Andrew/Jesse

The skater pulled her laces and cried, her face contorted in agony. Her lace had broken, could she start her routine over? The Olympics had been big news that year, and this was the highlight event, Tonya Harding's program. Tonya had her thugs whack Nancy Kerrigan over the knee, in the hope that Nancy would be too injured to compete. That was the word that was everywhere: whack. The plan had backfired, Nancy skated despite her injury and in time the attackers would be caught and prosecuted. The competition had become an event of heightened international interest, and I was watching it from my hospital room.

I had been admitted on Friday afternoon to have labor induced. By the
time my son was born Sunday morning, I had been in labor for 27 hours. So
Saturday was given up to watching the Olympics and trying to stay as
comfortable as possible. I had been given an epidural, but it wore off before the
hard labor came. As a result I was in a lot of pain and wanted some relief. Every
time a medical professional entered the room I would bark "Are you an
anesthesiologist?" and when they told me "no" I would yell at them to go get one.
There is a limited window when anesthesia can be administered, they have to get
the timing right. ln the end I never got any additional pain relief, and had to suffer
through a long and difficult labor.

Most births are unequivocally joyous events, this one was not so clear-cut.
My son was being adopted. There had been no baby shower to welcome him;
the father would not be at my side to serve as a birth coach; I would go home to
an empty house, not pacifiers and diapers. The adoption agency had told me that
99% of birthfathers sign away their parental rights without hesitation and are glad
that an adoption is occurring. I had the bad luck to hook up with a guy from the
other 1%. When I told him I was pregnant he asked me to marry him. When I
said no he told me it was my duty to grow up and be responsible, do the right
thing. He refused to sign the papers. I was afraid he would seek custody, even
though under Oregon law he had no standing. There had been cases in the
media where fathers sought custody even when the law was not clearly in their
favor. I didn't want to have anything disrupt the plan l'd made for my child. I had
been lying low and was checked into the hospital under an assumed name.
My family had been less than supportive through my pregnancy. One of
my sisters, in particular, had told me she would help me raise my son, that I
could do it. My mother never came out explicitly against the adoption, but she
never came up with the right words to let me know she appreciated that I was
doing the right thing. The most she said in support of my plan was "Well, at least
you didn't have an abortion." Not exactly a ringing endorsement. The birthfather
and I are of different races, and in trying to get me to raise my son my mother
assured me that "ln time your father will get used to it." l'm not sure that there are
"right" words to use in a situation like this, but my family was nowhere near
finding them.

My sister Gayle and my mother came with me to the hospital. I had
arranged for an adoption professional to serve as my birth coach, and she didn't
arrive until the last minute. So the three of us sat in my hospital room, watching
TV. They snacked, napped, and chatted about inconsequential matters.
Eventually I had a nurse ask my family to leave. They were sitting there talking to
each other, as if over a pleasant lunch. I felt invisible, they weren't addressing
this life-altering event I was experiencing. lf they weren't going to do anything for
me, they couldn't stay. Simply being in the room, ignoring me, was not good
enough.

Saturday afternoon turned into Saturday evening, and the labor got
harder. People say that you forget the pain, it's a biological function, we have to
forget the pain or else we'd stop having babies. While I can't use my mind to
recreate the experience of the pain, I do recall wanting to die. I was OK with
dying, if that's what it took to stop the pain. lt is now my 10 on the pain scale.
When you go to the doctor complaining of pain, you are asked to rate it on a
scale of 0 to 10. I always compare my pain to my 10, childbirth. Nothing will ever
hurt so much.

And for so long. Labor just dragged on and on. Around midnight the
baby's heartbeat dropped. I was exhausted, but I was being yelled at to turn over
and get on my hands and knees. I was too weak to do it, despite my best efforts.
As the nurses rolled me over into position the door opened and a flood of people
ran into the room. Something was very, very wrong. Once I was on my hands
and knees there was a long moment where we gave the baby's heartbeat a
chance to rebound. Time expanded, everything was distorted. Who were all
these people? What were they going to do? The heartbeat came back up and the
strangers drifted out of the room. I pushed, pushed, pushed. When I screamed a
nurse told me that all the energy I was using screaming would be better used to
push, so I stopped screaming and pushed. Early Sunday morning Andrew Kyle
Woods was born, 7 pounds, 8 ounces. The nurse placed him in my arms, but !
was too tired to hold him. !'ve never heard of a new mother being too tired to hold
her baby, not before he was born and not since then. Moms always pull through
and muster what it takes. l just didn't have it in me. My family was allowed back
in the room, and my sister held him.

Andrew and I were together in the hospital for two days. Then his adoptive
parents were coming to take him home. While we were in the hospital I was
mostly too tired to really appreciate him. He didn't cry at all. I would lay him on
the bed in front of me and take pictures. His eyes would wrinkle up at the flash,
but he never cried. I'd like to be able to report that I was stunned and
overwhelmed by the beauty of having a living creature emerge from my body;
what a miracle! But I was sad. Our time together was so short that every moment
was exaggerated, and I needed to sleep a fair amount. I was emotionally and
physically distraught, I couldn't coo at the beauty of my child. The deadline for
him to leave hung over my head. When l was on the phone telling a friend about
the ordeal of childbirth my caseworker from the adoption agency came and
whispered in my ear "Think about the memories that you are making", meaning,
use my time wisely.

Joy and Guy, the adoptive parents, at last arrived. My family was in my
room, along with them. lt was crowded, and people weren't sure how to behave.
My mother asked if they had chosen a name, and Joy replied "Jesse," I don't
care for that name, and for a brief moment I had second thoughts. My son was
Andrew, how could I let him go to live as "Jesse"? As much as it pained me, I let
it go. My life had been one struggle after another. At 24, I could hardly take care
of myself, let alone another human being. I knew I wasn't up to being a parent;
that something was "off' with me. lt would be many years before I knew what that
"off" efeling meant. lt meant I had bipolar disorder. Had I chosen to raise my child
he would have been neglected during my periods of mania and depression. l
know I did the right thing.

I had purchased a christening outfit, white satin with blue accents, and my
plan was to have Andrew wear it home from the hospital, taking a piece of me
with him. I asked Joy to help me dress him in it. I intended this to be a highly
symbolic moment, with the two of us both dressing him. She didn't understand
my meaning and took the baby and dressed him. I felt him slipping away.
Time passed in an awkward fashion, Joy and Guy not knowing when or
how to make their move to leave. Finally I said I was going to take a shower, and
that l'd like them to leave while I was gone. I couldn't watch them walk out of the
room with him. When I got in the shower I cried so hard. The sobbing and
heaving are beyond my ability to describe them. lt is the worst cry of my life. For
a long time I sat on the shower floor, giving myself into the emotion. There is a
very similar scene in "The Big Chill" when Glenn Close sits in the shower and
sobs. That comes close, but my experience of it was magnified was a power of
100. I never wanted to get out of that shower.

After I got home I could feel a physical, phantom pain. My arms hurt where
he should have been. Nothing will ever hurt as much as saying good-bye to my
child.