My Passage

Imagine meeting this bridge, not quite sure precisely how you came to be there. Knowing the basic science involved with putting one foot in front of the other but completely lacking in experience or assistance. Yet, there you stand barely able to see others who have crossed and kept on going, never looking back. You turn in a circle, studying your surroundings, looking for anything left behind that might help in your crossing. There's nothing; nobody left a thing. You then scrutinize what is there, produced by nature, that might be useful in some way. You pick up a few things, not entirely sure how you'll use them but sure that at the very least you'll find them a comforting reminder of firmer ground. Satisfied that this is probably as prepared as you're likely ever to be and knowing your only choice is to cross, you turn and face the bridge. You stand at the edge feeling the wind rush at your face, nearly blinding you with it's force and you hesitate. It's a long way across and even longer way down. The crossing will feel like forever, but you know if you fall, it will be much quicker than it appears. The wind wails in time to every terrified beat of your heart as you take that first step.

That is what it felt like to stare down at that urine stick, compare the placement and depth of it's colors to those shown in the directions. I studied it for a long time over the course of several days in fact. Back and forth as if time might change the truth. I was pregnant.

I don't think any sane 17-year-old wants to find out she's pregnant. I know I didn't. But the truth as evidenced on those two test strips yielded far more rewards than it offered turmoil. I mean, no it wasn't easy but it taught me so much I never would've learned otherwise. And the love and life I was blessed with in the process far outweigh every tear I cried and every obstacle I encountered. The tears were not really for me anyway. I had no life to damage with my daughter's arrival so I didn't pine for what was not there to begin with. But I worried for her. Would I be good at this mothering thing? Could I give her what she needed in every sense of the word? At times I cried because the universe had chosen me as her mother and while I wanted her desperately I was afraid I wanted her for all the wrong reasons. No child should be burdened with completing the adult in their life. If I needed her too much, what would that do to her? And if I never found a way to fill my massive voids, did I stand a chance of being the type of mother she deserved?

The 9 months I was pregnant with Christine were a treasure to me. I had an entire secret, internal life that nobody else could access. I thought to her everyday and held many a meaningful conversation without ever saying a word. For a while she was like having an imaginary friend - nobody can see them or even knows they are there unless and until you tell them. But she wasn't imaginary and the truth that was her made itself known over time. Even after everyone knew whether by word of mouth or merely by being blessed with eyesight, we continued our internal dialogue. I began to dread giving birth, not because of the pain and uncertainty, but because it meant I had to start sharing her with the world and so far I hadn't met anyone worthy of knowing such a beautiful creation.

In truth, I still don't.