When the time arrives for you to flap your wings and take flight, the world had better watch out for what is about to take place. If they judged you by the other three stages of your life, they were premature in their assessment.
When they see your beauty, they will scratch their heads because you will not look like what you have been through. When they see your beauty, they will wonder who you are. They may even accuse you of being different. Who can go through what you have been through and not be different?
Now is your time to reproduce.
Become a better you.
And help someone else navigate
the same process.
Naomi’s Flutter
* * *
I could not believe Gerald responded the way he did. I thought he would be excited. He said he loved me. I was carrying his child. Our child.
Did we even know what love was?
I never felt it from my momma. Did not know my daddy. Grandma Lulu gave me what she had left after taking care of her own.
Gerald. Gerald did not talk much about his father. The alcoholic who beat him, his mom, and his brother. There was probably nothing to talk about. That wasn’t love.
His mom worked a lot. Probably not much of a connection there.
Neither of us knew what love was.
I returned home from the restaurant and went straight to my room. Flung myself across my rock-hard bed. Buried my head between two fluffy pillows and let the tears flow. Releasing intermittent shrieks. Praying the pillows filtered my outbursts.
I wondered if it was a good idea for me to have flung myself onto the bed. I had a baby in my belly. Not even the fluffy pillows and surrounding teddy bears that comforted me could serve as safety nets. I hoped there was no harm to the baby. An instantaneous abortion was not in the plans.
Sunday morning, I knew I had to have a conversation with Grandma Lulu. I was heading back to South Carolina State University that afternoon. Another long bus ride. Feeling every bump. Seeing every bug. Watching every tree limb.
Sundays were not a good day to talk to Grandma Lulu about anything other than church and the Lord. I pondered whether I should wait until winter break in December. A month later. Four months of a growing baby inside of me.
I could not wait another month or another day. By the time Grandma Lulu returned from all day church service, I would be back at South Carolina State University. I decided to tell her immediately and deal with the consequences.
“Grandma, I’m pregnant.” The words came out so softly. Not even an ant could hear me. But Grandma heard me. Loud and clear. She said she already knew. She knew? How? That was not the response I was expecting.
I wrapped my arms around her. Laid my head in her bosom. Released a horrific scream. Her black and red flannel shirt, long-sleeved black shirt, and white t-shirt absorbed my tears. In that moment, it became clear. All of those clothes had a purpose. To catch my tears.
Grandma Lulu kissed me on the forehead and assured me that things would be okay. It was the most affection I had felt from her in all of my eighteen years.
She never asked any questions. No questions about the father. No questions about my plans. There was no need. She had the plan. She gave me strict instructions that I followed. Step by step. Line by line. Letter by letter.
Grandma Lulu did not want the world to know our business. She was a prideful woman. She told me to go back to college. Finish out the semester. She made it clear that I would be moving to California in December.
California was where Uncle Raymond lived. He was the most responsible of Grandma Lulu’s children. The oldest boy. Her pride and joy. A military man. I knew nothing else about the plan.
On the bus ride back to South Carolina State University, I reflected on my Thanksgiving break. The stories I would tell Kesha. Anticipating the stories she would tell me. How would I break the news to her that I would not be returning in January? What would this new life be like for me? For us? All the while trying to figure out how I would focus on the next few weeks of my academic life.
Hard to focus on my studies.
Hard to say goodbye to Kesha.
Hard to think about what was next.
Even leaving the land with no promise was going to be hard.
Not hard to leave Gerald. He broke my heart in less than thirty seconds. “IT…IS...NOT…MY...BABY,” still reverberated in my ears. He showed me how he felt about me and our unborn child. He did not keep his promise. We had a pinky promise. Me and Gerald. Forever and ever. No promise in the land. Just me and an unborn child.
On my last day on campus, I packed up my dorm and headed to the train station. California bound. I did not know anyone there. Not even Uncle Raymond. He had been in the military for as long as I could remember. Visited Promised Land once or twice a year. Thanksgiving and Fourth of July.
I had to grow up overnight. Yes, being on a college campus was different than being at home with Grandma Lulu. Of course I had to grow up during those four months. But another state altogether? Completely different experience.
Being on a college campus provided some security. I knew I would have somewhere to sleep, food to eat, and things to do. There was no guarantee of this lifestyle in California with Uncle Raymond. He had no children. No wife. Just him. A man I barely knew in a one-bedroom apartment. I had to figure things out on my own. Quickly.
Uncle Raymond greeted me at the train station. A new experience for me. Better than the long, bumpy bus ride to and from Promised Land and South Carolina State University. We gave each other an awkward hug. Not knowing which arm to place on top of the other’s shoulder or which direction to turn our heads. We made it through, and off we went to my newfound world.
Uncle Raymond was gracious enough to give up his bedroom. He was a tall man. Not made for loveseat sleeping. I offered to give up the bedroom so that he could be comfortable. I did not have to sleep in a king-sized bed.
We were always cordial to each other, but we didn’t talk much. He was used to being by himself, outside of the weekly visits with Ms. Shirley who entertained us both with her conversations. She would greet me with a smile and a big hug. I was comforted by her presence.
I was so comfortable around her that, when she invited me to spend a night at her fancy condominium, I did not hesitate. She had more space than Uncle Raymond. Three bedrooms and a lake.
She had an adult daughter who did not live in California but visited often. One bedroom was hers. The other bedroom, Ms. Shirley said, could be mine if I wanted it.
I thought I was only spending one night. One night led to a few months. We visited Uncle Raymond weekly. That was her normal routine before I came along. No need to change it now. Those weekly visits are what strengthened the relationship I had with her.
Uncle Raymond seemed relieved. I am sure his king-sized bed was more comfortable than the loveseat, although he would never admit it. He did what he could to make me comfortable, and I appreciated him for that.
Living with Ms. Shirley had its challenges. I was in a foreign city living in a foreign condominium with a foreign lady. She did not remind me of anyone I knew from back home. She was tall and slender with a low maintenance haircut. She loved to eat healthy foods and often reminded me that I was eating for two. I knew I was eating for two. But those two people needed more than white grapes and cardboard-tasting granola bars to stay alive.
Ms. Shirley made sure she fed me healthy meals. She enjoyed cooking and trying out new recipes. All I knew from my southern upbringing was fried chicken, very cheesy baked macaroni and cheese, potato salad, and Grandma Lulu’s good ole collard greens. A yummy meal, laced with love.
I’m not saying Ms. Shirley’s healthy foods were not laced with love, but I was not familiar with asparagus, baked salmon, and herbed oven roasted red potatoes with unsweetened red grapefruit juice on the side. It all tasted good. Even though I was getting rounder with the baby growing inside of me, I could feel the pounds falling off.
; Ms. Shirley went for a morning run around her condominium complex. She tried to get me to join her, reminding me of how necessary it was to keep my girlish figure during and after pregnancy. From time to time, she and I walked around the community lake and fed the mallards. But no running for me. Fast walk. Slow walk. And, over time, no walk.
Outside of making sure I ate healthy, Ms. Shirley ensured that I received the best medical care. Time was moving fast. Months five and six of my pregnancy went by quickly. I was uncertain about what I would do about the baby, and she encouraged me to visit the local crisis pregnancy center.
I did as Ms. Shirley suggested. She had not led me in the wrong direction yet. When I shared my story with the intake counselor at the crisis pregnancy center, she provided me with resources that I took with me and read on the car ride home. Included in those resources was information about adoption. I contacted one of the adoption agencies. A viable option, given my circumstance. An open adoption was my preference.
I also met with a nurse when I went to the crisis pregnancy center. She asked if I wanted her to perform an ultrasound. Because of how far along I was, she wanted to listen to the heartbeat. She squirted a clear, cold gel on my round belly. Then I heard that special sound. Reminding me that something was growing inside of me. The heartbeat of my baby was very strong.
I laid there. Dreaming about the moment of conception. The closeness I felt lying beside Gerald. The decisions we made to stay connected despite me going to college. The proof of my love to him. My baby was created in love. A love I had never felt before. A single tear rolled down my cheek.
The magic wand was removed from my belly, and I heard nothing else. I kept the sound of my baby’s heartbeat in my memory. I clutched the ultrasound printout. A baby girl. I did not see female parts but I trusted what the nurse said. My baby girl.
The days continued to go by swiftly. I was still uncertain about what I should do. I had options. Give the baby up for adoption. Keep the baby myself.
I remembered the intake counselor telling me about the many resources the crisis pregnancy center could offer if I kept the baby. She told me about pampers, clothing, car seats, and strollers that people donated to help mothers. She also told me about a support group for moms and weekly Bible studies. For a moment, I thought keeping the baby was the best option.
I was able to find an obstetrician. Ms. Shirley was kind enough to chauffer me around to my prenatal appointments. She waited with me until a nurse called me back to check my weight, blood pressure, and temperature. The highlight of my doctor visits was the magic wand placed on my belly so I could hear my baby’s heartbeat.
The regular doctor’s appointments increased in number as my pregnancy was drawing to a close. Not only was my pregnancy drawing to a close, but I was becoming fully aware that the baby I was carrying was no longer going to be my responsibility. Mrs. Ruth and Mr. Kevin could provide a better life for her. She would be in a two-parent household. Nothing I had nor could provide for her. They were looking forward to seeing their beautiful princess in less than two months, and I could not renege on my agreement with them.
An open adoption worked for me. Worked for them. Worked for Victoria. My princess. Their princess. My baby girl. Their baby girl.
My metamorphic journey to greatness transformed me to be a mother to Victoria, a daughter to Ms. Shirley, and, eventually, an obstetrician to many women. I stayed in California to complete my education and only visited Promised Land, South Carolina, on Thanksgiving and Fourth of July. I never connected with Gerald again. Momma came home most Thanksgiving holidays, and Grandma Lulu continued to show her love in the meals she cooked for all of us until she passed away from a heart attack. After her sudden death, I made California my permanent home and no longer visited the land with no promise. My life had been transformed because of Grandma Lulu. There was no reason to visit that place again.
Isabella’s Flutter
* * *
It was time to share the good news with our parents. Carlos shared his news immediately. He didn’t have a hard time sharing the news with his mom like I did with mine. I waited a few days. Had to collect my thoughts and map out a plan.
Saturday afternoon. A day when the house was usually empty. Most people ran errands or enjoyed a breath of fresh air. Except Dad. He was usually studying for his Sunday sermon. I knew I was not going to tell him before I told Mom. I would not even tell them at the same time. I had to tell her first.
Mom came home from work. The house was quiet. I paced in my room. Pondered what I would say. How I would say it.
When I had it all figured out, I tiptoed to Mom’s bedroom. Dad had fallen asleep on the sofa in the living room. I did not want to wake him with my heavy walking or the creaks of the wooden floor. I wasted no more time.
“Mom, I have some good news and I have some bad news. Which one do you want first?”
Mom cut her brown eyes at me, making it clear she was too tired for games.
“Isabella, just say what you have to say.”
She headed to the bathroom. I followed her. When she got to the bathroom door, I dropped the bomb right before she closed the door in my face. Good news. Bad news. The news.
“I’m pregnant.”
Mom fell to the white and black checkered floor. I didn’t know what to say or do next. She crawled to the bathroom door and slowly shut it in my face.
I went back to my room. Back to pacing. Abortion? Not an option. Adoption? Not an option. The only option was to keep my baby.
Nothing else to do but call Carlos. He was at work, of course. He would need to get another job or pick up more hours to take care of me and our baby. Surely he would do that for us. Being our provider was his goal.
Thirty minutes later, Mom stopped by my room. “No baby is coming into this house!” Her loud outburst woke Dad.
I prepared myself for the next storm. He came to my bedroom door, stood beside Mom, and inquired about the commotion.
She forced me to tell him. He walked away. Dad was not much of a talker, except when delivering his sermons.
The pregnancy destroyed my relationship with Mom. We used to talk every day. We were inseparable. After I told her the news, she barely spoke to me.
A week went by. No real conversation. Good Morning. Good Evening. That’s it. Nothing more. Not even, “How was your day?”
I continued to go to school. Continuing my studies was important. For me. For Mom. And for Dad. Baby on the way. Determined to succeed.
One Friday morning, as I was preparing for school, Mom asked me to ride with her. I was excited. I thought she had finally come around. We would be inseparable again.
I did not know the ride was to go kill my baby. We arrived at the abortion clinic. Abortion? No abortion. Kill my baby? Absolutely not. Why wouldn’t she tell me that was where we were going?
Mom signed me in. We met with the nurses. They took me to another room to change into a blue garment that had all these strings. I did not know the front from the back. It did not matter.
I was already confused. Everything happened in slow motion. There were a whole lot of questions from people I did not know.
Blood pressure, check. Temperature, check. Finger in me, check. Too much.
Then came the most crucial question.
“Do you want to have an abortion?” Everything stopped. I had a choice? I didn’t know I had a choice.
I began to cry profusely.
“No. No, I do not want to have an abortion.”
“I cannot go through with the procedure if you do not want to have it.”
The nurse allowed me to sit in the room. Get myself together. Make sure that was my final answer.
What would Mom say?
What would Dad say?
What would Carlos say?
The drive back home was long, although we were only twenty minutes from home. Mom started crying. Why was she crying? I should have been the one crying. I saved a baby I did not know how I was going
to feed.
“I was you,” she said. “Sixteen years old. Senior in high school. My mom took me to an abortion clinic. I had to do it. There was no question. I walked in pregnant. I walked out not pregnant. It was a boy.”
That was all she said. We both cried all the way home. I never knew I had a brother. She never told me. I never heard her talk about it, and we never spoke about it again.
Mom supported me throughout the rest of my pregnancy. She made sure I found a good doctor who would deliver the baby. She went with me to every appointment. Carlos was not able to go because he had to work, but he was right by my side when our baby was born.
Rafael Carlos Martinez was born on September 30th. Seven pounds. Four ounces. Nineteen inches. Dark curly hair. Ten fingers. Ten toes. All mine.
Mom and Carlos were in the delivery room with me. Carlos’s mom was outside in the waiting area. It felt great to have them all supporting me through the labor pains. Carlos stroked my hair and spoke calmly in my ear. Mom coached me to believe I could make it through the contractions.
Carlos smiled when they said, “It’s a boy.” It was the second time I saw him smile. He was a proud padre.
Graduation from high school was the next milestone. I started homebound classes so I could stay on track. No college plans were in my future, but I knew I had to achieve my goal. High school graduate. I promised myself I would. Mom and Dad required that I did. No matter what.
I attended the graduation ceremony. Our entire household was there rooting me on. Of course, Carlos and Rafael were there too.
“Isabella Nicole Hernandez.”
I walked across the stage with my head held high and looked directly in the principal’s eyes when he shook my hand and congratulated me on a job well done.
I could not see my family, but I could hear them screaming my name. I clutched the medallion that swung around my neck as I walked down the steps and looked up toward the ceiling.
The Metamorphic Journey Page 5