The Blue Water

Here’s another story from the roller coaster that has been my life. I call it,

“Wild Ride Wednesday”.

I had been married to Terry for a year and a half and I finally had to admit that I had made a terrible mistake. I worked very, very hard on that marriage. I know people say that, but I really went above and beyond what Dr. Laura calls the “care and feeding of husbands”.

I could no longer suffer the abuse. I was tired. So, on April 1, 1984, I gave my apartment manager notice. I told her I’d be moving out at the end of the month and Terry would not be moving with me. I wanted my name taken off the lease as soon as possible so my credit wouldn’t be jeopardized.

Somewhere around the middle of the month I started to get nervous—not about ending my marriage—but about the calendar. I was late! I walked to the K-Mart on the corner of Kings Canyon and Chestnut and bought a pregnancy test. I took it home and carefully followed the instructions as spelled out on the neatly folded box insert.

The water turned blue! There was no “First Response” back in the day and blue water was the old school way I learned I was pregnant.

Terry shrugged his shoulders and said, “Well, I guess we should stay together”. Romantic! The news actually did bring a respite from the pain and we were happy for another minute or two.

I believed the baby would change Terry’s drug abusing, womanizing, and selfish ways. Most women in abusive relationships stay way too long. And, FYI, a baby NEVER fixes a bad relationship.

I was sixteen weeks along when I woke up at 3:00 one morning and had to use the bathroom. I was bleeding! I was so scared. Although I knew I wasn’t bringing my child into an ideal situation, this was still my baby and I already loved it. We had even chosen a name!

Terry wasn’t home. He was rarely home. He was a cocaine addict who partied all night and slept all day. I supported us. I lay in bed and prayed and cried. “Please God”, I pleaded, “save my baby’s life.”

My husband stumbled up the stairs and into our apartment at about 6:am. I was still crying. I told him I was bleeding and I was afraid I might be having a miscarriage.

“Good!” He didn’t spend a millisecond comforting me. “You know this baby shouldn’t be born.” I cried, buried my head in my hands, and sobbed uncontrollably. “Listen,” he pulled my arm away from my face and squeezed my wrist, “I know how to hit you in such a way that the doctors will believe it was a miscarriage. If you don’t lose the baby now—I can make it happen.”

Terry twisted my arm behind my back, announced he was going to bed, and walked away. I showered, got dressed, and left for work.

On December 8, 1984, Dallas Wayne was born—full term and extremely healthy.