65 Days

I knew immediately that I was pregnant; the revelation came to me as I was in G's bathroom. Though we had had a sweet, simple relationship years prior, we were now together out of pain and suffering. We were looking for comfort that would never be found and would eventually find greater pain than either of us could imagine. Months earlier, I had gone to summer school and met a boy that went to my school, but I had never known. We became fast friends and had something resembling a healthy sibling relationship. I even stood in front of him one afternoon as his father came towards him with a purpose, stopping his old man in his tracks. I dared him to come closer. At 4’11” and less than 100 lbs, it was my anger that stopped his Dad that day, certainly not my stature. His parents were both military and made no bones about what a disappointment he was. That fall, he took his mother’s car out into fields surrounding our city; one of the guns left in the house, and fired a single shot into his head forcing the contents onto the window. It was one of my lowest lows. I had been to funerals before and had already experienced the death of several friends, but my mother was so worried, she would not let me go alone. The nightmares began immediately. I felt guilt. I made a bad choice, I ran for comfort where I was not going to find it. My “comfort” was having his own life tragedies, not to mention the fact that I had a boyfriend in another state. We sat in his apartment crying, we went to bed, and fell asleep. The nightmare came, waking and terrifying both of us. We sought comfort within each other. Standing in his bathroom, I knew that I had made a bad choice. I spent my entire last semester of high school denying it, I was so good, I believed the lies myself. I was 17 when she was born.

My plan was to give her up to a family that could not have children of their own. I had graduated high school, but neither G nor I were healthy enough to be parents, not to mention that we were not speaking to each other. For one reason or another, the family could not pick her up and Mackenzie Len came home with me. I grew fast into motherhood. We were one. I was 18 when we died. For 65 days we lived, that was almost 17 years ago.

The night she died I put her to bed. Hours later I felt unbearable pain in my chest and the greatest sense of panic. I ran to her room to find her turning blue and struggling to breath. My father had experience with pediatric CPR, which he began while my mother called 911. I could feel us dying and I started praying. I could not breathe, only scream. Everything was happening in slow motion and I had no control. The paramedics showed up and I knew it was not good when they made me ride up front. The next thing I remember, the doctor was walking down the hallway. I grasped his coat as he told me how sorry he was and I slid to the ground. While the ER staff was frantically trying to save my girl, I was in the chapel praying harder than I have ever prayed in my life. I saw nurses and tech crying in the ER, I hated them. Somehow I made it to the trauma room and stared at the naked blue shell that once held my baby's soul. My legs shook, my head throbbed as if I had been struck. I could not move. Why? Why Me? Why Her? Why? What did I do to deserve such cruelty and torment and pain? I ran. I ran out of the ER and down the street. I have no idea where I was headed, but I could not be anywhere in which I could find solace. I have no idea who caught me and dragged me back to the hospital. I have no recollection how I got home or when I left the hospital.

I remember the police investigators taking her clothing, I remember my friends coming over, only to find me unresponsive to everyone. I do not know who called him, or why it was done, but I remember talking to Juarez. He was the only one I talked to and I don’t remember what he said, but when I try to remember, I feel relieved and enveloped by strength – even today. He kept me alive that night. Never in my lifetime will I be able to thank him for the love, tenderness, and support he showed me that night. I am so embarrassed I cannot remember what he said to me. I remember so much else about us, but I cannot remember that. I do not know if I slept or if he stayed on the phone with me all night. I did not have to tell him how much I hurt, did he know, cause I never could have explained it. After everything I did, everything I said, I did not deserve him, but there he was. How do you ever say I am sorry enough to cleanse? How do you ever say thank you enough?