Three Pregnancies and a Death
In a mediocre, two-bedroom apartment, the beige walls were adorned with minimal photographs and thrift-store paintings. There were a couple of well-worn sofas, and a television that kept the kids entertained. I stood in the kitchen doorway watching my son wiggle and dance to his favorite show, Elmo, on Sesame Street. The usual morning routine, wearing only his Spider-Man underwear, flailing his hands in the air and moving his legs imitating Elmo's tap dancing, repeating "cha, cha, cha, look at this mami".
While my one-year-old daughter accompanied him, in her walker, clapping and bouncing, giggling at her big brother's suave moves. In a trance, I watched them embracing the simplicity, joy, and energy of living in the moment. Their innocence made me envious. Holding the yellow phone on my shoulder, curling my fingers around the cord, I listened carelessly to the melodic elevator music on the end of the receiver until a click chimed, silence, a sigh. "Okay, your abortion is set up" the insurance representative interrupted with a cold tone. My legs felt heavy, an unprecedented feeling; they were always reliable, ready to move, consistently planted firmly in this world. That day, my heart felt like a plant pulled from its roots. Gently, I placed my hand over my stomach. I knelt to the ground, and the noise of the world went silent. "Your abortion is set up," took its place, echoing through my brain, vibrating through my bones.
My father was a strong man from the mountains of Cayey, Puerto Rico; some would call him a jibaro. He told me we needed to massage the meat before cleaning and cooking it to give it a blessing for its sacrifice.
"They just didn't pop up in Shoprite, Tamara," he would remind me if I complained about this ritual.
My mother and my father divorced when I was young, and after a long, complicated story, the final decision was that my father would raise his two children. In my eyes, he was my mother and father; he suffered from depression and alcoholism, yet with all his will, did the best he could. From my first menstrual cycle to buying my first bra, learning the importance of womanhood, my father stood next to me as I asked a female neighbor or friend for guidance. There was always a presence in my life, guidance, and the mantra he repeated to me, "breath, breath, breath, all moments pass".
In that kitchen doorway, I knelt and felt the words wash over my body like a cold bucket of ice water. There will never be time for a meltdown because in the ten minutes, Elmo would be off the television, and breakfast then lunch would soon be demanded by the children. Then it would be a whirlwind of running around the apartment, requests to go outside and play, cleaning, tears, laughter, naps, dinner, baths, screams, bottles, snacks, and finally, by around 9:00 p.m., maybe the possibility of rest. Which then would be engulfed with thoughts of bills, work, etc.
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My first memory of being pregnant was, at 19 years old, during a party at my brother's house. As Mary J. Blige's "I'm going down" played in the background, I sat on the toilet looking at a test that showed two lines. I can't ever hear that song now without thinking of that memory. The father of my baby bought four more tests to confirm it. Everyone at the party was aghast that I was pregnant. My father's words were,
"Well, you made your bed, now you lie in it."
Being pregnant at 19 was a whirlwind. Life as a teen was now at a standstill. The navigation of doctors’ and midwives' appointments and commands often triggered any survival talents I had retained through my traumas as a child: "take these pills, read this pamphlet, do you have a car seat, crib, clothes, bottles, is the father around, are you on welfare, do you have insurance after the baby is born, what formula are you using, get diapers. Oops, looks like your baby is breech. Come on this date to the hospital, and we will do a C-section." There were no explanations or guidance from women. It was more of a "there's goes another statistic attitude"; it was an everyday to-do list, and the repeated words "breath, breath, breath, all moments pass" were what kept my head above water.
On September 13, 1998, my son was born, after doctors administered spinal anesthesia, I lay fully naked in a room of strangers, a sterile drape covering my view, my body numb from the breast down to my toes. A white male doctor comes in, and the first thing I remember hearing is "They are getting younger." A hummed consensus filled the room. I felt a push and pull, the sounds of metal and a coldness that skulked into my bones. There was an odd sensation of having someone pulled from your body and briefly shown to you before they were taken away.
My face was wet and cold from the tears I did not remember producing. The fear and anxiety for myself and my son that coursed through my body felt like boiling water overflowing a pot. "Breath, breath, breath, breath, all moments pass, everything will work out the way it needs to," was the strange voice that coursed through my mind. There was a moment of ease and calm, and I will always believe it was an ancestor, a spirit, a guide, resting their hands on my forehead, drying my tears. I spent nearly three hours in a room before I could finally meet my son. My body ached, and I was numb. I was so young and didn't know how to use my voice. I was confused and scared. I felt forgotten in that room, overwhelmed by the fear of dying, becoming a mother, and disappointing.
The moment motherhood happened; it was one of the three nights in the hospital. In the evening, it was just my son and me. He lay quietly in the bassinet, swaddled and safe. Sitting up slowly, I leaned in and took a good look at his head full of hair and watched him wiggle his legs and arms out of the blanket. Stretching his body, cooing, and babbling, as if he had just experienced the best nap in the world and was ready to go. I remember every part of my body—my legs, breasts, and stomach—feeling swollen and in pain. I looked over to him and said, "I hope you like me." The journey to becoming a mother has been a blend of terrifying and beautiful moments.
My second birth happened on September 7, 2000. My daughter was born, and it was a natural birth. Times were challenging at that time; at home, the children’s father was in rehab. I was dropped off at the hospital while my father watched my son. It's almost hilarious now that many years have passed, and I can laugh at myself. I had one contraction and got dropped off at the hospital. The doctor said, "Well, you should go home and come back when the contractions are closer." I looked at her and asked if I could just wait in the emergency room. I was given a room, and at some point, they put me in a jacuzzi. I remember thinking, "This is fantastic," that is, until the contractions really began. There were women doctors and a kind nurse who stayed after her shift because I was alone.
As I positioned my legs to push, my body felt a burning sensation and an overwhelming surge of power. It felt like a strong wave pushing me to land. Both women in the room encouraged me through my tears. "It's okay to cry," said the nurse. "It's okay to scream, there's a human being coming out of your body," added the doctor. I remember screaming, "What!" in fear, as if I didn't already know this. I held onto the hospital bed bar with a tight grip and listened to the voices in my mind urging me, "Breathe, breathe, breathe, this moment will pass."
The instant my daughter was born and was placed in my arms, she looked at me, then moved her eyes past me and smiled. I looked in the direction she was smiling, and there was no one standing there or anything there. It wasn't until my brother visited that he mentioned he had seen an old woman who claimed to be a psychic. She told him to "Tell your sister she was not alone." As he complained about wasting money on a message for me, I placed my hand on my heart and cried. To this day I truly believe there was someone there with me helping me during my birth.
When my son came to meet his new born sister a strong force penetrated my spirit of motherhood, taking away the fears of blunders and accolades, replacing them with mindfulness.
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Going back to the day I arranged for someone to watch my children so I could undergo the procedure. It was a courage and strength that would always be puzzling. It was a raw and heavy reality, a dark secret, or a choice to live. The male doctor flashed me a reassuring smile, as though we were celebrating a strange victory. "Well, because it's a miscarriage, there's no need to worry, it will come out quickly,” he said, beaming his large teeth, tapping my knee.
I closed my eyes and repeated my mantra, "breath, breath, breath, this moment will pass." Grappling with the loss of a baby, who was using my body as a grave, was already a wretched sentiment. The mechanical action that pumped my stomach felt like a spiritual, synthetic wash. When it was over, he gently tapped my feet and said, “All done!” The words hung in the air, a strange punctuation to a moment that felt utterly numbing.
Deciding whether or not to become a mother is a truly courageous and honorable choice. It is a personal decision, and regardless of the path one chooses, as I've learned in my life, moments pass—just breathe. At 24, I had to plead with a doctor for a tubal ligation. It was a struggle with my insurance, healthcare providers, and even my family. It took a lot of courage to advocate for what I wanted for my body. Now, at the age of 46, I have finally accepted everything my body has endured. I've learned to love and heal it with patience and kindness, to forgive myself, and just breathe.
Written By Tamara Torres