Belabored Chapter 28: David

“When grace is joined with wrinkles, it is adorable. There is an unspeakable dawn in 

happy old age.” – Victor  Hugo

              “Don’t worry, Hon, I’ll give her a healthy lunch!” I call to Bon. Jess and I wave goodbye while pulling out of the driveway.

              “See that you do!” she retorts with a smile. We both know it’s a promise I won’t keep, but we also know she’ll come home with a full belly and a full heart.

              “OK, little lady, no unstrapping yourself today,” I warn Jess while settling her into her car seat. I toss her “big girl bag” – which, unbeknownst to Jess, contains an extra pair of undies and even a few Pull-Ups©, just in case – onto the seat next to her. "We need to keep you all buckled in, safe and sound, so we can get to see Aunt Mary real fast.”

              As soon as the words are out, I know I’ve blown it. Jess figured out how to unbuckle her car seat awhile back, and I’m much better off if I pretend it never happened. Sure enough, I hear the telltale sound, followed by a mischievous giggle, seconds after the words leave my lips.

              Pulling over, I practice my serious face. Part of the problem, as Bon frequently reminds me, is that the kid knows I think her hijinks are hilarious. Oh, I always win in the end, but I can’t help laughing when she gives me those dimples and tries to look innocent. Bon says I’m “reinforcing unacceptable behavior,” but I’m only human. What guy could resist that angel face?

              “Alright, Jessica Rose,” I begin, using her full name as Bon does when she means business, “we are going to turn right around and go home if you’re gonna pull this stuff. Do you understand me?”

              “OK, Daddy!” she giggles, then attempts to refasten herself. Funny thing: she’s got the unbuckling down pat, but don’t ask her to redo the thing. Then she’s all thumbs.

              “Never mind, Baby. Daddy’ll get it. Your job is to leave it alone. Got it?”

              “Got it!” she squeals, then proceeds to undo it several more times before we take off. Each time, I try to assume the look Bonny gives her that always stops her dead in her tracks, but whatever it is, I clearly don’t have it. I finally have to do a 180 with the car and pretend we’re going back home.

              “No, Daddy, please, I’ll stop!” she begs.

              “No, it’s too late,” I tease, trying to maintain my poker face. “Guess Aunt Mary and Molly will just have to miss out this week. That piano will just have to stay silent and miss your little fingers playing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’ It’s so, so sad, but –”

              Her screams of heartbreak prove I have her where I need her. Not that I like to play that card, but I have to get this to go my way somehow. God knows, I can’t have the cops pull me over and find out I have an unstrapped toddler in the backseat. I could have her watching an X-rated movie on the iPad, no problem, but heaven forbid I bend a safety rule that the government in all its wisdom imposed on parents. What’s the law now, kids have to be in booster seats till they go to the prom, something like that?

              “Alright then. No more unbuckling, or home we go. Got it?”

              “Got it, Dad!” she chirps in that way she has.

              When we push open the glass door, the stench bowls us over as it always does. Jess asks her usual question.

              “Daddy, how come Aunt Mary’s house smells like diapers?”

              “I know, Jess, it’s kinda stinky. That’s because she lives in a nursing home, remember? Sometimes old people have to wear diapers, too.”

              “But why, Dad? Aren’t they potty trained? Maybe I could teach ’em.”

              I will myself not to laugh. Looking down at her questioning eyes and the solemn look on her face, I know that even cracking a smile would deflate her. As I gaze at her creamy, perfect skin, the contrasting image of Tanya’s acne-ridden face involuntarily enters my mind. Before I can catch myself, I grimace.

              “It’s not that, Sweetie. They do use the potty if they can. But some of them can’t always make it in time, and they have accidents like you did that time, remember? So it helps if they have a grownup diaper on.”

              I should’ve known that wouldn’t be the end of it. Lately, Jess has been taking more in, remembering conversations we had previously. It blows me away how her mind is expanding. The first thing she says when she hops onto my aunt’s lap is, “Aunt Mary, do you wear diapers?”

              I try to do damage control.

              “Jess, that’s not polite! We don’t ask Aunt Mary questions like that!”

              My aunt grew up during the Depression, so I guess she knows a thing or two about not taking life too seriously. A boisterous bellow escapes her lips, causing the crepe-y folds of her neck to jiggle like an accordion. That gives Jess permission to laugh, too, and the two of them sit there howling like idiots for a good 30 seconds.

              “Well, I’ll tell you a little secret, Honey Bunch,” my 80-something aunt begins, “I have been known to wear a Depend© when I go on a trip!”

              “Daddy, Aunt Mary wears Depends© when her goes on trips!” Jess blurts out. I make a mental note, once I stop cackling, to tell Bon when we get home. She’ll be relieved to know the rule we taught Jess about not keeping secrets from Mom and Dad has sunk in. Don’t waste your time with Jess Gullickson, child molesters. The news will be out before you can say “registered sex offender.”

              “Aunt Mary, what are Depends©?” 

              This produces more snorts and snickers from the wheelchair, and I give up hope then and there of having any sort of adult conversation.

              The thing I love best about Aunt Mary is her outlook on life. She doesn’t waste time wondering why senseless things happen; she just absorbs them, comes to a place of acceptance, and shares whatever perspective she’s gained with those who are still struggling. For instance, when my brother, Lenny, died way too young, she called to console me. By that time, Al was gone too, as well as my mother. That left only my brother, Jack, and me to represent our family. Aunt Mary must’ve known how unfair it all felt to me. She didn’t say much except she was sorry and she loved me, but at the end of the call, she made herself available in no uncertain terms.

              “Davey,” she said, “You have my phone number. Use it. I’m always here for you. Sometimes you just need to talk to somebody with white hair.”

              I’ve never forgotten those four sentences. I guess that’s why, when she broke a hip and had to move to this God-forsaken place, I made it a point to come visit her regularly. It’s good for Jess and for me. Somehow I feel closer to my parents when I look into that beautiful, wrinkled face.

              “Aunt Mary,” Jess says with excitement, “wanna see what’s in my big girl bag?”

              “I sure do, Honey Bunch. You got any secrets in there?”

              “No, no secrets,” Jess replies solemnly. “We don’t keep secrets, right, Daddy?”!

              “That’s right, little lady!” I affirm, then remember the aforementioned items Bon snuck into the bag right before we left. They’ll do more than give lie to what I just said; they’ll hurt Jess’s “big girl” pride.

              “Hey, Jess, can I see what’s in your bag first?” I say, knowing it’s a dumb ruse and probably won’t work anyway. But it’s all I can think of on the fly.

              To my surprise, she agrees and hands it over. When I peer inside, I see the soft toy that’s lived on Tanya’s bed ever since I moved in. It’s a floppy yellow thing that seems to mean almost as much to her as Ralph did. I think Bon said she’s had it since she was a little kid.

              “Hey, Jess,” I begin, “what are you doing with Fluffy? Does Tanya know you have this?”

              “No, Daddy, it’s Puffy!” Jess counters.        

              “Oh, OK, I stand corrected. Does she know you have Puffy? Your sister will be pretty upset when she sees it’s missing.”

              “No, Daddy, her gave it to me.”

              “Now, Jess, what did Mommy and I tell you about making up stories? That’s called ‘lying,’ and Jesus doesn’t want you to do that.”

              “No, Daddy, her did give it to me. ’Member when I cutted my finger? Tonna gave it to me so me would stop crying. Puffy’s mine!”

              With that, she snatches up the item in question and proceeds to brag on all its wonderful features to my long-suffering aunt.

              At this point, Aunt Mary’s friend, Molly (they refer to themselves as fellow inmates), pulls her wheelchair (they call them their chariots) alongside Aunt Mary’s in the solarium. I decide to table the Puffy discussion, and make a mental note to discuss it with Tanya when we get home.

              “Well, how’s my little punkin’ today?” Molly asks my daughter.

              Jess isn’t crazy about Molly, she tells me, because the 300-pound woman has long, wiry whiskers sprouting out from her double chin. Still, I’ve taught her to be polite, so she answers earnestly, “I’m fine, Molly, and so is Daddy.”

              “Well, I’m glad to hear that, Punkin’, and would you like to play a song today? Would you like to learn a song about a star?”

              That’s the one thing Molly has going for her in Jess’s eyes: she taught piano for years, and gives my daughter an addled coaching session every week. I’m not sure who’s more to blame for the ramshackle-ness of the lesson – Jess with her wiggles and giggles, or Molly repeating the same thing 400 times. Each week she re-teaches her “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” and each week Jess reminds her that she’s already learned it. Molly apologizes, then starts all over again with the same song. The memory section of Molly’s brain is caught in a spin cycle that the neurons simply can’t overcome.

              Jess has a kiddie keyboard at home, and she dutifully fools around on it after the lesson. I’m no help, having the musical aptitude of a turnip, but I always tell her she’s wonderful and that Molly will be proud next time we see her.

              As usual, Aunt Mary smiles and squeezes my hand as we watch Jess pound the ivories. That old upright has definitely seen better days, but it serves the purpose for the hymn sings St. Philomena’s sponsors at the home every third Sunday. The way Jess talks about it, you’d think it was a baby grand; I guess, compared to her mini-Casio©, it is.

              When Aunt Mary starts to nod off, I know it’s time to go. I scoop up Jess, cue her to say goodbye, and cart her off towards the exit with my usual promise of chicken nuggets and fries. In minutes, we find ourselves out in the sunshine, away from repetitive piano lessons and the pungent but well-earned smells of humanity.

Belabored Chapter 26: Tanya

“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.” – C.S. Lewis

            Life stinks.

            That’s my considered opinion, after 18 years on this dreary, nonsensical, unfair planet.

            Mom and David are gonna put Ralph to sleep. He’s my dog. I love the way he curls up with me in bed. He even lets me cradle him like a baby, which i­­­s no small undertaking – he’s a big, awkward amalgamation of fat and fur. I don’t even mind when he grabs my spot when I get up for a drink or to pee. He looks at me with those devilish brown eyes and moves over when I tell him to. He understands everything I say to him. More to the point, he understands me.

            He loves to wait for me at the front door. We have a glass paneled storm door that Ralph loves to look out of, like a sentinel or something. One time we forgot to lock it and Jess ran out when no one was looking. Ralph somehow knew she wasn’t safe and howled his head off to warn us. I can always hear him barking in that low, moany voice of his when I pull up in the driveway. Then he gets all excited and wags his tail when he sees me coming up the walk.

Ralph’s pretty much my best friend. The thing I love most about him is when he’s lying down on the rug and I’ll say to him, “You OK, Buddy? Are you good, Ralphie?” and then he’ll wag his tail at high velocity like a windshield wiper. Doesn’t matter how many times I ask him; he never gets tired of playing the game.

And, oh, how that dog can eat! Doesn’t matter what or when. We actually have to keep the kitchen trash can off limits in the cellar way so he can’t get into it. Once Mom got an emergency phone call and had to leave in a hurry. She had the trash can out in the open because she was tossing scraps into it as she was cooking. When she came home, he had knocked over the whole thing and strewn chicken bones, potato skins, and other disgusting debris all over the downstairs. We had to call the emergency vet because we were afraid he might have eaten some of the bones. Let me tell you, it wasn’t a pretty sight solving that problem. Let’s just say the back yard got well fertilized after that disaster, and guess who got elected to clean up the mess. I complained a lot, but to tell you the truth, I love him so much, I would do that and a lot more for him if I had to.

To top everything off, I found out a Christian singer I used to be really into is going through all kinds of divorce drama. His wife’s claiming he has a porn addiction and cheated on her. He doesn’t seem to want to go quietly into the night, and is firing back with all kinds of allegations of his own.

Somehow, with everything that’s going on with Ralph and my body, I decide to take it out on Mom about the singer, Charlie Granger. I know it’s crazy. I should be trying to find out for sure whether or not I’m pregnant, but I keep thinking it can’t be possible. If I go get it confirmed, I’ll have to figure out what to do, and I can barely hold it together as it is.

When I tell Mom about Granger's messy, so-called Christian life, she looks positively stricken. I know it’s mean, but I can’t help snarking at her, “So, what do you think of your God now? His followers sure do a great job of following Him, huh? Oh, and by the way, I haven’t heard from Pastor Kaplan – or anyone else at that church, either, for that matter – since that ‘intervention’ you staged, so please don’t do that again.”

When I turn to walk away, she stops me in my tracks.

“Tanya Elizabeth!” she calls after me. When she starts out that way, I know I’ve crossed the line.

“What?” I growl. I know I’m being really snotty with her lately, but somehow it makes me feel less horrible about Ralph when I bark at someone else. 

Her tone changes. Instead of laying into me, which I deserve, she sort of appeals to me.

“Tanya, Honey, I know you’re hurting about Ralphie. We all are. Believe me, it’s the last thing your fa – I mean, Dave and I want to do. I can see you’re miserable.

“Honey, I’ve been where you are. But, Sweetie, God is only a whisper away. And yes, Christians do disappoint us. Regularly. I’d say, over the course of my lifetime, I’ve been more disappointed than not in the church and the people in it. But I learned a long time ago, I’m not following flesh and blood. I’m following the opposite of those things. If I put my faith in Charlie Granger or [here she inserts the names of other well-known church people], I’d have quit the church a long time ago.

“David coined a phrase which I’ll never forget when we were car shopping,” she continues over the objections I’m starting to raise. “Please, Sweetheart, let me finish. Then I promise to listen to you. Deal?”

“Fine,” I mutter, assuming the most exasperated expression I can manage, and wondering why she called me “Sweetheart” when I’m being so rough on her and her God.

“Thanks, Honey. Anyway, you remember recently when we were trying to find a minivan? Well, I guess Dave’s a better judge of character than I am, or maybe he’s just bought more used cars than I have. Anyway, I was really liking the salesman, and he was giving us a really smooth sales pitch. When he left us alone for a few minutes, I was sort of singing his praises to David. You know what he said to me? ‘Bonny, I can’t afford to fall in love with the salesman.’

“And guess what? He was spot on. We looked at Carfax, and it turned out we’d have been the third owner, the report was full of alerts – the car was a lemon!

“Dave was right. Just because you like someone’s message, or the way he’s delivering it, that doesn’t get you off the hook from doing your homework. You’ve gotta look at the facts, and check out the product itself, not the guy who’s pitching it.

“The thing is, Christians are people, and people are made of dirt – you remember God created the first people from the dust of the earth, right? – which  is why their actions are often so dirty. Let’s face it, so are ours. You of all people know about some of the mistakes I’ve made. But those same mistakes have turned out –” her voice catches in her throat, “well, they’ve turned out to also become my greatest gifts. They humbled me, and somehow God turned around what could have been an awful mess and made it into a glorious girl named Tanya Elizabeth Ritter.”

I grab the opening she’s just given me.

“Oh, so I’m a mess? Thanks a lot! I suppose –”

She surprises me by coming right back at me, but not in a Mom-ish way, just firm and commanding.

“No, Tanya, that’s not what I meant, and you know it. You’re the furthest thing from a mess. You have a lot of growing still to do – we all do – but there’s no doubt in my mind that God has great things in store for you. David and I both believe that. Can’t you see how much we love you? You’ve always made us so proud. And you always will.”

Something in me breaks. I start to bawl like a baby. I don’t know why. I let her put her arms around me, and even put mine around her.

I wish I could tell her I might be pregnant. But how can I disappoint her when she just said I’m the greatest thing since the microwave? To be treating her so rotten, then have her tell me how special I am, then spring this news on her?

I can’t bring myself to do it.

Belabored Chapter 15: Bonny

“So the Lord said to [Moses],‘Who has made man’s mouth? 

Or who makes the mute, the deaf, the seeing, or the blind? Have not I, the Lord?’”

 Exodus 4:11, the Bible

            “Hi, Emma, I’m so glad to see you! It’s been a while. How are you feeling?” I ask when Emma Coughlin shows up in at my office. In truth, I hadn’t expected to see her again. I’ve been doing this work long enough to know when a woman wants out, and this one definitely wants out. She doesn’t have to say the words to me. I can read it in her face, hear it in what she’s not saying. My only hope is the fact that her husband, Tom, seems committed to raising this child, come what may.

“Oh, OK, I guess,” she answers flatly. She looks down at her hands, fumbling with her wedding ring.

            Actually, I rarely counsel expectant moms anymore. My job involves a lot of fundraising and paper work. I do a lot of behind the scenes stuff because we are, in fact, a business, and we do have a bottom line. I also spend a fair amount of time commuting to my job, which is in the city. Most of our clients eke by under the poverty line and have little education to better their circumstances. That’s one of the reasons they consider abortion. They see no future for themselves, let alone their children.

 It astonished me to learn that quite a few churches in our vicinity actually support these moms aborting rather than choosing adoption for babies they feel they can’t raise. Apparently, there’s less of a stigma associated with killing one’s child than giving it a chance to live in someone else’s home. Good thing no one ever told Moses’s mother that, or she might have opted to hold on to her son even though that would’ve meant being slaughtered by Pharaoh’s henchmen. Then who would have led the Jews out of Egypt?

            Tanya’s right; I do preach too much.

            In any event, sheer luck brought the Coughlins into my path for counseling. No, that’s not accurate. I don’t believe in luck any more than I believe in the tooth fairy (although if Jessica asks, I do believe in that gossamer-winged sprite). I think it was a divine appointment. They came in the day before Thanksgiving. Emma said she passes our building on the way to her office, and thought since she had a short day at work because of the holiday, she’d drop in. I later learned her priest put in a good word for us, too. Since she and Tom had met for lunch that day, they came in together.

            I was hoping for a short day myself, as I had stuffing to make, a table to set, side dishes to start, and a three-year-old who wasn’t going to make any of that easy. I had sent most of my small staff home early to get a jump on their holiday preparations, so it fell either to me or the wallpaper to welcome these folks. I said a quick prayer asking the Lord to put more time in my day (I swear He’s done just that on some crazy mornings when I couldn’t get out the door) and dove into the trenches with Emma and Tom.

            They returned once after that, and I haven’t seen them since. Frankly, I feared the worst, but seeing Emma today gives me hope. Her belly looks fuller, but her face, sadder.

Like I said, I’m really not a counselor. But I’m a veteran of unplanned pregnancy, and well acquainted with fear.

I wait patiently for Emma to speak. This is the first time she’s come in without Tom, and I’m thinking she might feel freer to say what’s on her heart if I don’t press her. I’ve learned there can be great value in silence.

After a few minutes, tears start to fall. She angrily brushes them away and apologizes.

“Emma, would it be alright if I gave you a hug?” I ask gingerly.

She hesitates, then nods. I hold her for what feels like a long time, then sit back down in my chair.

I decide to risk it.

“Wanna tell me what’s happening?” I venture.

More tears.

“The baby has spina bifida. Well, you knew that, right? Well, we were hoping they’d be able to do surgery in utero, but that’s not gonna be an option. Certain things have to be – oh, it doesn’t matter, you don’t need the details, just take my word for it, they can’t do it. They won’t do it. So that means he’s gonna have hydrocephalus, too – do you know what that is? In the old days, they called it ‘water on the brain.’ So they’re gonna have to put a shunt in his brain. That’s a tube that drains off the extra fluid. Oh, and the shunts don’t last forever, so he gets to have more surgeries when that happens.

“Bottom line, we’re gonna be stuck with, I mean, we’re gonna have a kid that’ll walk temporarily if at all, need tons of surgeries, have to have catheters and enemas all the time ’cause his plumbing won’t work –”

“Excuse me, Emma. I notice you keep saying 'he' and 'his.' Does this mean you’ve found out your baby is a boy? Oh, sorry, I shouldn't have interrupted.”

“No, that’s OK. Yeah. Yeah, it’s a boy. My little guy, Kyle – he’s been calling him Matthew, so I guess that’s his name. Do you have any more tissues?”

“Here,” I say, handing her the box. “You can hold on to it. There’s plenty more where that came from! Please, go on.”

“Thanks,” she sniffs. “Well, my husband, Tom – you met him – he’s being the Rock of Gibraltar. Says everything’s gonna work out. He has it in his head that we’re gonna train our two older boys to come alongside us and help with their brother, that we’ll all be this big, happy family of overcomers, and then when we’re too old to take care of this kid, our older boys are just gonna swoop in and take our place. Can you believe that?”

“Hmmm,” I begin. Emma jumps in while I’m pondering my response.

“Tell me, Bonny, do you think that’s fair? Or even realistic? Seriously?”

I pray, Lord, give me wisdom. I have no idea what this mother wants to hear, and even less what God wants me to say.

            “I don’t know,” I say finally. “I don’t know your boys – they’re very young, aren’t they?”

            She nods.

“Yeah. Four and two. Well, the older one’s almost five. But I don’t know how they’ll turn out, whether they’ll want to care for a disabled brother or not. The other thing is –” Emma breaks off momentarily, then continues, “The other thing is, I don’t want to care for a disabled baby! I don’t want my whole life turned upside down by a child I never asked for in the first place! When I did accept that I was pregnant again, I wanted a girl! Doesn’t anybody care what I want?!”

Her outburst startles me, but I know it’s important to remain calm. I study my aching fingers and wait for her to continue. She looks at me expectantly.

Tag. I guess I’m “It.”

“Emma, you came here for a reason. Why, do you think?”

She blows her nose and swears.

“I have no idea, Bonny! I had nothing else to do on my lunch break – God knows, I can barely eat these days – so I figured I’d stop in, I guess. Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“No offense taken, Em. Go on.”

She blows her nose and continues.

“Well, we’ve been doing our homework, you know, we got in touch with some of the agencies you sent us to last time. Remember you gave us that list?”

I nod.

“Well, I found this other group online. Prenatal Partners, they’re called. Oh, and then I contacted the Spina Bifida Association, too. They have a Facebook page for parents of spina bifida kids, and one thing led to another, and we got to talk to this woman who was born with it, and that was really helpful. The woman’s name is Lisa Jane – she told us to call her L.J. – and when I talked to her I felt sort of, I dunno, stronger somehow. Like, because she’s been living with it all these years, and she’s really amazing, maybe our baby would grow up to be amazing, too. Y’know?”

I nod.

“She didn’t pull any punches, either. Told us she had tons of surgeries like our guy will have to have. Even told us she maxxed out her insurance a couple of times! Said her parents had to get a lawyer to make her school district get on board with helping her. Like, the school didn’t wanna put in a railing outside so she wouldn’t fall going down the steps on her crutches! Stupid stuff like that. Oh, yeah, and she said she gets extra hot because her body’s thermostat doesn’t work right, and the school would complain ’cause she had to wear tank tops, like as if that’s the worst thing a girl can wear these days, and –”  

Emma’s voice trails off. I wait.

“Here’s the thing. This woman, she has the best outlook. And she’s so smart. Got through college – well, it took her a long time, but still – she just never gave up on herself and never quit. I’m trying to remember how she put it. It was something like, ‘Some people think my life is all misery and woe, like an Edgar Allan Poe story.’ But she said she doesn’t see it that way. She figures everybody has bad moments, not just disabled people.”

Another pause. I leave the lull alone.

“She did admit she’s having trouble finding a job. Like I said, she graduated college, but y’know, it’s hard for most people to get jobs these days, let alone someone with a disability. She’s pretty plucky, though, said she’s not giving up. She said something really inspiring, too. I’m trying to remember how she put it. Something like, ‘God didn’t bring me through all my surgeries and help me get through college so I could sit around and complain about how tough the job market is!’”

I nod and smile.

“She gives a lot of credit to her parents. Apparently, she has this really awesome family where everybody helps out, not just her mom and dad. She has, I don’t know, two or three brothers and I think a sister. They know someday she may need to live with them – the parents are pretty open with the rest of the kids – and they’re working on a plan where they’ll help her in shifts, sort of. The parents built an addition onto the house where everything’s handicapped accessible, so she can do a lot more for herself. She’ll still have to get aides from the outside and all, but she’s just OK about the whole thing. Doesn’t feel sorry for herself at all. Very practical, really.”

I nod. Seems my best sentences in this conversation are unspoken.

“The best thing, though, and I think this is what really got Tom – the best thing she said was along the lines of, why rule out a person’s potential based on a possible prognosis? I mean, her parents knew before she was born that she was gonna have problems. Just like us with Matt. But they just figured, what with the way technology’s always changing and all, I guess they figured, why not give her a shot?”

At this point, Emma looks at me as if she expects a response. Again I pray. Then, right in the middle of this intense conversation, the Lord zaps me with a revelation.

Maybe if I pray before talking to Tanya, things will go better.

I compartmentalize that information into the maternal section of my brain and mentally shift back to professional mode.

“So all this sounds very encouraging, Em. That’s wonderful! I’m proud of you for doing all that research.”

Ouch! Why did I say that? This is a grown woman I’m talking to, not one of my daughters. Guess I haven't completely shifted gears after all. Fearing I’m coming off condescending, I try another approach.

“So it seems like you’re pretty upset today, though. You were very honest a little while ago about not wanting to raise Matthew. Do you wanna talk about that?”

Her eyes fill up again.

“Well, just because L.J.’s family has all the money in the world to remodel their house and all, Tom and I don’t have that kind of money! We don’t have thousands of dollars to be putting in wheelchair ramps and buying special vans and taking time off from work to run this kid to doctor appointments all the time! I have a fulltime job and so does Tom! Our kids are in day care as it is! What day care is gonna jump at the chance to take on Matthew? This whole thing is just impossible! I don’t know how to do spina bifida, and I’m pretty sure I don’t wanna learn! Oh, God, why can’t I do this?! Some great mother, not wanting to raise her own child!”

She breaks into heaving sobs. Her already running mascara slides down her cheeks in an ashen trickle. She wipes her eyes with an overused tissue and takes a deep breath.

Lord, what do I say now?

If she’s expecting me to join her in beating herself up, she’ll have a long wait. I know firsthand the kind of doubts mothers feel when confronted with an unplanned pregnancy. I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like when you find out, on top of that, your child will never do all that typically abled kids do, and may not even live very long.

I take a gentle tone and wade in.

“Emma, you are where you are. No amount of self-flagellation is gonna change where you are. The important thing is you’re researching and moving forward. What’s the next step, do you think?”

She smiles weakly.

“I don’t know, Bonny. I mean, they have more tests lined up. I swear, if they ultrasound me one more time, my bladder’s gonna release Lake George all over that office! And those MRI’s, I feel like I’m in a coffin. Can’t stand ’em. I’ve used up all my personal time from work, don’t know if they’ll let me use sick time for all these visits. Guess I could ask HR. Thing is, it’s pretty hard to stay on top of things at work with all this going on. And the boys, Kyle and Kevin, my guys, they’re great, but I’m so wrapped up in my, I don’t know, pain, I guess, that I feel like I’m not there for them. Tom’s being an absolute saint and I almost want to kill him for that. How can he accept this so easily? Why isn’t he furious with me?!”

More crying. I get up and put my arms around her. Professionalism be hanged, this girl needs some TLC.

“Oh, Honey, how could he be furious at you? You’re –”

“No, you don’t understand, I want him to be furious with me, not at me! We should team up in our fury! We have every right to be furious! Why can’t he see that?!”

Suddenly, she laughs at herself, and I take a chance that it’s OK for me to laugh with her. Before I know it, we’re hugging and I’m telling her I don’t have all the answers, but I’ll be there for her.

She smiles and says she’d better clean her face and go back to work. I walk her to the door and ask if it would be OK for me to call her to see how she’s doing. She says she’d appreciate that and gives me her cell number. We hug once more and say goodbye. 

I think about my own two girls with their working limbs and unshunted heads, and breathe a prayer of thanks.

Belabored Chapter 5: Bonny and David

     "Who, being loved, is poor?” – Oscar Wilde

            Tanya and Chuck took the baby to the playground yesterday. That’s another thing – I’ve got to stop calling her that. Poor child keeps reminding me she’s not a baby, she’s three and a half (that half really means a lot to her), goes to the potty all by herself, even picks out her own clothes.

 I’ll be 40 next month, and Jessica will almost certainly be my last child. It’s hard to let go of the concept of my own fertility. Makes me feel old. When I moan about it to Dave, he smiles and says he loves every wrinkle, something no woman wants to hear.

            The way Tanya tells it, Jess took off for the swings like a rocket the minute Tanya unhooked the straps on her car seat. I guess that’s when the diaper bag fell off the back seat, spilling its contents all over the grass. Oh, that’s right, I’m not supposed to call it that. Jess wants me to call it her “big girl bag” now that she’s out of diapers. Whatever. It still comes in handy to carry snacks and juice, and makes for a nice dumping ground to shove things in when I run out of room in my purse, which is most of the time.

Apparently, I neglected to remove the coin filled baby bottle Colleen Caspar gave me last Sunday for the pregnancy center’s fundraising drive. I stuffed it into Jess’s bag and forgot all about it. It must have rolled under the car or something, because when Chuck repacked everything, he didn’t see it. Dave and I went back to the park to search for it, but no luck. Some undeserving kid probably has a nice chunk of change in his piggy bank now. 
I'm so mad at myself. The pregnancy center works on a shoestring budget, and we could have used that cash, especially with Christmas just around the corner. Colleen had even stuffed some paper money in there.

            Dave says I have to let it go, and he’s right.

            “Earth to Bon. You in there, Bon?” my husband jumps into my reverie. I look up from the onions I’m slicing for Thanksgiving tomorrow. Don’t ask me why, but Dave loves creamed onions.

            “Oh, yeah, I’m fine, Hon. Just thinking about the baby bottle again. I know, I know. It’s over and done with, but still.”

            He smiles indulgently and starts cutting up the carrots I hand him. My husband’s the first to admit to being a consumer rather than creator of meals, but he’s more than willing to help out. We have some of our best conversations under the fluorescent light in our antiquated kitchen. It’s on Dave’s long to-do list to hang the new one I picked out, but given his level of handyman expertise, maybe I’m better off waiting.

Suddenly, I catch a distinct twinkle in his eye.

            “Dave Gullickson, what’s up with you?” I say with mock suspicion.

            “Oh, nothing that a kiss from a ravishing woman can’t get out of me,” he teases.

            “Oh, yeah? Well, if I see one, I’ll send her right over.”

            “Now, that’s enough of that, Mrs. Gullickson – oh, Lord, how I wish I could’ve given you a more normal name!”

            I agree, but I’ll never tell him that.

            “Listen, I took you for better or worse, for richer or poorer. If I had wanted a guy named ‘Smith,’ that’s who I’d have married. So let’s get off of the name subject and tell me what’s up with the Cheshire cat grin?”

            “Alright, alright, you wormed it out of me. It so happens that today was a banner day. I’m about to show you something that I have a feeling is gonna make you forget all about the pittance in that bottle. Now, all I need is that kiss so I can show you what I have in my pocket.”

            Every once in a while, I like to catch Dave off guard. I know he won’t expect me to lunge at him with my eyes full of onion tears. So that’s exactly what I do.

                                                                        ***

“Whoa, woman, give a guy a chance to protect himself!” I snort when she grabs for the letter. Actually, it’s a “paid in full” hospital bill for a longstanding debt she incurred before we were married. When she reads it, she breaks down in tears – real tears, not from the onions – and hugs me so hard I almost disgrace myself.

            The bill goes back to when Tanya was five or six. The poor kid had broken her arm and needed surgery to have it set right. Bon’s insurance has always been lousy, and she still owed almost two grand when I married her. I’m not Sir Galahad, but I try to do what’s right. Getting Bonny out of debt comes under that category.

            “Oh, Dave, what a great Thanksgiving present!  I’m so glad this is where we were headed!” she squeals as I kiss the top of her head. That’s something I do often, since I’m 6’2” to her 5’7”.

            She’s referring, of course, to the unforgettable conversation we had the night she asked me to marry her. You heard that right. Bonny’s no shrinking violet, and she knows what she wants. Oh, my lips popped the question, but Bon brought it to the table.

She opened the subject by asking coyly, “Dave, where are we headed?”

Her attempt at subtlety amused me, so I decided to tease her.

“Why, home, of course,” I responded with a rogue smile.
            “Dave Gullickson, you know perfectly well what I’m talking about!” she grumped, mock hitting me on the shoulder as she did so. That’s a mannerism I find endearing; I joke that she should find a support group to help her kick the habit.

I looked her right in the eye and said, “We’re heading for the altar. We both know that.”

She smiled, then frowned.

“What’s the matter, Bon?” I put to her. “I just asked you to marry me. Why doesn’t that make your day?”

“Oh, it does, Sweetie! Nothing’s the matter. It’s just, well, we’re not exactly setting the world on fire with our salaries. Are we gonna be able to make it with kids and all?”

I pulled her close – well, as close as the bucket seats in my 2005 Honda Civic would allow. I bought it new when I got out of college and landed my first real job in graphic design. It’s getting a little long in the tooth now.

“We’re gonna be fine,” I assured her. In the back of my mind, I was having a lot of the same reservations she was, but I knew we loved each other, and that would make penny pinching a little easier. I’m not one of those romantics who believes love conquers all, but neither do I think wealth makes for happiness. Too often, I’ve seen just the opposite. Look at Hollywood.

So we tied the knot, and part of the package in my mind was Tanya’s outstanding medical bill. I told Bon not to worry about it anymore, and took over the monthly payments she had been struggling to make. I added a little extra whenever I could, and after three and half years, the deed was done.

“Dave Gullickson, you are the sweetest, most wonderful man who ever walked the earth!” she crows as we continue prepping for Thanksgiving. As usual, I chop and she cooks. My idea of haute cuisine is my signature tuna salad, the secret ingredient being just the right amount of wine vinegar, but the girls don’t want to have that every night, so I humor them by pretending to enjoy the amazing meals Bon turns out. My jobs are things I can’t get into too much trouble with, like peeling potatoes and tearing up bread for stuffing.

“That’s what they tell me,” I say in response to her gushing. “So how was work today?”
“Oh, it was good. A little sad. A woman came in today with her husband. They’re

looking for hope ’cause they just found out their baby’s gonna be born disabled. May

 never walk. They don’t know where to turn, so they came to us.”

“Man, that is sad. I can’t imagine what we’d have done if that had happened with Jess.”

“Or Tanya, for that matter,” she reminds me.

“Oh, sure, of course, but I mean, I wasn’t around then, so I’m just thinking of Jess.”

“I know what you mean, Sweetie. Anyway, we referred them to some agencies that deal with their child’s disability and gave them a few pamphlets. We told them we can help them out with diapers and things like that, clothes even, if they need it. I don’t think they’re gonna take us up on our offer of counseling, not that we have much to say that could cheer them up at this point, but we just hope we can steer them away from abortion.”

“Y’know, Bon, I’d like to know what you could say to keep them from going that route. I mean, you know I'm not for it, but in all honesty, what a burden.”

“Well, the good thing is they’re religious. They attend a Catholic church and their priest actually sent them to us. Works out better when ministers don’t try to tackle these sorts of problems long term. They can’t be experts on everything, but this is all we do, day in and day out. We know who to connect them with, the mountains they’re gonna have to climb. We don’t just say, ‘Don’t abort; God doesn’t like that.’ We come alongside them and stick with them.”

This is Bon’s passion, but for me, it’s just part of our bread and butter. But I do know this: I meant what I said to Bon. I wouldn’t want to know how I’d react if something like this came my way. I consider myself a God-fearing man, but this is one trial I’m glad He didn’t see fit to send me.

I guess my eyes are starting to glaze over because Bonny changes the subject.

“Listen, let’s not talk about work. We have so much to be thankful for. Two healthy kids, a nice home, one less medical bill, thanks to my wonderful husband, good jobs where we make a difference – oops, there I go again, talking about work!”

“You do good work, Hon,” I reply, then turn my attention to hacking up celery for the stuffing. 

“No, Sweetie, it’s gotta be minced fine, like this. Remember how I showed you last year?” Bon says, smiling indulgently and taking the knife from my clumsy hands.

Belabored Chapter 1: Tanya

“It’s not time to worry yet.”

 – Atticus Finch in Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird

“Tanya, honey, are you sure you need more potatoes?” Mom asks with emphasis on “more” and an eye on my protruding gut.

            Since I loathe being reminded about my weight, I answer with a resounding, “No, I probably don’t need more, but I did want more, and thanks for embarrassing me in front of the whole family.”

            With that, I haul myself up from the table and stomp out of the kitchen, ignoring her apologies and pleas for me to stay. I thump up the stairs to my room and slam the door. I throw myself onto on the bed and swing my size 10 feet onto the comforter, taking great pleasure in not removing my shoes because that annoys Mom.

I refuse to let tears come.

My shirt is high-waisted, and when I lie on my back, I can see how flabby my stomach is. It literally ripples like jello. We read an article in my ecology class about how whale blubber can be boiled down to make oil. I don’t know about whale blubber, but I bet my belly fat could power a whole village for about six months. Mom’s advice about the potatoes has brought all that up, so I do what I always do when I get to feeling awful about my body – I mentally compare myself to some of the massive girls I go to school with. Lucy Draper must weigh 250 pounds and carries herself like an orangutan. Somehow it makes me feel better to envision her in the dress she wore last year to the junior prom – a flowery nightmare that accentuated every bulge.

“Tanya!” Mom’s apologetic voice interrupts my mental image of Lucy swinging her tree trunk arms on the dance floor.

I start to respond, then remember how much it bugs her when I play deaf.

“Tanya, please answer me!” she begs, her footsteps getting closer to my door.

Why should I make things easy on her, when she causes a lot of my appearance problems to begin with? She’s always trying to save money by taking me to the thrift shop. What 17-year-old girl in 2017 America wants to shop in second hand stores? I have a hard time finding clothes that look right anyway because my scrawny shoulders are way out of proportion to my mega-hips.

Mom loves to tell the story of how Aunt Fran almost died having my cousin, Sam, because her hips are narrower than the gate Christians have to squeeze into to make it to heaven. That’ll definitely never be said of my hips! When I see myself in the mirror, my body looks like a light bulb (the old-fashioned kind my stepfather hoards, not those corkscrew shaped deals).  I’m only about 30 pounds overweight according to the doctor, but the BMI charts the gym teachers keep shoving at us every year say I’m obese. Obese! It’s a little disheartening when you’re not even out of your teens, and the powers that be declare you a whale just because you’re too short for your weight.

Mom tries the knob on my bedroom door. I smile, thinking of her irritation when she jiggles it without success. 

“Alright, Tanya, that’s enough. Please open the door!”

Jess screams from the kitchen, “Mommy, do I hafta eat my peas?”

Mom thinks she’s good at multi-tasking, but she gets distracted easily. Even though David answers my sister’s whining with, “It’s OK, Bon, I’ll take care of her,” Mom can’t leave it alone.

“Yes, Jessica, you have to eat two spoonfuls, just like always! You know the rule!” she bellows, instead of letting David handle it.

She lowers her voice but continues speaking frantically through the door.

“Tanya, I don’t wanna play this game with you. I know you can hear me, and I need you to open this door!”

“Fine!” I bark. I rise from the bed and turn the knob to detach the lock with as much defiance as I can muster.

Belabored: Opening Quote, Endorsement and Prologue

Faithful readers, thank you so much for your patience as I worked (with the invaluable help of my tech mentor, Angela Schans) to set up a Facebook page dedicated solely to posting excerpts from my novel, Belabored. The following quote, delivered poignantly by one of my favorite actors, Jimmy Stewart, sums up the purpose of the book:

"And you know that you fight for the lost causes harder than for any other. Yes, you even die for them."*

*Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. Directed by Frank Capra. By Lewis R. Foster. Screenplay by     

           Sidney Buchman. Columbia Pictures, 1939. VHS.

I chose this as my theme quote because many believe the goal of reversing the runaway train of abortion in this country is a lost cause. Perhaps it is, but I want to go on record as doing my part to shed light on the inhumanity of this particularly cruel form of murder, and on how the institutionalization of this horrific practice has affected the generations of children who have been raised in the post-Roe v. Wade culture.

So, without further ado, Belabored!

                                                                Endorsement: 

“Real people with complicated lives are the ones who wrestle with abortion decisions. The challenges and victories and their ripple-effects come alive through this compelling novel.”

      

          – Karen Hess, Executive Director, AlphaCare Pregnancy Center, Philadelphia, PA

             

Prologue: Tanya

“Love is a fruit in season at all times, and within reach of every hand.” – Mother Teresa

          I sit frozen on a hard chair while I wait for my visitor. My eyes are practically swollen shut from the barrels of tears I’ve cried over the past few – what? Hours? Days? Months? I don’t even know what day it is, let alone how long this has been going on.

My chest and belly ache from racking sobs. Though my stomach’s empty, I fight against perpetual nausea. It even hurts when I go to the bathroom. I wonder if this is the start of a UTI.

            He comes in. His dark, wavy hair is tamed back in its usual pompadour-ish way. My grief fog lifts for a minute, and I think for the thousandth time how someone needs to take him aside and bring him up to date on current trends.

He’s gained weight since I last saw him. His head looks precarious topping off that pear-shaped build, like somehow it might just topple off those skinny shoulders and land on the floor next to those gargantuan, smelly feet of his.

His clothes, as always, reflect a tight budget and even narrower fashion sense. At times I’ve been embarrassed by his lack of style. Yet, today he carries with him a strong presence that somehow I never noticed before.

He sits down across from me and leans forward.

            I don’t look at him, but instead keep my eyes on the paint-chipped floor. Slowly, he raises my face and offers me his handkerchief.

Who carries a handkerchief these days? I find myself thinking ironically, followed by, What am I, crazy? Who worries about nonsense like that at a time like this?

“How ya doin’?” he asks.

            “What do you want?” I choke out.

I pick at a piece of loose skin around what used to be one of my fingernails. It’s gnawed and swollen and starts to bleed. I hear Mom’s voice in my head.

Oh, Tanya, honey, you’ve bitten it down to the quick again! Oh, Sweetheart, you have such pretty hands, if only you wouldn’t bite your poor little nails!

            Without thinking, I wrap his clean, white hankie around my bleeding finger. I wonder if he’ll recoil or say something cute like, “Just keep it.” But if he noticed, he doesn’t let on.

            “I came to talk to you,” he replies softly.

            I sneer.

            “There’s nothing to talk about. My life’s ruined.”

            His voice doesn’t waver as he responds, “Oh, no. Your life’s just beginning. And I still want to be a part of it.”

            “Yeah, right!” I smirk. “Well, that’s not funny. It’s – it’s – it’s cruel!”

            “Tanya, don't you get it? I know what you've done, and I still want you in my life."

             He pauses, then adds, "Whaddaya say?"