I remember the night that I sat down with the young man (by then quite a few years older) and told him of my plans. I asked him if he wanted to have a child with me. I warned him all about my alcoholism and I told him that the only way that I could see myself with any semblance of a future was if I had a family of my own to care for. He surprisingly accepted the challenge. I took myself off of birth control pills for the first time in decades. We rented a very small home together and began to plan for a child. I made no mention of this to anyone. Even my closest family members had come to believe that I would never have children. I had spent my entire life harping about the state of the world and how it would be irresponsible to bring a child into such a wretched place. Besides, I had always mused aloud, who would want a child to screw up their weekend plans?
Getting pregnant didn't take long at all! Within three months, I peed on that fateful stick and promptly cut alcohol from life entirely. It wasn't even difficult. I knew what I was there to do, and by God, I was doing it. People were genuinely happy for me, and things seemed to be on the "up". A few months into my pregnancy, with my new, sobering mind, I began to notice that the young man wasn't as intent on change as I had been. He began to spend longer and longer stretches of time away from home and from his newly sober, newly pregnant girlfriend. The majority of his time was spent getting jacked up with his drug addicted boss while they drove around town in a work van avoiding actual work. I would argue, and stomp, and rant as he vowed to "do better for us".
One night near my seventh month of pregnancy, my dad knocked on my door in the middle of the night. My only brother, who I had given a ride to just that day, had been killed in an automobile accident. He was high and drunk at the time. My family unraveled over the next few months. My mom was crushed beyond repair. My dad slid deeper into his own bout with alcoholism. Everything took on a dark cast even as my own mind and body fought for the right to be happily and joyfully pregnant. I didn't properly grieve my brother's passing. It was impossible to focus on it. My mind wouldn't allow it, protectively directing all inward focus on my unborn child.
I contracted prenatal diabetes and my labor had to be induced. The labor was long and hard, resulting in an unusual number of epidural injections over many hours. But my daughter was born a healthy 8.8 pounds and looking JUST like her father. I was determined to be the world's greatest mom, learned to breastfeed and care for her, and created one of the most inspiring nursery rooms that can be imagined on a tight budget. I didn't realize that my doctor had sloppily sewn up my c-sectioned innards without making sure all the icky stuff was out, and then he promptly went on vacation. I contracted a horrible case of gangrene beneath my sutures. I didn't even realize anything was wrong at all until a visiting home nurse came to evaluate my newborn. She oohed and aahed over my nursery and my child, and then before leaving decided to examine me since I breastfed. It was she who put me in her own car and drove me to the hospital, insisting that I be immediately admitted and cared for. She stayed with me for hours, clearly distressed and angry at my doctor, even calling him from her personal phone to his personal phone to let him have it for not setting up my aftercare. To this day, she is my biggest hero. If not for her, I would have possibly transfer the poison from me to my daughter, perhaps fatally. At best, I would have continued to rot until I went back to have my sutures out.
Something about that sickness aged me. It took a long time and many daily hospital visits to pack the wound and promote healing. The scent of death kept me in a state of nausea and unrest. I was somehow never the same after that. I looked older, felt less and less energetic, began to withdraw. When my daughter was six months old, I began to drink again. My new depression opened the floodgates of the loss of my brother. It was during that time that my dad was found to have lung cancer. I lost him, and within a year I also lost my grandmother (who had done more than her share of raising me from my own infancy).
My alcoholism fought a day to day battle with the constant care of my young daughter. I would stay sober long enough for her father to come home from work and then I would drink until I passed out. I spent my days in a perpetual hungover state, caring for my child and alienating from the world, waiting with baited breath for the time of day when I could crawl up into the middle of my bed with a bottle of brown liquor and old, sad music. The young man, my daughter's father, really stepped up to the plate. Despite his own addictions, he cared well for our little girl while I traipsed off to Hell in the evenings. I became a shell of my former self in mind, body, and spirit for the next eleven years.
(to be continued...)
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