday, February 3rd, 2010.  I was called and told that we were to have a meeting at Impact the following, Thursday, night.  Andy, his parents, me, and one of the head staff of Impact, Jim.  You can imagine my excitement for this little gathering.  I am almost 30 and was about to have my ass royally lectured for two hours.  I should have brought snacks.  If being raised Mormon has taught me anything, you always bring refreshments.  Although, I did none of the talking, if anyone needed sustenance in that room, it would have been Jim and Andy’s parents.  

To sum it up, the general consensus of the room was that Andy and I had no other choice than to give the kid up for adoption.  Abortion was not an option, we all agreed on that.  You see that use of the word “we” there?  Yeah, heard it all night.  It really goddamn fascinating.  “We” evidently could never make it with a child.  “We” could not stay sober with a baby.  “We” were being selfish if we kept the baby.  “We” could make someone really happy giving the baby away.  “We” had no idea what we were getting ourselves into.  “We” could always get married later and have a family under the “right” conditions.  “We” would ruin our lives if we kept the baby.  

Solid points.  Can I cover some of the ground we might have overlooked?

I do not give a fuck what anyone thinks.  I believe this is my body and my baby and I will decide what is best for my baby and myself.  If Andy would like to go along with my decision, hot diggity.  

…I should have been a lawyer with closing statements like that.

Andy was on my side, and that is all I wanted.  I did not need it, but I did want it.  

I cannot end this entry leaving the impression that I was truly angry with Andy’s parents.  I, of course, did not want to sit through that lecture.  But, they had to.  They had to hear themselves go back to the standard of how they have always dealt with their son.  To swoop in and make the problem disappear for him and then never talk of it again.  They had to fight for what they thought was the best chance for Andrew staying sober, for his recovery to be more than a transient stay at some rehab in Pasadena.  I know it was a combination of a standard routine reaction, fear of the unknown, and love that motivated their actions.  I know.

I now just had to convince a very conservative Christian set of parents that this little bastard child was going to be a kickass addition to all families involved.  And at the same time, make it very clear that if you could not be happy for the present situation, then I could not have you in my life.  

Seems simple enough, right?  …right?

                        

Past the Point of No Return

I am pregnant.

Let’s see now, today is February 3rd.  Andy has been in rehab since December 6th.  I know we did not have sex during the month of November because I was constantly on edge worrying about him and from what I hear, heroin is not exactly the best aphrodisiac out there, so Andy was not really pressing for it either.  Let’s be honest folks, with that much drugs in your system, whether you want to or not is not really the issue for a guy.  October was a slow month, I do not even remember my last period, I can specifically remember having one on Andy’s birthday, September 11th.  So, I am anywhere from three to five months pregnant.  Awesome.  I am like those dumbass girls on that TV show. 

How did I not know I was pregnant, you might ask?  I would like to offer up some sort of a defense for I feel that it is not entirely fair to just chalk this up to blatant stupidity.  First of all, I do not get regular periods.  When I am off the pill, I have gone months without having a period.  When things started going so horribly with Andy, I did not refill my prescription for the pill in November.  We were not having sex, why take it?  So, I assumed my period did not occur because I went off the pill and my body went back to it’s irregular self.  I do remember in the month of November being excessively tired, losing my appetite, and even feeling slight nausea off and on for a few weeks.  Those are pregnancy symptoms, yes.  But they are also are the symptoms of someone who is watching their best friend kill themselves voluntarily, all the while working a full time job as a baker, where she has to get up at three in the morning.  And the most crucial piece of evidence I offer up to the court in defense of my intelligence, is that I took a fucking pregnancy test in November!!!  Twice!  They both came back negative.  I did not have sex after I took those tests, the Second Coming in my uterus is not a conclusion I generally like to draw. 

The little bugger is awful lucky to have escaped being detected early on.  In November, had those tests come back positive, I can almost guarantee that he would have been taken care of.  As in, vacated from the premises, never to come to fruition.  I am possibly not being completely honest with myself in that statement…I remember taking those tests and feeling a disappointment when they came back negative.  Which I will admit, that, is stupid.  Why I felt letdown with a negative result of the pregnancy test, in that current situation, does not make any sense.  I should have felt relief.  I should have, but I felt sad.  The irrationality of feelings pisses me right off, sometimes. 

So what was done, was done.  Now, what?  I just had moved back from Utah, left a job with health insurance, and am now back at my parents‘ house with the father of my child in rehab. 

My options as they ran through my head:  I could still abort this fetus.  Ew, that does not intrigue me in the least.  I could give it up for adoption.  Fuck that, I am not having someone else raise my child.  I am 28 years old, with an amazing support system on my side of the family, I can have this child.  Why am I trying to defend my choice?  I want this baby.  I am happy for this baby.  I am pregnant.  Pregnant.  I am going to have a child.  A baby.  A family.  I will kill anyone who gets in my way. 

Ok, maybe pregnancy train of thoughts should not be written out.

I called Planned Parenthood and set up a pregnancy test for the next morning.  I had to get on Medical immediately and that meant I needed an official note saying I was pregnant.  After I got off the phone with them, a few minutes later, my phone rang.  It was the same area code so I assumed it was Planned Parenthood calling me back for some reason.

“Hey baby, I got phased up to level 2 today.  I have phone privileges now.”

I just started bawling.  I hadn’t spoke to Andy on the phone in three months.  I saw him every two weeks.  We wrote letters.  I was not prepared to hear him.  To tell him.  I did not know how he would take it.  I did not know if it would send him running to the nearest Mexican, seeing what he could score with what money he had left of his 15 dollar a week allowance.  I did not know what was best for him and his recovery.  So, I cried.  It seemed like the only response suitable. 

“Whoa…whoa…baby, babe…what is wrong?  Are you crying because we can talk now over the phone?”

(no, shithead, I am NOT crying because I am so happy to hear your voice, nice humble conclusion…I love you and all but this is about ME…ok, us, I suppose.  *whispering* it is really about me.)

“Noooooo!  I was not ready for you to call me.  I am not ready.  I don’t…I can’t…I am pregnant.  Well, two take home pregnancy tests say I am.  I have an appointment tomorrow morning with Planned Parenthood to get the official positive.  I did not know if I should tell you…I…I…”

“Ok.  Calm down.  We are going to be fine.  Sooooo, I thought you took some pregnancy tests back in November….and WE haven’t had sex since then…”

“It is yours, asshole.  I haven’t had sex with anyone but you since I met you.  Get a DNA test when it is born, I do not care…stupidpieceof…”

“Haha, ok, ok, that is all I needed to hear.  Don’t cry, sweetheart.  I will be fine.  We will be fine.  You cannot see me, but I haven’t stopped smiling since you told me.  This is going to be good.”        

God, I hope so. 

My kingdom for a nap

Wow.  So, I am going to try and bring this up to date.  But to sum up everything that has happened since the end of January would not really do the story justice, so I am going to try and write every day that I can and bring this insanity up to speed.

At the end of January, Andy and I were doing really well, and we were all on board with his recovery and moving it along.  Although, it was exhausting.  I went to Wednesday night meetings at Impact, Family Education, where they teach you about drugs and addiction and relapse and all that fun stuff that many people who have addicts in their lives are not aware of.  Not to sound like a know it all, but I honestly did not learn much.  Not because it was not informative, I just already knew it.  I worked for three years as a case worker in group homes and rehab facilities that dealt with addictions and depression.  It fascinated me and I would research it, go to seminars, and anything that I thought would be helpful.  I was an English Lit major at BYU at the time, but I found the whole world involving mental illness far more interesting.  Let’s be honest, with most of the great literature out there, the two go hand in hand.  Years later, I find my very own addict.  It was like Christmas!  

I digress…so there were the Wednesday night meetings.  Then, every other Saturday, there were the family group meetings.  This is where the addicts and their families and significant others would all meet together and have a two and half hour group.  Group is basically people just sitting around and talking about whatever is on their mind.  It can be venting, questions to the group, advice, seeking out advice…anything along those lines and obviously the conversations would be directed towards addiction and recovery.  There is a leader of the group that has experience with it all and they will referee because the talk can get fairly heated sometimes.  It ranged from entertaining to pathetic and sad.  You would have family there, without their addict, because he had relapsed and they were just there for support.  Addicts back in rehab, for the second, third, fourth, and fifth time.  Telling their story.  Parents and loved ones asking questions that they will never have an answer to.  “When did he go from experimenting to an addict?”  “How many times will I have to go through this before he is stops relapsing?”  “Why did he do this to me?”  It is not easy to watch someone be bitch slapped in the face by addiction who has no experience with it.  It was hard for me, because it was on a personal level, but it was not new.  I knew Andy never did the things he did to me, he did it to himself and I allowed myself to be in the wake of it all.  It hurt, and I will never let him forget it, but I knew it was not personal.  

Wednesday nights, Saturday mornings…and every other Thursday nights there was couple’s group.  This is pretty self explanatory.  The addicts and their significant others all got together and discussed how their relationship would have to change to increase their chances of the addict staying sober.  The co-dependancy, the enabling, the lack of communication, setting up of boundaries, and all other sorts of behavior.

My life had become consumed with his recovery.  I wanted nothing more but goddamn, I was freaking tired!  Because while I attended those meetings, I was also playing therapist to Andy’s mother.  She works from home and there was so much time for us to talk and all we discussed was Andrew.  I am not complaining.  I cannot imagine what it would be like for a mother.  To have no clue your son even had a problem, let alone, an addiction to heroin.  To know nothing of addiction, and then be face to face with it in your own child, your only child.  You either withdraw into yourself and drown with the addict, or find out as much as you can.  The what if’s will drive you insane.  Playing those scenarios out in your head gets you nowhere.  You can establish boundaries for yourself, and what will be, will be.  God, that is easier said than done.  

Never turning your mind off when you are in the height of their addiction.  They get the escape from their head in their use.  Where is my escape?  I do not get one.  It gets easier, the longer they are in rehab, the longer they are clean, the longer they go to meetings and do not resort to old behaviors.  But it may never go away completely, the worry.  I had to figure out if that was going to be something I could handle, a lifetime of worry.  Was Andy worth it.  I decided he was.  And is.  

And thus, I came to terms with my exhaustion.  It would get better, but it will always be a battle.  It will be us against his addiction.  Us against the world.  Us.  I am good with that.  

What I was not good with was waking up and looking like I just ate a meal.  See, the best thing about first waking up, before I eat, is how concave my stomach is.  Those eight hours without food flatten this short hobbit’s torso out like nothing else.  And here I was, waking up, looking like I do after I eat a large meal.  This was February 2, 2010.  

The morning of February 3, 2010, I woke up, went straight to the bathroom and took a pregnancy test.  I read that your first morning pee is the best.  Well, it must have been awesome because those two little pink lines that gave me the finger before I could even place the cap over the test and wait my alloted three minutes.  

I am pregnant.

…shit.                  

Letter to Rehab #11

January 23, 2010

Dear A—-,

Well, now that I have been able to see you, I do not feel so unknowing.  I can read your letters all day but with the most recent memory of you being this thrashed kid with stitches and a swollen face and damn near running me over in a car that you stole to try and escape detox and rehab…it was hard for those letters to really be felt.  To feel you start to shake because you were nervous when it came to be your turn to talk during the couples group, to watch you offer me coffee and get up to make it for me, to acknowledge how you understood on a very minor level the betrayal I felt when a really good friend of yours in Impact went out and immediately used, all these things and just seeing you sober and genuine was everything I had hoped you would be when I first saw you again.  

I wish we could have talked longer.  I felt like we talked about a lot but then there was still so much that I did not get to say.  But, I will be there at Impact today for family group and soon you will be into phase 2 and will have more visiting privileges.  I remember when Jim asked all of us what we expect from each other when the addict gets out of rehab and you said me and your parents have already exceeded your expectations and you expect nothing.  While that is good to hear and unselfish, I do not feel that you having certain expectations of me is wrong or that you do not deserve it.  As long as they are the right expectations.  And let me tell you what those are.  :)  I would hope that you get to a point where you want this recovery so bad that you expect me to go to Nar-Anon on a regular basis and work their 12 step program.  I am not going to lie and say that is something I am itching to do, but at the same time I am going to listen to every suggestion that Impact has to offer and do it.  I want you to understand that your recovery is now just you but if we are to stay together then it is our recovery.  I expect you to keep me on track as well with meetings and that 5 on 5 thing Jim was talking about.  If my semester off from college that has now turned into five years is any indicator of inclination to procrastination, you will not be the only one that will have to be reminded of how much this is going to take for us to make it, everyday, forever.  

Forever…I want that.  I want your skinny ass next to me when I sleep at night.  I want you to get mad when I heat up in my sleep like a radiator and you throw the covers off and push me over while mumbling about what a freak I am for getting that hot.  My left boob is lonely.  I roll over on my side to fall asleep and you are not there to drape your arm over me and let your hand slip under me to pull me closer.  It does not know what to do with itself.

Well…it is Wednesday, the 27th of January now and I am about to take over some clothes and money to Impact before working the lunch shift.  I feel shitty lately.  I thought seeing you was going to make it easier and not miss you so much.  It made it worse, I think.  Now I can remember how you feel, how you smell, what it is like to have you right next to me.  It is hard to not be with you.   And then on Saturday you walked in and I just knew you felt shitty too.  It was hard to really talk to you about it in private so I left feeling like I was abandoning you.  …it is by no means easy, this whole watching you struggle not being able to see you knowing you are not happy…I fell like there is nothing I can do, but hope and do my meetings.  I just really fucking miss you.  

So your parents are concerned with your look.  Let me write about this without you getting all defensive and feeling like people are worrying about stupid shit right now like your outside appearance when you are struggling daily with your inside.  First, I love you and your appearance.  I love your tall thin frame and the way clothes hang on it.  I love your hair, when you wash it and I can see it not all greasy under your hats, and I love that it is getting longer and personally think that you should grow it out but that is just me and this awesome mental image I have of you being able to pull your hair back like you said you used to.  I love your style and the way slimmer fit jeans look damn good on you.  I love you because I think you are damn good looking and your insides match.  

Your parents do not have a problem with your style.  They have two problems.  They do not like seeing your ass hang out of your jeans and they are sick of the beanies.  That is it.  Seriously.  I talked to them and tried to explain that you were not going to be strolling in in a vest and Dockers…you just weren’t, and they do not expect that, it seriously just came down to pulling your pants up and the hats.  I do not mind either things, not really, just that they make you look young which in turn, makes me look like the weird old chick dating you.  Ok, that brown hat is looking funny because it is so stretched out and beat.  Hahaha…I like hats on you, when the weather or outfit warrants it, but everyday is excessive.  You wear them as though they are a security object, like a kid with a blanket, and you can deny that all you want, but I am not stupid and know that it is a way to hide and be comforted at the same time.  I know what it is to feel shitty A—-, I remember my past.  And I remember my love affair with hoodies and their hoods pulled around my head all the time, tight…fuck, I even slept in my mine.  You took your damn school photo in your beanie with a corduroy jacket.  Plus, you have good hair, really good hair, you should not be hiding it.  

So, I am bringing some clothes today and know you initially will probably not like them.  I hope you actually wear them and see the whole vision I saw when I picked them out.  You, with long washed hair, whatever shirt, jeans  and your sambas or chucks.  Do not judge them by their brands, I went to every store just looking for shirts that I think the colors would look good on you and your skin tones and that would fit better because all the shirts I kept finding were damn boxy and huge and would have looked ridiculous on your frame.  Some of these might not even fit.  If you really do not like them or they do not fit right, then give them back and I will return them.  I hope you you give them a chance though, I am not trying to change your style, and I do not think that these do, I just wanted you to have some clothes since we threw out so many of yours.  Your mom paid for everything so you should thank her.  This took me a long time!  I went ALL over the mall, trying to find things that would look good on you, that you would give a chance, and at the same time, not make you look like you still in high school.  

I am also putting some face stuff in the bag.  You can feel like a fag all you want or be ridiculed by other clients…I so not give a shit.  You have good skin and the stress, your lack of sleep, your working in the kitchen…this all has been hell on your skin.  So just every morning and night, wash your face with the cleanser, then use the toner by putting some on a cotton ball and wiping you face and neck, put on the regenerist next on your face and neck, and then the moisturizer.  I can already hear you rolling your eyes but tough shit.  

You can be down and think everyone is harping on you, or that I think you are bad looking or what the fuck ever…but I am telling you what it actually is.  It is me, seeing you hurt and worry and struggle, it is me not being able to talk to you when I want or hold you or be held by you, it is me watching you trying to fix everything on the inside and there is nothing I can do.  You are the only one that can fix what is broken inside of you.  It physically hurts not being able to help you, not see you, not touch you…all I do is wonder and worry and wait.  So this is all I have to feel like I am doing something.  If I don’t, I will lose my mind.  So let me help your outside.  You just work on the inside.  At some point, the two will line up.  I am trying to work on both my inside and outside as well.  I really let myself go to shit at the end there.  It is impossible to be going what we have been going through and not look haggard.    

…and frankly, we are both too good looking to be walking around together not flaunting it in everyone’s face.                               

I love you and miss you.  All.  the.  time.  The distance is killing me.  I do not ever want to have do this again.  I hate us being apart.  

I love you.

me