Four months later, I emerged from the bathroom with tears in my eyes saying that the stick had two lines. I'm not sure Anthony had any idea what that meant, but he could read me like a book and knew what I was talking about. We celebrated alone that night because we didn't want anyone's negative comments to spoil our happiness. We waited until I saw my doctor before telling our parents. We wanted to be sure. It was my first pregnancy after all; I wasn't sure how I was supposed to follow through on these things. We decided because Anthony's relationship with his parent's was so much stronger than mine, that we should tell them first. Big Mistake! I don't think they saw it coming.
Anthony dropped it like an atom bomb. His parents were incredibly disappointed in our decision. In fact, I'm pretty sure they assumed it wasn't much of a decision to begin with. They just jumped on the same band wagon as most people we meet, that our new baby was a “happy accident.” Untrue, but because they never brought that accusation out in the open, we never addressed it. I believe that certain comments were made about how they weren't old enough to be grandparents, and I'm sure by reading between the lines, you can see also what was being said.
After a disappointing blow, we moved on to telling my parents. My father was the one person Anthony was deathly afraid of telling. To be honest, so was I. After desperately seeking his approval for so many years, I wasn't sure this was the best step to take to get it. He reacted with perfect class, he was excited and worried. My mother made jokes and said she was happy. It didn't matter to us anymore, we knew we would be doing this on our own.
With no family to help us through it, the pregnancy became a little scary. I had quit smoking to become pregnant, and my grumpiness was taking it's toll on us all. Doing it alone made it so much worse. My sister was too young to care, and thought we were idiots. Anthony's sister didn't even live in the same province.
We continued on with my general practitioner until he finally referred me to a OBGYN. Now if you've ever been to Thunder Bay, I am more than certain you have heard horror stories of the hospitals and medical staff that reside there. This is another one. My General Practitioner had my due date off by over a month, I was further along that he had anticipated, and I was gaining weight at an alarming rate.
I was only 98 lbs when we found out we were pregnant. Now most of you our turning your faces up in disgust, but I'm only 4'11”, so that's actually well within my Body Mass Index healthy weight class. I was in good shape and healthy, not a stick. By the time I was 8 months pregnant, I was over 200 lbs. It wasn't as if I was concerned about being fat, I was concerned I would explode. My feet looked like sausages, and would go numb if I didn't raise them up all day long. I had to stop working. My OBGYN saw nothing more than over-eating and lack of exercise to blame for my weight gain, and so I continued on hoping that I would give birth to a 60 lbs baby.
Anthony's parents had made a life decision to sell their home in Thunder Bay and move to Kitchener, Ontario to be closer to his mother's family. This devastated Anthony because not only were his parents moving, but they didn't seem too interested in sticking around to meet their newest addition to the family. We helped them back and saw them off, and I continued to go through pregnancy alone.
My family was there for when I need a washer and dryer to do laundry, or when I needed to borrow my father's car. Yet, other than that, neither one had any advice on my then, current, condition. We moved into a two bedroom apartment through Thunder Bay low income housing, and Anthony registered for college. We didn't care anymore how it looked to anyone, we were going to be parents and Anthony was going to be educated. We were going to make it.
In April of 2004, my water broke, after two previous visits to the hospital the day before and being told that we were young and stupid and had no idea how long it takes to have a baby. My water broke on my due date. Labor was no piece of cake, as I'm sure every woman who has endured it knows, but my husband held my hand and I made it through 15 hours of it. Of course I had the help of Demerol and Epidurals. After 15 hours my kidneys failed. They began discussing options, when all activity inside me stopped they rushed me into the O.R. They sliced and diced and got my son out as fast as they could, thank goodness because no sooner than had I seen him, my heart began to fail.
