Please Don't Let My Baby Die

Today’s Wild Ride Wednesday goes back to early July of 1984. I was married to my ex-husband.

It was 3am and I was lying in bed—alone, pregnant, and awake. This was nothing like I thought married life would be.

I’d only been married eighteen months. Shouldn’t we still be in the “newlywed” phase? The sad truth was, my new husband and I had spent more nights apart then together. He was addicted to cocaine, and chasing the high took priority over me.

I remember how shocked I’d been to discover we were going to have a baby. I mean, I know how it happened, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out when it happened. We were very seldom together. On that hot July night I was sixteen weeks pregnant.

This was in the days before everyone had a cell phone. I lay awake thinking the same thoughts that had rattled around inside my head the night before, and the night before that, and for most of the nights since our wedding. Was my husband alive? Was he in jail? Was he with another woman?

I got up to use the restroom. Panic washed over me. I was bleeding.

My pregnancy was completely unplanned, but I’d heard the heartbeat, and I loved and wanted this baby very much. I started to tremble—only a tiny bit at first. My eyes welled with tears and I soon found myself rocking and sobbing on the bathroom floor. Oh God, please don’t let my baby die.

A few weeks earlier I’d done something I never thought I’d want or need to do—I went through my husband’s wallet when he was in the shower. I scribbled down the woman’s phone number I’d found written on a scrap of paper buried deep in the leather wallet.

I picked myself up off the bathroom floor and stumbled to the phone. I dialed the number. “Hello?” The woman’s voice was soft and confused.

“My name is Liz.” What was I doing? Was I crazy for calling this woman? It was the middle of night, for heaven’s sake. “I need to talk to my husband. Is he there?”

I heard her whisper. “It’s your wife.”

An hour or so later my husband walked in the door. He was so angry. I explained to him that I was bleeding and I was scared. I needed the father of my child to be home with me.

“You know we don’t want this baby. Loosing it would be the best thing that could happen to us.” He turned to me and put his finger in my face. “How dare you go through my personal belongings and check up on me. I’m going to bed. Leave me alone.”

He walked into the bedroom and slammed the door.

I took a shower, sat on the couch, and waited for the sun to come up. At 9:00am I called my doctor.

My husband moved out the next day and we spent the rest of my pregnancy living apart. The ultrasound would show that Dallas was alive and well—growing, moving, and kicking inside me.

A Cracked Christmas Carol

On this Wild Ride Wednesday I’m going back to my first Christmas as a new mom.

I went into labor around noon on December 7, 1984 with my first child. Like all new moms I’d had so many questions and concerns about the whole birthing process. Would I recognize labor when it began? Would I get to the hospital in time? Would it hurt?

The answer to all those questions was a resounding YES!

I’d been married to my baby’s father for two years and there were outrageous ups and downs. My husband (Terry) was addicted to cocaine. The impending birth of our child, however, seemed to balance my husband and I hoped the ugly days were behind us. That (as my blog readers already know) was not the case!

I was concerned about leaving my little apartment when it was time to have the baby. Not only did we live in an ugly area of town, but I also didn’t trust my husband. I wanted to protect our simple home and assets from the unseemly characters that were my husband’s friends.

One of the precautions I took before going to the hospital was to hide the unused checks. I found the small box with four books of checks and their duplicates and buried it deep in the kitchen cabinet inside a rarely used pot. I put the firmly fitting lid squarely on the small cauldron. Surely Terry would never think to look there.

Dallas was born at 4:20AM on December 8, 1984. My labor hadn’t been terribly long, but Dallas entered the world a bright shade of blue and in distress. One nurse swooped him out of the room and Terry went with them. A nurse stayed with me, cleaned me up, and calmly assured me my child would be fine. She was right.

I was not prepared for the flood of love that washed over me. I held my son in my arms and promised him I’d protect him and keep him safe.

Terry left the hospital around 6AM to go home and get some sleep. Dallas and I were taken to the large, noisy maternity ward at Fresno Community Hospital. I spent my first night as a new mom with 20-30 other women, their babies, and their mostly dysfunctional families. I didn’t see Terry again for about 12 hours.

On Christmas day Dallas was 17 days old. Terry and I paraded our beautiful son around to my grandpa, aunt, uncle, and cousins. That first Christmas was magical.

On December 26 I went to the mailbox where I found two notes from my credit union. I saw the words stamped in large red letters—INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.

The hidden checks! I went to the kitchen cabinet and dug through the pots and pans for the box I had meticulously hidden. An entire book was missing!

Over the next several days I received more notices from my credit union. How had this happened? When did Terry write the bad checks and for how much? Where was the money? The clouds of confusion slowly began to part and the light of truth gradually broke in.

When Terry left the hospital a scant two hours after Dallas’s birth, he went home and rummaged around our tiny apartment until he found the hidden checks. Those were the days when we could walk into a grocery store or liquor store and simply write a check to “Cash” and get real money in exchange for the signed note.

Terry had gone to a couple of liquor stores and every Safeway in town where he’d cashed checks in the amounts of $25-$50. The bad notes totaled more than $850. While I was in the hospital recovering from giving birth to our first child, he was hosting a cocaine party. My sister’s boyfriend was the only guest at that party, and the two guys smoked (freebased) a lot of crack.

I had been the sole breadwinner, and only earned $900 a month. I would bring home considerably less money while on maternity leave. Terry called his mom and dad (who were divorced) and told each of them that we had a lot of baby needs—which was true, of course. Each parent sent a couple hundred bucks, but not one dime went to the baby. It all went to cover the hot checks, but it wasn’t enough.

When Dallas was around four months old, a certified letter arrived at our home. Terry was being charged with fraud and there was a warrant out for his arrest. I called his grandmother—a wonderful woman with whom I had a very close relationship. She shuddered at the thought of her precious grandson going to jail, and she sent the money needed to pay back the bank.

When Tom and I bought our home 12 years ago, a search of our financial records revealed that I STILL owed money to the credit union from that one incident all those years before. I think the outstanding balance was about $42 and I had to pay it before we got our loan. We actually paid a couple of my ex-husband’s debts, as the state of California held me responsible since he was MIA.

Ahhhh…life.

Wild Ride Wednesdays

I’m starting a new feature today called, “Wild Ride Wednesdays”. Life’s journey is full of twists, turns, and topsy-turvy rides.

I’ve ridden the proverbial roller coaster of life up to the highest highs, and into the tunnels, crazy dips, and unexpected bends. Along the way I’ve also seen downright crazy stuff. So, I thought I’d tell you one whacky story every Wednesday. And the best part is—they’re all true. Enjoy the first installment of “Wild Ride Wednesdays”.


Cool Breeze of Peace

My little apartment was stuffy and the tiny cooling unit on the wall in the front room couldn’t cut through the oppressive heat. Summers in Fresno, California are ugly. If you don’t have a good air conditioner, you’d best get yourself to a mall, movie theatre, or swimming pool—and fast!

Dallas was six months old, and had been unhappy all day long. I felt sure it was the heat. I gave him a cool bath, filled a bottle with icy water, and put him to bed for the night. I walked past the second bedroom and I heard my then-husband mutter, “You’re in love with someone else”.

He wasn’t going to start something tonight, was he? Really? The heat was stifling both inside and outside the apartment. I just wanted to sit on the couch, watch a little television, and try to stay comfortable. He persisted. “I know you’re in love with someone else.”

I stood in the doorway of the bedroom. The man I’d been married to for 2 ½ years sat at a drawing desk—his back to me. We’d had happy times, and for a few months just after Dallas’s birth it seemed that my husband had been putting his demons behind him. He was waging a mostly losing battle with cocaine.

I’d been beaten down, sometimes physically, but the emotional abuse was the toughest to deal with.

“What are you talking about?” I asked the question, but I didn’t expect a rational answer.

A few months before, I would have been scared. But, becoming a mom had given me a newfound confidence and a burst of courage. “I’m not in love with anyone else”, I said. He wouldn’t turn and look at me, but he repeated the accusation—this time with more force. “You’re in love with someone else!”

“Fine”, I acquiesced, “I’m in love with somebody else. You tell me who.” I wanted this stupid conversation to be over. For the first time since he opened his mouth, he turned to look at me. My husband had beautiful blue eyes, but my heart leapt into my throat when I saw his face. His blue eyes were brown!

He opened his mouth to speak, but it wasn’t his voice. He spoke in a hushed, deep tone, and in slow, deliberate syllables. “I know who you love.”

I felt a calm wash over me like I’d never known before. I walked into my bedroom, lay down on the bed, and prayed. “God,” I said, “I wasn’t talking to a man in there. That was evil. I can’t fight whatever that was on my own. Please, take care of this for me.”

You see...I believe I was talking to an evil spirit, and the “someone else” I loved was God. A few short days later, my husband walked out of my apartment and I never saw him again.

God gives peace in times of storm. On that balmy summer night in 1985, God gave me a cool and comforting breeze.

22 1/2 years later

My 23-year-old son spoke with his bio-dad last week. Despite my hope that the past 22 1/2 years had changed him, I suspect there is little difference. He admitted to a 22-year addiction to cocaine - that can't be good for the body or brain! He says he's been clean and sober since 2004.

Well, the door has been opened. We'll see...