If you ever met my Mom, you probably heard The Story. But you didn’t get the whole story.
Imagine this. You are a woman and married at 18, to a man roughly two years older, recently out of the Marine Corps. He had barely a high school education and an uncertain future, but he was handsome and a bit of a rake, and you were about to start a journey together that would last six decades.
You start having kids at 19, in 1950. First a girl. Then a boy, and a girl … and a boy. And then a run of four more girls. (With two miscarriages sprinkled in for good measure.) By 1960, you are the mother of eight children, from newborn to 10 years old. Somehow, you and your husband had just lived through a blur of a decade of baby bottles and diapers and jobs and half-baked business ventures.
After your eighth child is born, you become pregnant again. That’s just what you did. You carry another child nearly to term, but late in the pregnancy you feel something’s not right. The baby isn’t moving. The doctors confirm your fear, and you give birth to a stillborn baby girl. You return home to the house full of eager big brothers and big sisters ready to add another to their brood, but without a baby. The crib that had been readied got banished to storage, or somewhere else.
At that point, a doctor counsels that your child-bearing days are over, that your body cannot take any more, and that another pregnancy could threaten your life. Though you were heartbroken to have lost that little girl, you follow his advice and have a tubal ligation performed. That’ll do it, you think.
And then, in late 1964, when you start feeling a little off. You tell your husband, “if I didn’t know any better, I would think I am pregnant.” You visit the doctor and a pregnancy test confirms the unthinkable. You are pregnant, again. After having decided on a procedure that would prevent you from ever hearing these words again, you hear them loud and clear: “you’re pregnant.”
Imagine that.
If you’ve heard the abridged version of The Story, you know the punchline: the person on the receiving end of that news was my Mom, and I was the surprising addition to the family. Number 9. And I am typing these words because she made a decision to give me a chance at life.
* * *
My mother died on Memorial Day. She was 90 years old. Her last two weeks or so were spent at home, in her bedroom, under hospice care. A series of chronic medical issues, mini-strokes, falls, and a pandemic that confined her to her apartment for the better part of 15 months sapped what remained of her physical health and her will to live. She was ready to go, and my siblings and I all came to the conclusion that it was time to let her go. She died peacefully, having lived a full life. She is reunited with my father, who died in 2009, and the third oldest of my siblings, Elaine, who died in 2015.
* * *
My Mom spent the last couple decades of her life in Park Ridge, Illinois, first in the condominium she shared with my Dad, and for the last two years in her own apartment in a nice, new assisted living facility that she jokingly called “The Home.”
Though I’ve made the drive from my home to “The Home” many times, last Wednesday’s drive was different. On that particular drive, The Story came rushing to the front of my mind and wouldn’t go away. I’ve heard The Story dozens of times, usually when my Mom had cornered some unsuspecting neighbor or colleague on the occasion of some gathering. The Story was one that my Mom never hesitated to share, no matter the audience or occasion. The Story became her shtick.
And that was okay with me, though I rolled my eyes a lot. Truth be told, throughout my life, The Story never really fazed me. OK, my Mom was done having kids, I snuck through. Thank goodness for medical malpractice. On rare occasions, a sibling might have said, “you were a mistake” or “you weren’t even supposed to be here” – to which my Mom would always say, if she heard, “don’t listen to them, you were a blessing.” I was never fazed because I did not much care how it all came down. It was always good enough for me to be alive, if not anticipated.
* * *
What hit me on that drive last Wednesday was a realization that the frail, dying woman I was about to visit had faced a gigantic decision more than five decades ago, and I owe my very existence to the choice she made at that moment in time. My Mom was baptized and confirmed a Lutheran, but she did not regularly attend church as an adult and no one would peg her a “religious woman.” I am certain that her decision to give birth to me was not compelled by dogma or fear that terminating her pregnancy would lead to her eternal damnation – maybe in part because Lutherans aren’t big on dogma or eternal damnation. But I am equally certain that her decision was supported by a simple, almost quaint faith that God’s will would be done. That is, against evidence and professional counseling, she followed her instincts and gave it up to God. That kind of thought process is the very definition of faith. Despite the prospect that it would all end terribly, or worse – she carried on with a little bit of faith.
Who really could have blamed her if she had made a different decision? Eight kids at home, all under 15. And then, “you’re pregnant”? Could anyone have blamed her for choosing to be done – forever – with baby bottles and diapers? Could anyone have blamed her for wanting to avoid the prospect of enduring the crushing disappointment of a second stillborn child? Could anyone have blamed her for wanting to avoid the tragedy of leaving eight children motherless trying to give birth to a ninth?
My oldest sister – who was 15 when I was born – does not recall any hesitation on my Mom’s part. And knowing my Mom as I did, I doubt that she made a show of the decision. After the initial shock of “you’re pregnant,” she most likely quickly decided to forge ahead with the pregnancy without a second thought. But beneath the surface, she must have been terrified of the prospect of a another stillborn child. In fact, I am told she did absolutely nothing to ready a room for an infant. No crib. No changing table. No diapers. Nothing. She lived in fear of being enveloped again in the darkness of a stillborn, or worse. She could not prepare herself for the joy of a newborn baby against the prospect of that darkness.
Once the news came back from the hospital in July of 1965 that she had given birth to a healthy, 5-pound, 7-ounce baby boy, friends and family scurried about setting up the house for my arrival. The darkness averted, my family prepared to squeeze one more child into the bungalow on Sacramento Avenue. With eight kids packed into two tiny bedrooms, I have no idea where they put me.
* * *
For reasons that now leave me feeling a little selfish, until last Wednesday I really had not thought much about the moment when my Mom was told, “you’re pregnant.” How did she react? Did she cry? Did she laugh? Did she curse the doctor who apparently botched the tubal ligation? I know now that she was terrified that she might carry another child to term, go into labor, leave for the hospital to give birth, and come home empty-handed. I never really, truly appreciated the gravity of the moment. Eight kids at home. A stillborn daughter. Tubal ligation. A high-risk pregnancy. No more diapers. No more bottles. Every kid off to school. Finally, she had started to see light at the end of a tunnel full of babies and toddlers. And then, out of the blue, “you’re pregnant.” Mom did not flinch. She made a decision, endured what must have been an excruciating pregnancy, and brought me into the world.
* * *
My Mom’s last few months (heck, years) have been a roller-coaster ride – for her and for her children. In recent weeks, after her umpteenth fall and hospitalization, she was intermittently in pain, agitated, always tired, mostly sleeping. For brief stretches, she rallied and communicated coherently. About 10 days ago, she noticed I was wearing a golf shirt and asked if I had played. “Yep,” I said. “How’d you do?,” she said weakly. I said, “not so good, but I made a birdie on 18.” With my wife as my witness, my Mom’s face lit up and eyes got wide and she said, “You made a birdie!?! Good.” (Apparently, she understood the rarity of such an event.)
By last Wednesday, she was seemingly nearing the end, and she was resting. No pain. No agitation. Just the labored breathing of a dying woman. At that moment, I closed her bedroom door and we shared a room no more than a mile or two from Lutheran General Hospital, where she brought me into the world. Just the two of us, alone. Though I had thanked her many times for many things, I don’t think I’d ever thanked her – specifically – for making the choice that led to The Story. For soldiering through a high-risk pregnancy. But I did it. I said it out loud, through more tears than I’ve shed in a long, long time. And it felt good.
I cannot be certain that she heard me, but I’ll die believing she did. And I’ll die only because I lived, and I lived only because my Mom decided that I should have that chance. She was willing to face the prospect of darkness – or even death – to give me a chance to see the light of day.
* * *
Rest in peace, Mom. And forever, and finally, thank you.