In spring of 2022, the United States Supreme Court, with the stroke of a pen, thrust the country backward into a pre-Roe v. Wade America. Cathryn Vogeleyâs memoir, I Need to Tell You, arrives just in time to remind readers what coming of age looked like in the late 1960's. Right now, a heterosexual woman of child bearing age is sitting in a car with a boyfriend/or acquaintance who is making wanted/or possibly unwanted sexual advances, same as fifty years ago.
A promising nursing student from a devout Catholic family, pregnant and unwed, Cathryn Vogeley was, like thousands of others in 1968, shamed and sent away to bear the child who would be taken and adopted in a closed agreement, sealing birth records for ninety-nine years.
Cathryn allows this choice to define her value as a woman, a wife, and a mother. In every relationship, in every hobby, she searches for something or someone to soothe the constant ache created by the loss of her daughter. This beautifully-written memoir tells the haunting story of a woman who spends almost fifty years overcoming the consequences of one decision in order to find forgiveness, understanding, and peace.
In spring of 2022, the United States Supreme Court, with the stroke of a pen, thrust the country backward into a pre-Roe v. Wade America. Cathryn Vogeleyâs memoir, I Need to Tell You, arrives just in time to remind readers what coming of age looked like in the late 1960's. Right now, a heterosexual woman of child bearing age is sitting in a car with a boyfriend/or acquaintance who is making wanted/or possibly unwanted sexual advances, same as fifty years ago.
A promising nursing student from a devout Catholic family, pregnant and unwed, Cathryn Vogeley was, like thousands of others in 1968, shamed and sent away to bear the child who would be taken and adopted in a closed agreement, sealing birth records for ninety-nine years.
Cathryn allows this choice to define her value as a woman, a wife, and a mother. In every relationship, in every hobby, she searches for something or someone to soothe the constant ache created by the loss of her daughter. This beautifully-written memoir tells the haunting story of a woman who spends almost fifty years overcoming the consequences of one decision in order to find forgiveness, understanding, and peace.
 To my sisters in loss and all who suffer societyâs injustice     Can you understand being alone so long you would go out in the middle of the night and put a bucket into the well so you could feel something down there tug at the other end of the rope? The Abandoned Valley by Jack Gilbert     Part I    đ 1 đ My eyes squeezed shut while the ting of metal instruments broke the silence. As if my chest had lost its elastic, I breathed in short, tight spurts. The ceiling tiles with their tiny holes looked down on me as my chin tilted upward. Exam gloves snapped; metal wheels moaned across the cold floor. Dr. Franklin stood from behind the sheet. âNo doubt about it. Youâre pregnant.â As if Iâd been slapped, I cried, âOh, God,â and covered my face with my hands. đ đ It was 1968, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, when the sanctity of vir- ginity still bumped against the emerging culture of free love. In a city of blue-collar workers and Midwest values, an unmarried pregnant girl was labeled âtramp.â My first year of nursing school was coming to a close, and I hadnât yet turned nineteen. Gavin and I were each otherâs first love, dating over two years, eventu- ally having guilty sex in his fatherâs Cadillac convertible. Always in the front seat, because moving to the back made me complicit. I preferred to think of myself as Scarlett OâHara in Gone with the Wind, ravished by Rhett Butler, rationalizing that sex wasnât my fault because he had talked me into it. What a pain in the ass I was, behaving as if I didnât want it, enjoying the turn-on, but then telling him âNoâ when he unzipped my shorts. When I said, âStop,â  he nuzzled my ear and neck, moving his hand over my bare back until my shorts were off. The sex was spectacular, but afterward, I cried even as he lay over me. It was my job to make him stop, and I never did. He was a guy; it was natural for him to want sex. The girl was supposed to say no and make it stick. Pregnancy constantly worried me. He used a condom only once. It took away the romance. I didnât like seeing his penis or waiting while he rolled the rubber in place. He said it was too much trouble and never used one again. Rhythm was our method of birth control: watch the calendar, count the days from the last period, no sex during the week of ovulation; a good Catholicâs choice. Dr. Franklin and his assistant lifted my ankles from the stir- rups. The young nurse kept her head down, gathered instru- ments together, and whispered to the doctor. She swished out of the room, followed by the doorâs thud, then stillness. Dr. Frank- lin touched my shoulder, and I opened my eyes to his down- turned, droopy expression that mirrored my own dread. Many years before, Dr. Franklin had delivered similar news to my mother with congratulations. A baby was a blessed gift from God. Even when, as in Momâs case, there were three babies in three years and two more after that. Never mind that she cried constantly when I (number three baby) was young or that she was overwhelmed with expenses and the work of taking care of children. The important thing was that pregnancy was a gift, unless outside of marriage. I would be a despicable embarrassment to my family. Mom knew nothing of my condition or the appointment that day. It seems foolish now that I chose her doctor to confirm my preg- nancy, but Iâd thought of little else since Iâd skipped my first period. Iâd never had a pelvic exam and the idea of it repulsed and scared me. This doctor was someone my mother trusted, so it made sense to see him.  I took the doctorâs hand and sat up, with my legs dangling over the exam tableâs edge. Barely able to breathe, with my head hung low, I curled into myself. âDoes your mother know?â My head barely moved. âNo. Nobody does.â âYou know the father, I presume?â The question cut at my already suffering pride, even as I pushed the anger down. Walking in there pregnant and not mar- ried. Did he think I was a whore, someone who got laid, asked for itâlike a stupid, dirty girl? This wasnât my fault, I wanted to scream. Iâm the one who always worried about getting caught. And now look where I amâa stupid, dirty girl. Dr. Franklin washed his hands, wiping and wiping with paper towels. He crumpled them into a ball which he then fired into the wastebasket. He turned to face me, hands in coat pockets. âWhat are you going to do?â he asked. âI donât know.â I closed my eyes, shutting out the room, and took in a deep breath. âAre you going to tell your mother, or should I?â he asked, hands still in pockets. âIâll tell her.â âYouâre sure?â he asked, as if he were in charge. âYes. Donât worry. Iâll tell her. You donât need to,â I said, my voice barely audible. He treated me as if I were no more than a child whoâd written curse words on the blackboard. But his attitude fit the era when decent girls did not go all the way. Or so I thought. I felt split in half, since my first time with Gavin. I was an impure girl who went to Mass every Sunday, taking Holy Com- munion and Confession, putting ashes on my forehead at Lent, acting saintly. The congregation chanted: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Through my fault, through my fault,  through my most grievous fault. Catholic teachings were clear about human imperfection. We are born with sin on our souls and must make it up to God by following the Commandments and doing good deeds. The rain had stopped before I left Dr. Franklinâs office. Dazed and dodging puddles, I trudged back to the dorm; my shoulder- length, auburn hair fell across my face and I didnât have the energy to push it away. Water filled the imperfections on the side- walks of Pittsburghâs Oakland university district. Tree branches sagged and rainwater dripped onto my beige shift and into my platform shoes. A couple of long-haired guys wearing tie-dyed T-shirts and bell-bottoms passed me with the blank expressions of untroubled souls, like Iâd been no more than a month ago. Earlier in the day, I had worked on the med-surg floor with my fellow freshman nurses, scrubbing dentures, holding my breath while emptying bedpans, lifting and wiping and sprin- kling cornstarch under heavy sagging breasts. When I left the area that noon, I was still free of this reality, able to hold onto hope. But now everything was turned the wrong way. At the stoplight, I stepped off the curb in front of a rum- bling Corvette. Tires screeched as I jumped back, heart racing. A woman in huge Jackie Kennedy sunglasses crossed the road toward me, screwed her face tight, and said, âYou better watch it. Next time you might not be so lucky.â Luck? Mine had run out. My safety, or the safety of the child, or of anyone else, was of no concern to me. My parents would have to be told. Nothing else matteredânot good grades, favor- able clinical reviews, working after-hours as a babysitter, playing forward guard on the school basketball team. I was eighteen, but I felt like an eight-year-old in big trouble. Mom had names for women who had sex before marriage: âloose,â âslut,â âtramp.â She married Dad six months after meet- ing him, because they couldnât wait. âCouldnât waitâ to me as a  kid meant they were so in love they wanted to marry. But now I understood the meaningâas well as her reason for telling me this. Abstinence had been honored by my parents, and I must follow in their footsteps. Mom left out the parts about natureâs design of sexual desire and how healthy it is, what precautions to take. Her message was the opposite. Nature wasnât discussed, except to stress sinfulness of the body, that sex was bad, and that anyone having sex was disgusting. Unless married. I would rather die than admit to Mom that I wasnât a virgin. But sheâd soon know, and whether I wanted to or not, Iâd have to get married. đ đ Gavin and I first met in the gymnasium of Central Catholic boysâ school, where every student was Catholic. Along with the other wallflowers, I stood self-consciously on the perimeter and refused to join them. Move away, I thought. Do anything but stand here like a paper doll. And so, I shouldered my way through the dimly lit crowd of slow dancers. About halfway to the other side, a guy in the requisite coat and tie faced me and said, âYou want to dance?â He was muscular, a few inches taller than me; I agreed, overjoyed at the chance to stay off the wall. His broad hand with a hint of callus on the palm was more like that of a man than a high school kid. The herringbone sport coat felt scratchy against my cheek. As we danced for the first time, there was a faint scent of aftershave, a musky, aphrodisia- cal fragrance. The gym was overly warm with so many bodies radiating heat after dancing to fast songs like âHanky Pankyâ and âWooly Bully.â My new outfit, a teal wool skirt and matching sweater with pearl buttons, seemed like a good choice at home, but now I worried about my deodorant failing. He offered to take me home, and we bumped against one anotherâs shoulders as we strolled through the parking lot while dry leaves clicked over the pavement. I wasnât certain if I liked him or not. We were oppositesâme with blue eyes, freckled  skin, auburn hair; him with the Mediterranean Omar Sharif- type good looks, deep-set eyes, and tight, wavy, black hair. The way he talked was different, too, with his quiet, serious voice, like a grown-up. âDid you say your brother goes to Central?â he asked. âHe used to. He graduated already. Maybe you didnât hear me before.â You already asked me that, bucko. Small talk: I was glad to be talking regardless, anything to lasso my nerves. âOh, no, I heard you. I was only checking to see if you were telling the truth.â I stopped and looked at him. âTelling the truth? About my brother graduââ Gavin interrupted, âHow long have you been coming to the dances?â âOh, this is my second one. Hey, isnât that something, us both alone on the dance floor? I mean, itâs so incredible, donât you think?â âI saw you before you went into the crowd. I decided you looked like someone I wanted to meet.â âYou walked onto the floor to ask me to dance?â I faced straight ahead, trying not to show how much this pleased me. âUh, huh,â Gavin said. Yeah? Now that is saying something. He saw me first and came for me. And with that, I walked a little taller. Toward the back of the parking lot, away from other parked cars, streetlights reflected on a midnight blue Cadillac convert- ible, a half block long and shining, as if it were on a showroom floor, waiting for a customer. âThis is your car?â No one I knew had a luxury car. âYeah,â he answered with the matter-of-factness of a kid who covered himself with cool confidence. âNo way. Seriously? This is your car? Are you kidding me?â âWell, itâs my dadâs car.â  âWow, and he lets you drive it?â Iâd never ridden in a Cadil- lac. This boy was different. He held his shoulders straight, upper body slightly back, with a bit of a swagger. I was sixteen but didnât have a license. Before my sixteenth birthday, at the dinner table where Dad sat at the head, Mom at the opposite end, and my siblings along the sides, I asked Dad if I could get my learnerâs permit. He did not turn toward me but kept his eyes straight ahead. He took another bite of meat and continued chewing until finally he said, âWhy?â The question took me by surprise. I wanted a license because thatâs what you did at sixteen. Thatâs what my brother and sister did, and my friends were getting theirs now. But I knew that was the wrong answer. âUm, to, to drive?â I said, stuttering. Still, he looked straight ahead; then he said, âWhat are you going to drive?â Again, I wasnât expecting this question and managed to squeak out the words, âYour car?â âNo, youâre not,â he said. And that was the end of it. I wouldnât consider arguing or begging or using any other means to change Dadâs mind. He was a tyrannical parent, prone to unpredictable rages. He physically abused me and my siblings, showed consistent disapproval, and withheld affection. I seldom communicated directly with him and learned to hide when he came home from work. I grew up nervous and afraid. Not having a license embarrassed me, but the choice had not been mine. âIâm a good driver. Besides, I earned it,â Gavin said. He opened the passenger door. I slid onto the burgundy seat, inhaling the earthy sweet aroma of leather. Wow, this is nice. I twittered inside, ran my hand over the leather, put my fingers to my face, and breathed the scent. Gavin came around the front  of the car, got in, and rotated the key. The smooth engine purred. I wondered what I should do. âYou want some music?â he asked and twisted a dashboard knob. The radioâs dim red light glowed. He looked at me. âHey, what are you doing over there? Câmon, slide over here closer to me. I want to make sure I know the way to your place.â I moved across the bench seat next to him, like in the movies when a girl sat close, and felt pleased with myself. Iâd had a few dates by that time, but they were flat, boring. I had to do the talking, trying to make them comfortable. Not like with this guy. He was self-assured and grown up. Gavin talked only when he had something to say. My insides fluttered, but I tried to match his calm. The long car floated onto the street, smooth as a magic carpet. Inside was silent with only the sound of the radio. My feet rested unevenlyâmy left on the hump in the center of the floor and my right off to the side, creating an inelegant position. âDo you ever put the top down?â I asked, keeping my voice casual. âWell, yeah, but not when itâs thirty-five degrees out.â He paused, then said, âSo, Cathy, are you a senior?â âIâm a junior. You?â âIâm a senior. You go to Bennington? Isnât that a new school?â âUh huh. My sister Corrine goes to Cathedral, so she doesnât have to go to Wilkinsburg. You know. Not so nice down there. Hoods and everything.â I fluffed my hair out from my collar and adjusted my back more comfortably on the seat. âWhatâs that supposed to mean? Black kids? Foreigners? Kids that look different than you? You have something against them?â He spoke without taking his eyes off the road. âOh, turn left at that next light.â I pointed and he signaled to switch lanes. âActually, to be honest, I donât know anyone like that. My mom and dad donât want us to go there. I guess itâd be scary.â  âWhy? Why would you think itâs scary?â The engine had warmed up by then. Gavin reached over my knee to the heater control, and I jumped, moving out of the way. We each pretended nothing happened, but there was this energy, like a heightened electric charge that comes when two live wires are close together. I pushed my hands under my legs for a moment, then laid them on my lap. âI donât know. It seems rough, I guess. You know. From things you hear.â âI donât see how you can decide if youâve never known any- one in that area,â Gavin said as he eased the car to a four way stop, leaned forward to see out, then pulled ahead nice and easy, attentive as if heâd been driving forever. âWell, one time when I was a kid, I was at a playground near my auntâs place around where some kids were playing. I was only about eight or nine. I guess I was staring at this one kid. I didnât mean anything by it. I never saw a Negro in real life.â I tucked my hair behind my ear, wondering if Iâd said too much. âYouâre kiddinâ me,â he said, genuinely surprised. Gavin kept his eyes on the road. My world was middle class suburbia with neighbors, teach- ers, priests, friends who were versions of me. Public places had segregated restrooms. I wasnât snobbish or racist, only naĂŻve. My parents led insular lives, conveyed prejudice in their words, although they never used racial slurs, they were clear in their message that people who looked different were best avoided. The turn signal ticked a low, smooth sound, oddly pleasant. âNo, seriously. Anyway, before I knew what happened, the kid Iâd been staring at came at me like a torpedoâpunched me right in the gut. It hurt so bad I almost fell down.â I began to relax. Talking to Gavin felt easy, like talking to my sister, Corrine. He smirked and shook his head. âSucker punched you, huh? Right in the solar plexus. Lucky you. Did you hit him back?â  âAre you crazy? NO! I wouldnât even know how and wouldnât want to anyway. Heâd probably knock me out. It was such a shock; I wanted to get out of there.â âIâda flattened that kid if he hit me.â Gavin sounded so grown up to me, so powerful and certain of himself. âYeah, well. I doubt youâd stare at him. Plus, you wouldnât have given him a chance.â âWait, I thought you said you didnât even see it coming.â âOh, all right, yes, thatâs what I said. But if it had been you, I could imagine youâd see it coming.â The car turned onto a ferociously steep but short road that connected to my street. âUh huh. I wouldnât be standing around with my head in the clouds. You have to pay attention. Take care of yourself.â âOver there on the right. The house with the light over the door.â Gavin guided the car along the curb next to my front yard where the pin oakâs leaves had turned bright orange and begun to fall. I expected that he would ask for my phone number. âThanks for the ride. Itâs nice of you to drive clear out here,â I said, unsure if he would walk me to the house. I hesitated, ready to open my side and say goodnight. He turned off the engine but left the radio on. I waited. He loosened his tie and skootched down a little in the seat, leaned his back against the door, and put his arm around me. This had never happened on other dates. A song came on that didnât play on pop music stations, âCould This Be Magic,â by another doo-wop groupâone of the many oldies my older brother and sister listened to on Terry Leeâs Music for Young Lovers evening show. Could this be magic, my dear, having your love, if this is magic, then magic is mine. âOh, this song,â I said. The porch light shone bright and steady above our steep front yard. My curfew was eleven oâclock. Sitting  in a car with a boy was something new for me. When Corrine had sat outside too long, or past curfew, Mom had flashed the porch light. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at the dash- board clock. Ten thirty. The radio played. Gavinâs elbow rested on the door. He absentmindedly touched his necktie. I felt nervous sitting there, quiet. I had to talk. âYou know, my brother Evan used to wear a tie to classes every day. It must be uncomfortable and complicated. Do you hate it? At Bennington the boys donât have to wear ties.â âHate what? Tying a tie?â âNo, having to wear one every day.â The song ended, and Terry Lee spoke in a low voice, âThis next one is for all those young lovers listening tonight.â âNah, itâs no big deal once you get used to it. Tying it is pretty simple. You just have to know how. Here, Iâll show you.â Gavin tugged down the knot on his tie. A slippery sound, silk against cotton. He slid it from under his collar. âFor Your Loveâ came on. Slow, full of angst and a dreamy saxophone. âHere ya go. Sit up a little,â he said. I leaned forward. He reached over me and positioned the tie around my neck. With one arm around me and the other one manipulating the tie, his tweed jacket sleeve brushed my cheek. âFirst, you make sure itâs a little longer on one side than the other. See? Like this.â He leaned closer to see the tieâs ends; serious, concentrating on getting it right. The scent of mint on his breath. âNow lay the wider end over the skinny one.â âI canât see. Itâs too dark.â âHere, lean over this way more; get in the light,â he said, help- ing me move closer. The porch light shined through the driverâs side window.  âOkay, I can see now.â âBring this part underneath,â his voice feather soft. âPut this end across.â His lips brushed my ear lightly. His cheek touched mine, barely, enough to sense his warm, smooth skin. I pretended to take in the knot-tying lesson. My breathing shallowed, then deepened. My heart galloped; my eyelids weighed down. I felt dizzy. âTake the wide end up and through the loop around your neck.â âYou Belong to Me,â another love song. âTake the wide end through the knot in front,â he said as he tried to straighten his vantage point to make the knot straight. His lips touched my neck. I melted to him, intoxicated by his bodyâs warmth, the scent, music. âLast step, tighten it and pull up on the knot.â His voice stayed low and easy. âNow you try it.â He released the tie. Like a parent teaching a child to tie shoes, he added, âGo ahead, Iâll help you.â âUh, okay. I donât know if I can.â I began with the wide end over the skinny one. âWhatâs next again?â I asked. He leaned to me, his hand on my face, delicate, his lips on mine, his breath sweet. My eyes closed, Gavinâs hand, rough against my skin. His thumb slid to my neck, barely touching. A kiss, then his cheek to mine, warm breath delicate in my ear, lips brushed my neck and back to my mouth. âYour skin is so soft,â he whispered. We stayed in the car until my curfew, kissing only, no hands below the neck. I was sixteen; he was seventeen. Gavin and I, with that kiss, slid into that magnificent part of life when two people fall in love for the first time, an experi- ence that would never come again in that innocent way. This self-assured boy from the other side of town, son of Greek and Italian parents, whose dad owned a bar. More different from my family than anyone Iâd ever known. He swept my heart away.  Between songs, I learned his last name was Makis and he lived in the Pittsburgh city limits, in an older and more eth- nic neighborhood than mine. Gavin worked at the tavern after school, loading and unloading crates and mopping floors. We dated every weekend, usually going to interesting places: Phipps Conservatory for the flower show; sometimes to a movie; or on a Saturday afternoon, weâd go to the zoo, Frank Lloyd Wrightâs house called Fallingwater, or the library, where we worked on homework together. We talked about religion, work, school, war, and love. Usually, we ended a date parking at North Park or some other out-of-the-way place. Making out was the dessert. Dinner gave the appearance of normalcy. A meal with- out a sweet finish would be wholly unsatisfying. đ đ Gavinâs grades were high in math, science, and philosophy. He said he could be anything he wanted and considered engineer- ing, law, or medicine. But Mom didnât like his cocky attitude. She said his family lived in a seedy part of town. It was true that they werenât like us. Gavinâs dad was a rough-talking guy; his mother was ambitious, sarcastic, and usually orchestrated the business of bartending. My parents were the opposite: repressed, angry, judgmental, and afraid. Gavin refused to talk about our future. When I brought it up, heâd say, âThatâs a long way off.â Gavin and I sometimes argued about religion and Catholic rules. He saw the teachings as part of a requirement to conform with school and his Catholic family. My belief was simple: I had to follow the laws or go to hell. More importantly, I fretted about pregnancy. If I cried after sex, Gavin reassured me with, âEverything will be all right. Stop worrying. Nothingâs going to happen.â
As a young girl in a Catholic family, an unplanned pregnancy was a catastrophe for Cath. I was willing Gavin to step up and marry her as was expected and when the pregnancy was revealed to their parents, I hoped they would support her. She is sent to a facility for young mothers with a view to having the baby adopted. I felt emotional reading the authorâs account of the other girls at the home. Rumour has it that if you allow yourself to see or touch your baby, then youâll never be able to let them go. I commend Cathy for having the strength to go through with it. It was undoubtedly a very difficult and emotional experience for her and she has been extremely brave in sharing her story with us.
The author has an engaging writing style and the narrative flows easily. The story is peppered with beautifully written, emotional insights.
âTwo people in Pittsburgh at that very moment planned and prayed for a child. Their lips, their arms, their hands waiting empty, hopingâŚShe would be kissed countless times but only once by her mother.â
This enabled me to ponder the adoption process from both sides. I felt that the fact that Cathy named her little girl, âMary-Lynnâ, already gave her a life-long connection to her baby. Even if her name was changed, she would always have been a person to Cathy, not just a problem to be solved.
âI thanked God every night for my blessingsâŚbut my prayers always turned into petition.â
Cathy goes on to have a âgoodâ life and is blessed with a husband and two girls. I really felt for her, as she believed she was carrying guilt and needing forgiveness when she had only done what she believed was in the best interests of her child. In many religious groups, abortion is not considered an option and of course, this is a very controversial subject, but I commend the author for giving her baby a chance to live.
âOvaries are more than flesh and blood. They can be a container for deep emotions, holding what the conscious mind cannot.â
This is an interesting thought. I have read previously that a donor heart may retain memories of its previous owner and that a motherâs blood holds the DNA of her child, so I believe it is highly possible, even if the author meant it in a metaphorical sense.
Cathy embarks on a mission to reconnect with her firstborn girl and again I was willing for her to have success, but I will leave the ending a surprise for the reader. Given her experience, it is understandable how her faith would waiver. She talks about how church rituals had changed - Communion bread in the palm of the hand rather than on the tongue, the requirement for head coverings in church etc.
âHuman beings were changing the rules, not God.â
This made me think of Hebrews 13:8- âJesus Christ is the same yesterday, today and forever.â
Thanks indeed to the author for sharing her story with us. So often with memoirs, the goal is to relay a particular event or journey, but I hope she will go on to write more.