Tell Me About the Day I Was Born

"Tell me about the day I was born" is a phrase I heard just a couple of weeks before the accident, but not from Cory...from Jacob.
 Before I could respond, Cory, who was sitting in the passenger seat next to me, broke in, "Oooh...let me tell it, let me tell it."  The sweet and earnest way she recounted meeting her brother for the first time is a story all on its own that deserves its own page.

Instead, think about this...why wouldn't Cory have been the one to make the request? 
There are a few different ways to answer that question.  Let's start with this:  I don't lie to my kids.  It would have taken far too much twisting and embellishment for me to make a stressful, scary night- the conclusion of a stressful, scary pregnancy- into a suitable bedtime story for a young child, teenager, or young adult.  I fancy myself a decent storyteller, but  I just can't muster up enough fake details to get the job done.

So pretty much what Cory knew was this:  she was the best decision I ever made.  She knew that even when you are scared, you can be strong.  She knew that taking responsibility for your actions is the right thing to do.  She knew that I would do anything in this world to protect her, to keep her safe, and to give her what she needed.

Another thing I never told her, of course, is how and when I came to the decision to continue my pregnancy.  I have always done my best thinking in the shower.  Twenty years ago, when I was with her biological father, the shower had become a secret place, a quiet place, and a place where the truth was told... even if only to myself, and even if only until the hot water ran out.
 The shower gradually became the place I acknowledged the bruises, at least to myself, and thought of what to say if someone asked about them.  It was the place where I either tensed up when I heard him coming or screamed with laughter in the midst of one of our silly love games, depending on his mood that day.  The shower door, instead of me, caught his attention one day, and was promptly shattered to pieces.  My nerves soon came to resemble its jagged appearance.  Our  apartment (more of a children's hideaway than anything, what with me being seventeen and him nineteen) was the first place I started to shower in the dark.  It was soothing.  Sometimes I felt the need to hide- from him, from myself, from everyone.  It was there, under the spray, alone,  and in the dark, that I made the final decision of whether to have an abortion or have my daughter.  I was young and frightened.  Equally frightened of raising a baby alone if he left us or of raising it with him if he stayed.  But I would not give my baby up.  It was mine, and I loved it fiercely.
My two pregnancies- nine years apart- were more like light years apart.  Carrying Cory, and carrying Jacob was like living on two different planets.  With Cory- at eighteen, unmarried, and in an abusive relationship, I was thin, hungry, scared, and ashamed.  Stressed does not even begin to describe my state of mind on a daily basis. 
Fast forward a few years, and so much of my world had changed.  I was in a healthy relationship, pregnant within the bounds of lawful matrimony.  People were actually happy for me.  Family members approved.  This pregnancy was planned; finances were secure.  The fridge was full, and so was my belly.  I was fat, and happy.  I was safe.  My source of daily stress had gone from being chased around the house with a knife or piece of glass to whether or not I would develop stretch marks that would scar.  Insane.
But this is Cory's story. 
Her father and I had picked out the name Corinne Nicole together some months ago on a better day with no pushing, no choking, no chasing with sharp implements- just a couple of  bowls of French Onion soup at our favorite restaurant and a baby name book picked up at the grocery for 99 cents.  We had decided on Jory Ryan for a boy and Corinne Nicole for a girl, not knowing the sex ahead of time.  Medicaid didn’t cover the ultrasound to find out.
Getting to the hospital in the first place had not been easy.  They’d sent me home in the late afternoon with false labor pains.  By midnight or so, it was the real thing, but my boyfriend was long gone.  He’d slipped out of the house while I was sleeping- to get “something to eat”, but I could smell the beer on his breath when he returned a bare minute before I gave up and called my mom.  It had snowed heavily all evening and the city plow trucks had been out plowing; the driveway was blocked with snow, heavy and packed in solid.  I called my sister who lived a few blocks away.  Her husband came over with his plow and helped us out.
My mom eventually came in the delivery room with us, even though she had threatened not to if That Person was there.  Mom always referred to my boyfriend as That Person, in capital letters.  She seemed to think that merely saying his given name aloud would show support or acceptance of this union, neither of which she currently possessed or planned to develop at any point in her lifetime.   Mom may have despised him, but she didn’t know what it was like to fear him.  I couldn’t just tell him he wasn’t allowed in the delivery room to see his child being born because I wanted my mom instead.  He would kill me, or at least hurt me.  In her typical fashion, mom stated her demand, and when denied her way, dug in her heels.  I spent the whole day and evening on the phone with her arguing, and becoming more and more stressed and anxious.  In the end, it got her nowhere.  There was too much at stake.  If she wanted to be there for me, she’d have to tolerate his presence.
So there they were, one on each side of my head.  He smelled of beer and mom looked positively miserable to be in such close proximity to him.  My mom has an extremely weak stomach, and at one point, she started to swoon- either from the relentless beer fumes or my screams of pain.  I was never really sure which.  He reached over me and touched her hand as a gesture of comfort.  I thought she was going to throw up or deck him.  She did neither, and her sheer restraint was astounding.
 Finally, the big moment arrived.  Did I want a boy or a girl?  Well, when I still lived at home, sixteen years old– never choked, pushed, or chased with knives–sleeping in a twin bed, and dreaming I’d marry this man someday and have his children, I imagined having a boy first.  A boy that would be just like him in every way.  But that was before.  At 1:20 a.m., when the doctor lifted the baby up to show us, I glanced at the genitals and laid my head back down in relief.  My first thought was Thank God… I couldn’t have handled two of them.
When the nurse came to ask for the official name for the birth certificate, I did not give the baby his last name and I didn’t want him named on the birth certificate.  I was scared to death to make this decision, but I figured he couldn’t hit me in the hospital- there were too many witnesses around.  But oh God, how I might pay for this later.  As much as I hated to do it, there was nothing else I could do.  It was time to fess up- this was not a happily ever after type situation.  I was terrified for him to have full rights to be alone with her or to take her out of the state.  He had hurt me while I was carrying her, what was to say he wouldn’t hurt her now?  She couldn’t run, like I had.  She couldn’t cover her face, like I had.  She was completely defenseless.  He had already threatened to leave the state with her if I left him.  So I did it.  It hurt him and I hated that it had come to this, but it was what it was.  He sat in the cheap, plastic hospital chair, fuming and glaring at me.  You just wait till I get you alone, his eyes promised.
 He left to go back home to sleep a little, and shower.  When I called to see just how mad he was and what I’d be dealing with when my hospital stay ended, I got the answering machine.  He had put a new recording on it.  It went something like this:  “You’ve reached the home of Nicole Davidson.  She gave birth to a bouncing baby girl early this morning- 7 pounds 11 ounces.  Healthy…. but a bastard.  Apparently Nicole’s such a slut she can’t remember who the father is.  If you can help her sort it out, please leave a message at the tone.”
Not the sort of thing that belongs in a "Tell Me About the Day I Was Born" story, is it?