Driving across the Kennedy Bridge in February of 1978, my mind was a blur of thoughts, but foremost was that the ticking sound my car had been making had now turned to a knocking sound and was getting louder. Suddenly it made a loud thunk, and the accelerator would no longer give me any power. I coasted into a service station at the bottom of the bridge, and a guy came out. “My car was making a knocking sound, then a loud thud, now it won’t work.” After looking under the hood, he chuckled and said “you see that big hole in the side of the motor there? That’s not supposed to be there.”

The rest of the day didn’t get any better. A couple of hours later I called the doctors office I had left my urine sample with that morning and my suspicions of being pregnant at 17 were confirmed. I went home and told my mother, and she reacted just as I had visioned, she yelled, called me names, told me how hard her life already was, and how she was not about to raise another child. She then went to my room, started picking up my clothes, opened my 2nd floor bedroom window, and started tossing everything out the window. The argument that ensued was brutal, and ended with her dragging me down the stair by my hair, and pushing me out the front door.

Gathering my belongings off the lawn, crying, mind a blur, I tried to figure out what my next move was. What were my options at this point? I was a junior in high school, no home, no car, and pregnant. After placing my things next to the apartment, I walked over to my friend, Carla’s, house and called my dad.

My parents had divorced a few years prior. My dad was a truck driver, and reaching him wasn’t always easy. I left a message for him at work, and sat down with Carla’s family and laid out my situation. When dad called, I didn’t hold anything back. “My car blew up, I’m pregnant, and mom kicked me out!” After a long pause he just responded, “What can I do?” He said he would find me a car, and he would send my part of the child support to me. Carla’s family was wonderful. They allowed me to stay at their home so that I could finish my junior year, were gracious enough to let me use their truck to get to school, and in return I gave them the child support money that my dad sent me.

The pregnancy started out hard. Nausea and vomiting, and vomiting, and more vomiting, left me fatigued and weak. Medications prescribed by the doctor didn’t touch it, or left me even more fatigued. My first appointment with one of the doctors there left me feeling dirty, shamed, and unsupported. After listening to the baby’s heartbeat, the doctor’s words left me speechless. “We can get you scheduled for an abortion. You clearly do not need a baby.” My mind went blank. “I’m catholic doctor, I don’t believe in abortion.” “Well what do you think you are going to do then?” he sarcastically muttered. “I’m going to have a baby, and I’ll take care of it.” I said.

When I left that office that day I told the receptionist that I would not see that doctor again, and if I had to I’d find another office. I did not see him again. The rest of my encounters with the doctors there were similar. I was chided for gaining too much weight, yet I was so sick I hardly ate. When I asked questions, I was dismissed. When I asked about childbirth classes, I was told that the only person allowed in with me would be my husband, and since I didn’t have one I didn’t need classes. When I asked about breastfeeding I was told that I was 17, I just needed to bottle feed. When I inquired about pain management, I was told, “You just stop worrying about all this little lady, we will take care of you.”

When my due date came and went I was frustrated. At my next appointment I was told that the doctor I had seen for my entire pregnancy had moved away, so I was seeing a different one for this visit. My heart skipped a beat. I can’t see that doctor I saw at my first visit! But it wasn’t him. This doctor just looked at my swollen body covered with a terrible rash, and said, “I’ll see you in the morning at 7:00 at the hospital. We will get this baby out.” That was it. A date and time. No explanation of the procedure, the reason for the procedure, the risks. Just a date and time. Truthfully, I was relieved. I wanted this over, and I didn’t know what questions to ask. So I took the information, went back to Carla’s house, packed a bag, and called my little sister to tell her I was going to have a baby the next day.

Carla and I arrived at the hospital at 7:00, checked in, and was informed that the only person allowed in with me was a family member. Suddenly Carla was my sister-in-law, and we were off to my room to be admitted. Admission involved lots of questions, starting an IV, shaving my pubic area, and an enema, none of which was explained to me. After infusing the enema I was told very sternly, “do not make a mess, get up and go to the bathroom.” It was difficult to move without expelling my bowel contents on the floor, but I tightened up and waddled into that bathroom as I was told. When I came out of the bathroom my mother was standing there. “Where’s Carla?” “She can’t be in here, she isn’t family,” she said. “Well I don’t want you in here, leave”. So I labored alone. When I made noise, they gave me medication in my IV. I don’t remember much of that time, my brain was pretty numb from the meds.

“Wake up, you are getting ready to have this baby.” The bright lights hurt my eyes, where was I? “Scoot over onto this table right here.” I maneuvered my heavy body over on to the narrow, hard table with some difficulty. “Sit up and lean forward.” I was assisted to sit up and held in place while I felt a sharp sting in my lower back. “Lift your legs up and put them in the stirrups.” My legs wouldn’t move. I panicked! “Oh I guess the block is already starting to work.” My legs were lifted into the stirrups. A huge mirror hung on the wall at the foot of the table and my bottom came into view. What is that silver metal object hanging from my bottom? Suddenly, the doctor yelled “Push!” and the nurse started pushing on my belly. Blood spurted from my vagina and the baby came out. As the doctor laid the baby in the warmer next to me, I thought to myself, “that baby doesn’t look that big.” While I stared at my baby, someone started pushing on my belly. “Hey, come here and look at this,” he said to the doctor. I saw the doctor’s hand, then arm disappear into my body, then another hand. He looked at me with big eyes. “There’s another one in there!” This is not happening to me. I had gathered baby basics from my friends and yardsales, but for one baby, not two. What would I do with two?

I awoke in yet another room. “Where am I?” “Oh, hey, you’re awake. This is recovery. Would you like a drink?” the nurse asked. “I guess. I just had the worst dream,” I mumbled. “What was it?” she asked. “I dreamed I had two babies!” I said. “Oh honey, that was no dream. You had two girls actually. A pair of queens!” she boasted.

When I returned to my room there were lots of people, Carla, mom, friends, family, and they were asked to move out so they could get me in. “You can’t lift your head for 24 hours,” I was instructed. After settling me in they allowed them to return to the room. ” Everyone was abuzz about the two babies, which they were all looking over in the cribs. Mamaw came over to me, kissed me on the head, smiled, and whispered, “we will move your stuff to our house and I will help you.” Slowly everyone started leaving and I dozed off and on. I awoke to an empty room except for me and two babies in cribs. I lifted my head, thinking to myself, “they are wrong, I can lift my head. I sat up in bed, pulled the cribs closer so I could see them both, and realized that they looked identical. I also realized that my head was now pounding. They did not mean that I “couldn’t” lift my head, but that I “shouldn’t” or I would get a spinal headache, which I absolutely did.