But it’s time. I have to write about it now. Because it’s a
very relevant part of my life.
What am I talking about?
Well, I am talking about my big secret. Although it’s never
really been a secret. Just something I don’t talk about. Something I haven’t
talked about. Many of my very close friends know what I am writing about. Many
of my old friends were there. Several of you reading might be shocked. Some
not.
Let me back up a bit.
About a year ago I was sitting at a girlfriend’s house
drinking champagne and shooting the shit. Something I have become quite good
at. This particular girlfriend is very inquisitive. Randomly, and off topic,
she asked, “Joey, why are you so passionate about reproductive health?”
This is a question I have been asked many times, by many
different people. And I have never delved in to it completely and have never honestly
answered the question. Everyone I know just lives with the fact that I talk
about abortion and birth control all the time.
Is this about abortion? Is that my big secret? No. That’s no
secret and it’s not a big deal. Yes, I have had an abortion.
My passion for all things reproductive comes down to one
thing. Choice.
When I was very young I had several choices taken away from
me – choices that have to do with sexuality and intimacy. Sexual abuse and
molestation to the most egregious degree. But that is something that is
difficult for me to talk about and will have to wait for a while before I am
ready to write about it. And that time may never come.
When I willingly became sexually active, at a very early age
(maybe not by today’s standards), I had the choice of getting birth control.
The Tulsa Health Department and Planned Parenthood made birth control options
very available to me. I am thankful for that. I finally had choices that I
could make on my own.
A few years after that, I met the first man I truly fell in
love with. It was romantic. And dangerous. And foolish. And I loved every
minute of it.
I was barely out of high school and headed to college as a
young freshman. I was emotionally immature and as wild as wild gets.
This boy and I fell in love and I quickly dropped out of
college after my first semester. We moved in together and lived a crazy (albeit
fun) life. Not all of it was fun, however.
Here comes the point of this blog …
Soon after dropping out of college, I was pregnant. At 18. I
chose to forget my pills for days at a time (maybe not wisely or even
purposely). I thought I was in love. I didn’t have time for reason or sense.
I remember going to the doctor to confirm what we knew was
fact. And we cried and cried and cried. We thought about all the crazy things
we had done leading up to that point. Drugs, lots of drinking and tons of
debauchery. We knew we weren’t ready to become parents. But at that moment in
time, we chose to try.
Nothing in my past had led me to believe that abortion was
not an option. But there was not one moment that I even considered it. Not
because I thought it was wrong, but just because I didn’t want to have one.
I had never had a normal family life. I was raised primarily
by my grandma, and had pretty much been on my own since I was 16. My mom was a
drug addict and my father was absent and signed over all rights when I was an
infant. In my young, immature mind, I wanted a family.
So we spent the next eight months preparing for a baby. The
only thing that changed in our lifestyle was that I no longer abused my body
with booze and drugs. However, nothing more changed. We still went out. My baby
daddy was in a sometimes touring band at the time and we invited bands to play
in Tulsa and stay with us. It was still a seemingly fun life, although I was
growing plumper and rosier by the day.
My baby daddy (many of you reading this know his name, but
since he isn’t choosing to write this, then I will keep it private) was amazing
throughout my entire pregnancy.
I felt good and positive the entire time. My high school
friends had a baby shower for me. We owned a night club/show venue for a short
time (those adventures could be a blog all on its own) and our band friends
threw us a baby shower, too. Everyone was excited for us.
On February 25, 1992, I went into labor. My contractions
were tame at first. Many (MANY) friends came to the hospital. Our friends Mike
and Liz visited early into my labor and delivered a beautiful bouquet of pink
carnations to serve as my focal point. A focal point is something I needed, as
I had chosen (there is that word again) to have my baby naturally.
The waiting rooms (yes, all of them in the maternity ward) were
full of old friends, family and punk rockers. They were all excited to see what
we had created. Would it be Satan’s spawn?
Early in the evening on 2/25/92, I pushed and pushed (never
once yelled and screamed), and soon delivered a beautiful, perfectly healthy
little girl. We named her Sidney Abigail — Sidney after Syd Barrett, although
spelled differently, and Abigail after Abbey Road and also, Abby on Knots Landing. Not kidding. It
was my favorite TV Show.
Baby Daddy and I didn’t want anyone seeing her until I was
all cleaned up and in my room. This made his parents very angry. Apparently
they threw a big fit in the waiting room. I only heard about it. This should
have been a sign for what was to come.
The pain I felt for the week after giving birth was unlike
any I had ever felt. I didn’t have an
episiotomy, and trust me, I needed one. Mothers reading this might know what I
am talking about. And truthfully, I don’t think my body was fully developed
yet. The pain below was nearly unbearable. And I couldn’t nurse because it hurt
so badly. My boobs got engorged and the pain was sick.
We stayed with my nana for a week after Abbey was born. Nana
helped a lot.
Reality kicked in very quickly and the fact that I was still
a teenager with a newborn was emotionally harsh.
I didn’t have a job, wasn’t in school and I was a hot mess.
Still, I tried. We tried.
What transpired over the next year was rough. Lots of
fighting. Lots of cheating (on both sides). Lots of madness. We were young,
dumb and not at all ready to be raising a child. I can admit it now, but we
were even a little bit selfish. We didn’t want to give up our crazy ways to
properly care for a baby.
I was very emotional during this time. I had never
experienced heartbreak of a failing relationship. It was nearly too much to
bear.
I was madly in love with my child, but worried that I wasn’t
ready to take care of her.
Soon, baby daddy’s parents offered to help. They did look
after her a lot, and when Abbey wasn’t with them, she would stay with her great
grandmother on her father’s side. Baby daddy’s parents offered to put Abbey on
their insurance so she would have healthcare. But the catch was that they had
to have legal guardianship. We agreed. Soon it became a situation where Abbey
was with them more than she was with us.
That’s when we made the decision to do what was best for
her. We would let his parents legally adopt her. Was this easiest for us?
Perhaps. But it was also the right thing to do. We were in no position to raise
a sweet little baby girl.
Giving a baby up for adoption has always been attached to a
stigma. It still is.
(Slight interjection: In a moment, I will post photos of Abbey. You
will pee your pants when you see them, because she and I are like twins. She’s
way prettier, though.)
Her grandparents promised a open adoption (obviously), but
what transpired was anything but. They moved out of town. I became estranged
from baby daddy. I didn’t have a car and I barely had a place to live. I
couldn’t exercise my rights to visit her. In reality, because we had legally
given her up for adoption, I had no rights. And baby daddy’s parents were more
strict as they had promised. I was hurt and angry. My family was devastated.
There was nothing I could do after the decision had been made.
It wasn’t too long before I came out of my funk, got my shit
together and went back to school. I secured several good paying jobs before
settling on my first long term professional job in 1995. During this time I had
lost contact with baby daddy, his parents and Abbey. It was a sad time.
Abbey’s new parents (her grandparents) sent me a letter
(copied baby daddy, my family and Abbey’s extended family on her biological
father’s side) asking me to stop trying to see her – stating that she was
better off and could adjust better if my family and I just stepped back and let
her be. It made little sense to me, but I obliged. They knew her better at that
point. And I didn’t want to harm her.
I began journaling about my experience – hoping that she
would someday want to read it. I sent cards and letters for every holiday and
her birthday to her great grandmother, whom I remained friends with. To this
day, even. She would save them in chronological order for Abbey to someday
read. She had been given strict orders to not let me see Abbey, otherwise, her
visitation would be permanently cut off. Very shitty, as I recall. And to this
day it makes my blood boil.
So as each day, week, month and year passed, I became more
stable. Birth control was something I was very diligent about. I didn’t want to
give Abbey up for adoption, only to get pregnant soon after. How would she feel
if I did that?
I consulted attorneys for the first few years to try to
overturn the adoption. But I always stopped just before filing because I didn’t
want to disrupt Abbey’s life.
I spent a lot of hours reasoning with myself. Keeping it
inside. Keeping my feelings all my own. Over the years I came to terms with it
all. But I never once stopped journaling and sending cards and letters.
When I met Harrison’s dad I sent photos in the cards and
little notes.
Harrison was very much planned and there was a reason I
waited until I was in my 30s to have another child. It was a choice — a very
planned decision. When he was born I would send Abbey photos of her brother, in
care of her great grandmother.
After Harrison’s dad and I divorced, I began dating. I would
tell the story of Abbey to every man I dated. Most didn’t think it was a big
deal. Not like I really dated that much, but still. It was important for me to
be honest and tell them.
In early 2008 I received several calls from Abbey’s
great-grandmother. I was in a new relationship, very busy as a single mother
and work was demanding. She left many messages asking me to call her. Finally
it occurred to me that it might be an emergency — Abbey could be in trouble.
When she picked up the phone and after announcing myself,
all she said was, “Abbey knows. She found the letters and cards.” I was in my
car. At a stoplight. I instantly started crying. I couldn’t speak. I had so
many emotions rush to my head. This is what I had dreamed about. What I wanted
for so many years. I had so many questions.
Abbey and I connected via Myspace and email. I shared it
with my boyfriend at the time, a few very close friends and my mother (who had
been drug free for many years, thankfully).
Still, our blossoming relationship was very private. At
least to me, it was. I wanted to get to know her on her terms. I didn’t push
her. She didn’t want to tell her parents.
Speaking of which, her parents had let her grow up thinking
that her father and uncle were her brothers. She was smarter than that. Still,
I think it a little odd, and slightly twisted. She still calls them her
brothers. Since I am being honest, I will say that it makes me slightly
uncomfortable.
(Note: As angry as I have been over the years at the people
who adopted Abbey, I am forever grateful that they gave up their empty nest
years to love and raise a wonderful, thoughtful, intelligent, smart, kind,
giving child. I will be forever thankful to them.)
Eventually Abbey and I spoke on the phone. And in 2011 just
before my brain surgery, her brother (um, her bio dad) brought her over to my
house to meet me. I refrained from smothering her with hugs and kisses.
 |
| Sidney Abigail - She's obviously mine. |
Still, she was keeping our relationship private and secret
from her parents. I was not in favor of the deception. I mentioned it many
times, but still let her go at her own pace. The ball has always been in her
court.
 |
| Sweet little baby child |
Over the past few years we have built a relationship. I keep
telling her that I will blog about it, but I am slow moving. Which is funny,
considering I’ve wanted a relationship with her for so long.
Also, her bio dad and I have built a friendship. Not a
serious one, but a friendly one.
In October, Abbey texted me, and read me the riot act.
Several pages of angry texts. She had told her parents. They were hurt and
pissed. She was emotional and accused me of not being there for her. She was
right. I wasn’t there for her. I had been very absent last year.
I am getting ahead of myself.
I’ve told the story, now. I am the mother to a nearly
21-year-old daughter and an 8-year-old son. Shocking? Perhaps. But maybe not,
after all, it’s 2013.
Abbey spells her name without the “e.” But I still spell it
Abbey. She and I look so much alike, it’s weird. She is funny and smart. She
loves her little brother. And he loves her. She goes to college.
 |
| Abs and her little brother. |
I will stop here. I am starting to ramble.
I will continue writing about this subject, because there is
so much to say and write about. I have always used journaling as a form of
therapy. This will be no different. I need advice. I am still not used to
having a daughter. I have lots of questions. I went from only raising a young
son to also being the mother of a teenaged daughter. And now an adult daughter.
So, there is much more to come. Much more to say.
The title of this blog will remain Ancora Imparo Girl,
because I still live by that motto. I am definitely still learning.
Stayed tuned for the next blog: I Have a Lesbian Daughter
