Through a Mother's Eyes

Today is a day full of memories.  Most of which I wish I could forget.  My younger of two sons was born 40 years ago today. Please read my previous post to know the status of my non relationship with this young man.  It is one of sadness and abuse.

I'm going to celebrate today, though.  Not because it belongs to him.  But because it is a day I triumphed through a very difficult 9 months.....

My first son was two years old when I learned I was pregnant again.  I was thrilled. At 11 weeks of my pregnancy, I went for an ultrasound.  Alone.  I was not part of a marital couple who participated in such important appointments together.  I was married to an abusive man who wanted nothing to do with anything that wasn't about him.

So  I went to my ultrasound appointment and sure enough there was something in between the legs of the image on the screen - and the nurse confirmed I was having another boy.  A girl would have been nice, but honestly I was never a girly girl - I loved being a boy Mom.  And after suffering a previous miscarriage, this baby was ultra special.

I went home to our apartment where my two year old was napping as his father was watching television.  And I was beaming because I was told by the medical staff that everything looked great in the imaging.  I relayed this to my husband and he asked if they could tell the sex yet.  I told him it was a boy.  We were having another boy.

Wham ! I remember the back of his hand slamming my face as I stumbled into the refrigerator in our kitchen.  I went to grab the refrigerator handle to steady myself when my husband grabbed my wrist, squeezing my finger backward.  The shouting - all the shouting....he was screaming at me that he was not having another boy.

"There is only room for one son in my business (Foodirect, formerly P & L Provisions)!  I will not have another son - and there will be no room for him in my car.  You piece of shit!"

I don't know how I did it, crawled maybe.  But I got to a phone and called my parents.  I heard my son crying in his crib.  I was badly bruised, my finger broken.  I don't know why I didn't phone 911 but it was probably because I was terrified of the man I was married to.

On the phone, as I cried out of pain and fear, I told my mother what happened.  She said to wait, they were coming.  With a police officer.

My husband ran.  He left our apartment immediately after hearing me speak of what he did to me.

My parents came to our Yonkers apartment and helped me pack up myself and my toddlers' things.  My son and I left to stay with my parents.  I sought medical help for the injuries my husband inflicted on me.  My unborn child was okay.

I was not told I could press charges against my husband.  The officer merely escorted us down to the car and off we went.  My toddler and I settled into my parents' house in Rye Brook, which would be our home for the next year.

My husband was not worried about us.  He didn't care to find us, or know our plan.  My father found a divorce attorney for me and after a consultation, I decided to just keep that on hold for the time being.  Looking back, how I wish i would have listened to some people about filing for divorce immediately.  But I was a mother of a two year old with another on the way and everything terrified me.

At 16 weeks of pregnancy, I had my cervix stitched.  My doctor was worried about me carrying my son to full term because of what happened with my first delivery.  I had my first son 4 weeks prematurely.  I did not tell Dr. Beals that it was because my husband had pushed me down and hit me the day before my water broke....but it was certainly a probable cause.  Back then, I did not speak of the  physical abuse I endured.  The first time I ever told anyone anything was when my parents picked me up this day of the ultrasound - the day my husband exploded because he did not want another son.

My father was a very passive man his entire life.  He never stood up for himself so I know now that he was incapable of standing up for me.  But I wish I had the kind of father you see in movies who go and beat up guys who mess with their daughters.

Anyway, I was grateful for the escape to safety and some peace.  And I prayed so much to have my second son and for his good health.  Sleeping on the couch in my parents' family room for all those months was worth it.  My two year old slept next to me in a portable crib my mother purchased for him.  We made their home ours for the next few months.

Eventually, my husband figured out where we were and contacted me via phone.  We didn't have cell phones back then.  He called my parents' house.  I believed I had to let him see our two year old who was about to turn three, so I permitted him to enter my parents' home only when we had supervision.  I was still scared of what he would do to me because he did not want this baby I was carrying in my belly.

My husband made promises.  He apologized.  All so we did not get a divorce.  He started visiting us weekly.  Still under supervision as I would not be alone with him.  And he wasn't even interested in the fact that his son wasn't living with him anymore.  I guess he was enjoying his single life too much.  

The time came when my doctor recommended a scheduled C-section, as my first son was delivered by C-section three years before.  I was to pick a date.  I chose March 22.  

I did not have affectionate parents, mind you.  In fact, they were pretty cold.  My mother was not kind to me - her behavior toward me would have gotten her jail time in this day and age.  You see, I grew up getting hit.  Until she drew blood.  Probably undiagnosed bipolar, my mother always had erratic behaviors.  My father was the Art Director for IBM, so he traveled nine months out of the year when I was growing up and was mostly not around.  I got used to being called ugly among other things.  I was accustom to getting hit.  Thus, I married an abuser.  After years of therapy, I now know that is not uncommon.  But I pledged to myself and God, that I would do everything in my power to never be anything like my own mother. 

On March 21, 1985, I had a small overnight bag packed for the hospital.  My now three year old was to stay with my mother while my father took me to the hospital in Bronxville, NY.  My father drove me to the ER entrance of St. Lawrence Hospital and did not get out of the car.  As I opened my car door, the hospital staff greeted me with a wheelchair and whisked me away.  No kiss from my father, no words were exchanged.  I will never forget how he didn't even move from the driver's seat of the car.  I was on my own.

My husband was well aware of the date I had chosen for the delivery as well as the date I was to arrive at the hospital.  He did not care.  He asked no questions all during my pregnancy and removed himself from anything relating to this baby I was about to have.  He did not show up at the hospital, even though I had asked him to.  He said he was "busy."

I was on my own.  I had paperwork pre registered and was wheeled to a private room.  Now all there was to do was wait for the morning.  My delivery was set for 8:30 AM.  

At 6 AM on March 22, 1985,  I awoke to a familiar face.  Someone did show up for me!  It was my dear friend who was also a PA.  She was given permission to take care of me pre-op.  This person cared.  It is bringing tears to my eyes just remembering the joy of seeing her there for me.  No one else came.  As a matter of fact, this really pissed off my friend.  My in laws weren't there, my parents weren't there...but especially the father of my baby did not show up.  I told my friend that my husband said he was "busy."  No, you just can't make this shit up.  My friend also remembers it all.  She picked up the hospital room phone and in front of me told my husband to "Bite the bullet and get your ass to the hospital!"

He told her he was "busy."

I remember being wheeled into the operating room and crying.

And then I remember waking up to this precious little soul who entered our world at 7 pounds 11 ounces.

His father finally did come to the hospital.  On his own time.  Not when I needed him.

I eventually took my husband back, moved into a house together that we built in Bedford, NY, and sustained another 14 years of injuries due to the domestic violence.

So, here you have it.  Happy birthday - on my son's birthday but to celebrate me.  I carried him to term.  Alone but not alone.  Because every single day I talked to him in my belly telling him how much I loved him - and because God was with me every step of the way.

I did the best I could always.  I took the punches so my sons didn't have to .  Until I couldn't take it anymore....

This day, March 22 - through my eyes, is a day that I celebrate my own strength.  I am declaring it a day when I remember how strong I was when I didn't even realize it.

Sometimes the strongest people are not those who show strength in front of you, but those who win battles you know nothing about.