2 posts tagged “narrative”

“Laureen was twenty-three hours,” Mom says, sipping at her coffee as she looks across the table.

“That’s nothing,” Shirley laughs, shaking her head. “Aaron was thirty-four. They finally had to give me a caesarean.”

Mom winces.

I have heard these stories before, but trading birth stories seems to be a badge of honour that will never make sense to me. Who wants to brag about being in pain for that long? It gives me a sick feeling in my stomach and I wrinkle my nose, trying to ignore the bitter scent of coffee and cigarette smoke that never fades.

“A caesarean is easy, at least. No pushing.”

“Longer to heal though.”

“I don’t want to know.” I swallow, and look up from my book, My Sixth Grade Teacher Is an Alien. They both look at me and laugh.

I really don’t. I don’t need to hear about giving birth and having babies because that’s gross. I’d rather just read, but my sister has already gone to bed so the only place I can is right here in the kitchen where mom is.

“Why not? You’ll have babies some day.”

“No, I won’t.” I gag dramatically. “I don’t even like having a sister and brother, why would I have kids?” There’s a pause as I look back down at my book. “Besides. It’ll hurt.”

“You forget about the pain.” Not like I believe them, not after hearing them bragging about how painful it was.

“No, thanks! I’m never gonna have kids.”

“You’ll change your mind.”

But I won’t. It’s a promise I make to myself right then and there. I will never have kids. I don’t want to be a mother, and I don’t want to give birth. I want to be able to do what I want forever without having to worry about some dumb kids holding me back. I deserve that, don’t I?

At least that’s what I think. But as I get older I start to wonder, I start to think maybe it would be okay, maybe kids could be kind of… I dunno… fun, maybe. Kids could be all right, as long as I had them with the right person, like maybe Kevin, the cute boy from my class. So when my mom asks me to babysit for her friend I think, hey, practise. This could be okay.

“Fuck you,” Sheldon, two-year-old brat from hell shouts at me.

“Come on, you need a diaper change, kiddo,” I grit through my teeth, refusing to take another breath in because, man, this kid reeks. If I’d known babysitting would involve changing dirty diapers and having to deal with temper tantrums like this… I would never have agreed. Mom does not need to play bingo that much.

“I don’t wanna! I hate you!”

For a two-year-old the kid has got quite the vocabulary, and I wince.

Babysitting reminds me how much I hate kids. I promise myself again. Never. Ever. Have. Kids.

My promise works for five years, until I graduate high school, and find myself stumbling into a serious relationship. It’s love, I’m sure, and one night—one stupid, stupid night—we forget to use protection. I’m swept away by the stars above my head, grass prickling against my back. It’s romantic and sweet and could have been torn straight from a Harlequin. It’s perfect.

One month, two months later I take a test and my dreams shatter. I wanted to do something with my life, go to college, get a career… Instead, I’m pregnant and my path twists and churns as I drop out of college—one week after being accepted. Losing out on this chance for my future hurts, and I’m bitter and resentful and I hate this.

“How could you do this to yourself?” Mom asks, unhappy, unimpressed. This, being pregnant, was never in my plans for the future. It was never in my parents’ plans for myself. She wasn’t supposed to know yet. I didn’t want her to know. Not yet.

Dad is even less happy than Mom was. “How are you going to be able to afford this?” I’m silent. I don’t know the answer, not really. “Babies are expensive. Diapers, formula, clothing…” He keeps going on, listing how expensive things are, and I flinch as though every word is a blade.

He’s right. Kids are expensive and this one… it’s wrecking my life. It’s ruining my future. I hate it, I hate this. But I got myself into this mess, and I have to live with it. I’m going to resent it, though. Nothing can change that. I will resent this baby, I do resent this baby.

It only lasts until I see my baby in black and white, shifting and moving on a screen in front of me. I’m going to be a mother. Somehow that seems more important than school right now.

On my eighteenth birthday, I go out for dinner with a small group of friends. A nod to being an adult, perhaps, or an attempt at being responsible. My evening does not end here. From the restaurant, we go to the Purple Onion, a small bar just off Whyte Avenue, and I flash my ID at the bouncer.

“Happy birthday,” he says as he is handing me back my ID. I open my mouth to thank him and it’s too late, he’s already moved on to the next person in line.

 I’m eighteen, I’m officially an adult and it feels so good, so freeing and irresponsible and reckless that for a moment I want to drink, to act like every other eighteen year old I know.

I don’t.

I drink orange juice and I dance, ignoring the acrid stench of spilled beer and cigarette smoke. When it becomes too much I move towards the doors, open to allow the chilled fresh air passage into the darkened bar. The dance floor is a mass of shifting, harried bodies that twist and grind to the pulse of classic rock and new pop, the music overloud and bass turned up too high. When I miss the taste of alcohol I kiss my boyfriend, and in his mouth, I find the lingering traces of rye and coke. Remember this, I tell myself.

I turn eighteen and it’s a short pause in my life as a mother.

My life doesn’t change overnight. It’s a steady process full of hard decisions that I know I need to make. It hits me in Safeway, when I bypass the cookies and pick up bananas—“According to your blood test, your potassium is low,” my doctor tells me, his accent rich and warm and soothing, even as I’m trembling and terrified of the implications. “You should eat some bananas, if you like them. You’re taking your vitamins still, right?” I’m all right, my baby is all right—I’ve begun to make conscious decisions for my child’s health.

Oh, I’m not perfect. Is anyone? I still drink pop, but I’ve stopped drinking coffee. It’s a give and take kind of situation. I trade in some of my poor habits for healthier ones, but some… some I can’t give up.

When I’m three and a half months pregnant the gut wrenching morning sickness changes from one breathe to the next. I have almost gotten used to the need to vomit at any smell, regardless of how fond of it I had once been before being pregnant; God only knows how many times I’ve had to beg off on cooking supper because the smell of raw meat makes my stomach clench in horror. I have spent this time exhausted, queasy, and generally unhappy. For all the pain and sorrow I’m going through, I thought I would have something to show for it, but instead my stomach is nearly as flat as it has always been.

I stumble into the tiny kitchen of our apartment, the smell of freshly brewed English Toffee coffee fills the air, and instead of the urge to vomit, I find myself inhaling deeply. The scent floods my senses with a sense of peace and homecoming, taunting me with its nearness. The rich warmth of the smell of coffee caresses me, a gentle touch that reminds me of cold winter nights curled up in front of the fireplace.

I glance over at my boyfriend, ready to share my thrilling revelation with him when I pause, caught up in his easy beauty. It is as though I am seeing him for the first time all over again, and I smile. Sleep clings to him, eyes hooded against the light of morning, shadow covering his strong jaw. “Beautiful,” I breathe, and as he takes a sip of his coffee, I swallow heavily.

There, clinging to his lower lip is a drop of coffee lingering, tantalizing, taunting, and tempting me. Soft, wet brown on the pale pink of his lips, caressing them, leaving behind a trail of heavenly coffee flavour. It torments me as my vision narrows until all I can see is those lips, with that single drop of coffee that hangs poised, before the sight of his deep pink tongue darts out to catch the drop breaks my vision.

Without thinking, I lean forward and catch his lips between mine, halting the progress of his tongue, savouring the first taste of coffee to pass my lips in three months. It’s a perfection that I hadn’t expected, the taste of the coffee bursting in my mouth, flooding it with the taste of English Toffee. It isn’t the same, getting coffee second hand, but it’s better than nothing and I sigh, relaxing.

I ask the doctor for permission to take up yoga again, the gentle stretches relaxing and helping to maintain my stress levels. I slip back into the movements as though I had never stopped practising, a flashback to being a child and doing yoga with my younger sister as a warm-up before we would go to gymnastics. The older woman on the television never failed to amaze us with how flexible she was, and we would follow her instructions, laughing the whole while.

I press up into a back arch, my stomach lifting towards the sky and I swallow slowly, head dipping backwards as I relax into the movement. Breathing slows, my heart rate drops as I just am. Beside me, my sister is giggling, watching as I shift my five-month pregnant body, abdomen finally swelling with new life.

“You better have the baby before my birthday,” she tells me in all seriousness.

“Why?” It never fails to amaze people that I have retained my flexibility so easily.

“Because I have to be fourteen still when you have her!”

When I lower myself to the ground at last, it is with a laugh as I turn my head to the side. My sister and I look at each other and we smile. I am becoming a mother, and yet I have never felt closer to my sister.

I go for walks, and I take long, hot baths. I read, water swirling around me as I take the opportunity that was never mine before. One bathroom and a large family meant that relaxing in the bath was not an option, not something I could do without inconveniencing everyone else. Now I devour books as I soak in the tub, stopping often to drain and add water, keeping the temperature hot enough to turn my skin red. It isn’t a punishment, a way of hurting myself. I love the heat, the way it drains the tension out of my muscles and leaves me limpid and relaxed. I love to read, and I have the time right now. Time that I know will fade when my baby comes.

When the heat of summer is too much I lay on the couch with the fan cooling the sweat upon my body and I take naps. In the background is the hum of talk shows and soap operas, legal dramas where justice is served, and after an hour the show is over and the loose ends are tied up. These shows are a mindless break in the monotony of the day-to-day. The house is clean, supper ready to be cooked, and I have nothing else to do with my time. My kitten bats at my toes, and I grin from my place on the couch. Everything is slowly shifting and coming together. My life is changing, and taking a different path than the one I swore it would take, but I can’t find myself caring about the changes any longer. “Everything happens for a reason,” I tell myself as I roll over, toes moving away from the kitten. My eyes close and I listen to the children playing outside my patio door. Soon my child will be here.

I refuse to allow people to smoke around me or in my house. I hate the way it smells, even more than I hate the way it lingers on my tongue, bitter and acrid. The choice is for me, I don’t want to smell it or taste it in the air. But the choice is also for my baby. Carrying it within me affords some protection, but not enough. I have read the statistics; hours spent scouring the Internet as well as reading my mother’s nursing textbooks. I devoured the knowledge, the information, and I refuse to take the chances with my child. The change isn’t so difficult. My parents stopped smoking years ago, and the few friends I have who smoke are happy to step outside instead. The only time I have problems is when I go out, and I’m so far along now that going out is no longer the pleasure it once was. I would rather stay at home, cleaning and relaxing, getting ready for the child who will be here, home, soon.

I have become the perfect example of a young, conscientious mother-to-be.

“You never used to want kids,” my mom tells me, drinking the coffee I have made for her, as we sit at the dining room table. She laughs, reminding me of all the times I swore I would never get pregnant, would never have a child. “You said it was gross.”

“It is!” I laugh with her, one hand dragging across my swollen stomach as I sip at my juice. “The whole thing is gross, but…” I trail off, waving my hand in an attempt to say with my body what I cannot with words.

“It’s worth it,” she agrees, smiling.

“It’s gonna hurt.”

“You forget the pain, afterwards.”

I’m not sure if forgetting the pain is worth it, if it will really help as much as my mom seems to believe it will, but I only have her word on it. And she is right. It is worth it.

“I’m going to be a mom.” Tears sparkle, blurring my vision. I’m due any day now. Any time, in fact, if my doctor is to be believed. Five centimetres dilated, and it could happen soon. It frightens me and thrills me, and I wonder if I’m ready.

My mom leaves, hugging me and promising to be there when the time comes. I believe her.

Three in the morning, I am lurched out of bed with the urgent need to use the bathroom. It takes me ten minutes to realise that my water has broken, and it is time. Despite all my promises to myself, the sworn vows that I would never be a mother… the time has come.

I’m going to be a mom.

Today I ask for help for the first time in my life. Today I take charge and latch on to my future. It is a thrilling and terrifying moment that I have worked towards for so long that I never believed it would happen.

"Don't talk about blood, or the emo boy over there is going to go cut himself," my friend snarks, eliciting a quiet, if awkward, laugh from the people around her. It is a stereotype that the only people who cut themselves are the emo teenagers—you know the ones. They sit in their dark, possibly painted black, bedrooms listening to The Cure and writing bad poetry about how no one has ever liked them. These are the teenagers who have one or two spare suicide notes lying around "just in case," so obviously these are the only people who harm themselves.

I'm laughing, too. Just the same as everyone around me, but if my laugh is a little more brittle and forced, then who is to know? Because the fact is, I don't fit the stereotype of the emo teenager and yet I have a strong history of self harm. It goes great with the depression and anxiety.

I am twelve when I cut myself for the first time. My best friend and I are sitting in her bedroom for yet another sleepover. I have spent the night so often that I have my own toothbrush and clothes here. I have no need to pack a bag or prepare at all. Normally we spend our time watching anime and listening to music. If her brother is gone, we sneak into his room to read his comic books. Tonight, though, is different. Tonight we have chosen to stay in her bedroom, and for the first time we each hold a knife and cut into our arms. We have no intention to kill ourselves. The silence is broken by the sound of our breath catching, hissing through our teeth as we mark our arms with our own names. When we first talked about it, it seemed like a good idea. Now, I am not so certain. I never have been fond of pain.

It does not take long for the blood to bead and rise to the surface and I stare, fascinated. It hurts still, and my name is so much longer than my friend's, but the endorphins—a word I have only just learned in class—are starting to rush and I am left with a heady feeling of weightlessness. There is a sense of peace and relaxation as I close my eyes and breathe out slowly. Life, once so hard that I felt this need for pain, suddenly looks so much brighter, so much fuller, so much more. Pain is the answer to my problems, I decide.

Pain is not always an escape, I eventually learn.

I collapse at work when I am twenty-one, a sudden pain in my chest that is rushing through the left side of my body. I am found twenty minutes later, late coming back from my break, by my supervisor who was sent to find me. I am rushed to the hospital with a suspected heart attack, and all I can think of is my two-year-old daughter at home with my mother.

The wait to see a doctor is terrifying in a way I have not experienced before. I am alone in a waiting room, surrounded by sick and injured people, only the ache in my chest and arm for company and compassion. My throat rattles as I struggle to breathe. It seems the air around me has turned syrup-thick, sticky and sweet as only hospital air can be, and I find myself choking on every breath I take. When I am finally admitted into the back, the doctor barely looks at me before writing on my chart.

"What you've experienced is an anxiety attack," he tells me. The look in his eye says that I have wasted his time and I flinch. I work in a high stress job, I admit. A call centre that provides technical support is an understandably stressful place to work, but I am ashamed that this stress has translated into this pain.

I leave the hospital feeling lessened by my experience and turn back to the painpleasure of a knife. It helps for a time, until I experience another anxiety attack. And then another. At my mother's request, I turn to my family doctor and she prescribes Ativan, a small white pill, barely the size of the head of the pins I remember my mother using when she had the time to sew. I slip it under my tongue and I am lost. This is not the last time I lose myself to the medication.

My attacks continue to come without warning, just a sudden shot through my chest as my teeth grind together, leaving me gasping and fumbling for purchase even as I am fumbling for the Ativan. It is such a tiny pill for the relief it brings—like a shot of whiskey, according to one person, or like smoking the good weed, according to another. I would not know; I have never smoked weed, and never been fond of whiskey. What I do know is that the Ativan leaves me in a haze and removes the pain. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, each breath sparking golden hot as I draw it in, coming out mist-black with anxiety and depression and anger and hurt.

Exhaustion overcomes me, drowsiness pulling at my eyelids and tugging them downwards: another side-effect of the Ativan, one that I welcome. Insomnia is an ongoing concern, one that I have come to expect—if not welcome—with open arms. I can often be found joking that the only reason I have managed to complete many assignments on time is a direct result of my insomnia.

Right now, insomnia is not a problem.

I collapse into bed, eyes closed tightly as my mind races. I cannot stop thinking any more than I can stop breathing, and it is almost physically painful in a way that the anxiety attack was not. I can breathe freely now, but it is not enough. With every breath I take my mind races, tumbling down through half-formed thoughts and ideas.

I run my fingertips over the smoothbumpy wall, writing words in the hope that I might remember them come morning and wakefulness. Is this what an opium haze feels like? The thought is etched across the paint by the touchdrag of my finger and then it drifts away, lost in the sleep-slurred mess of my imaginings. My last conscious thought is of a knife, steel glorious and tempting, urging me to seek relief in harm, in cutting myself again.

Morning after is fuzzy, the drug taking its time to clear my system even as I stumble drunkenly. I need to squint in order to place my legs in the holes of my pants, and dressing becomes a chore of epic proportions. I know the words traced upon my bedroom wall by the way my fingers remember them and I sit in front of my computer, furiously typing before they slip away for good. The vision of the knife remains, a temptation I long to resist and yet long to give into. My nails scratch across my arm, digging in along the scars I bear, and I catch myself, surprised and appalled at my subconscious behaviour.

Ativan has its flaws, and being addictive is one of them, so I make it a point to use them sparingly. I prefer meditation or yoga to calm myself as much as possible instead. Insomnia returns when I stop using the Ativan, and I am left fatigued and drained even as I toss and turn, unable to sleep. I lose all sense of who I am, twisted and torn apart by depression and anxiety. Realisation comes slowly, a painful process where I learn that I can no longer do this alone. I need help, surprise, surprise.

I finally make the decision to go see a doctor. The trip is riddled with anxieties and second, third thoughts. The wait gives me fourth and fifth thoughts. Finally I am brought into the examination room. I look at the doctor—his brown hair, brown eyes—and for the first time I talk. I talk about how I can't sleep, can't concentrate, can't breathe, how I'm not myself anymore. Help. Please, help me. And he listens. This is the strangest part. He listens, and it's like my Ativan, dragging away the stress and anxiety as he agrees to help me. Together we work out a plan—not for me to be free of these issues, but a way for me to manage my problems. The relief is so profound I begin to cry, startling myself.

When I leave the doctor's office I smile, relieved and at peace.

Today, I find hope.