Past, Present, Future

This story contains death and depression.

The Past. I thought my life was over when I realized I was 5 months pregnant. My love life was over when I told my boyfriend. My social life was over when I delivered the baby.

The Present. I wish my life was over. I’m laying in a hospital bed. My leg is broken. My arm is broken. My will is broken.

The Future. The doctors say that I am healing. They say they will discharge me. They say the bruises will fade. My boyfriend thought my body was disgusting when I gained weight (turns out I was growing a human). Who will want to touch me now? Scarred and shattered.

The Past. When I told my mother that I was pregnant, she wasn’t even mad. She embraced me and the idea of being a grandmother. She bought all the baby stuff, clothes, toys, books, formula, a bassinet. She insisted that I finish my senior year of high school. She seemed prepared for this. Like she expected it. Did she think so little of me? Or did I fulfill a prophecy of being a screw up?

The Present. The Occupational Therapist wants to show me how to lift the baby with my good arm. Which is my left arm, my non-dominate arm. She brings in a realistic doll that is weighted so I can practice. I scream profanities at her and throw the doll on the floor. She leaves the room on the verge of tears. I wasn’t like this before. I was polite and agreeable. Now I’m pissed at a world that would take my mother and leave me with the baby.

The Future. When I am discharged, I will have to go home to an empty house. Figure out how to take care of the baby. Take care of the bills, the mortgage. Shit, I have to figure out how to arrange a funeral. I guess it will be a memorial. My mom’s ashes will be delivered next week. I should tell my dad that mom is dead. And that he’s a grandfather. That’s a call I probably won’t make.

The Past. My mom kept telling me I would love the baby once it was in my arms. She was wrong. I hated it even more. It was finally extracted from my body, and I could return to being one person again. I didn’t want it attached to my breast or my hip. My mom named it an old fashion name, Jennifer. She called it “Jenny from the block.” I don’t know why. I didn’t care and didn’t ask. I didn’t name it. She could call it whatever she wanted.

The Present. The baby is staying with neighbors while I’m in the hospital. A retired couple that calls every day with an update. They think I am concerned and eager to be reunited. I don’t tell them that I am not.

The Future. I am expected to pick the baby up when I am released from the hospital.

The Past. My mom brought the baby to doctor appointments. The same pediatrician that I still go to. The last appointment, she insisted that I go too. The doctor office wasn’t far. We walked, the baby in a stroller. It rained that morning, but the sun was bright and warm. I complained that I was going to be late for my first class.

The Present. The Occupational Therapist must have warned the Physical Therapist, because she is more gentle today than usual. She is a no-nonsense woman who doesn’t scare off with swear words or baby throwing. Okay, if it was a real baby, that would rattle her, but it was a doll. If she was in the room when I threw the doll, she would have told me to pick it up myself just to prove that I was capable of lifting the baby.

The Future. How am I supposed to push a stroller, carry a diaper bag, while using crutches, without dropping the baby? That will probably be the Occupational Therapist’s next lesson.

The Past. The appointment was awkward. The doctor asked me questions about the baby’s habits and milestones. I didn’t know the answers. My mom carried the conversation. Then the doctor talked about post-partum depression. I tuned him out and stared at the mural of bunnies. When I was little, my mom would make up stories about the bunnies on the walls while we waited for the nurse to come in with immunizations.

The Present. My mom’s house has six stairs to the front door. The Physical Therapist brings me to a gym and makes me demonstrate that I can get up a set of steps that leads to a blank wall. I, not so kindly, tell her how stupid the exercise is and what I think of her. She reminds me that I am on a pediatric unit and to keep my cursing contained to my private room.

The Future. I will have to bring the baby to all its appointments from now on. I will have to know the answers to the questions. I will have to make up stories about the bunnies on the walls.

The Past. The sun shown on the pavement like a reflection on a mirror as we left the doctor office. The baby was fussing and my mom wanted me to sooth it. We argued. I didn’t see the car turn the corner as we crossed the street. The driver didn’t see us step off the curb.

The Present. The nurses tell me that I have to do certain things for myself before they will let me go home. They don’t get it. As long as I’m here, my mother is waiting for me at home. As long as I’m here, I am a 17-year-old girl studying for exams. As long as I’m here, the baby isn’t my problem.

The Future. My school has a daycare for the baby while I finish my last semester, but there’s a catch. You can only use the daycare if you attend parenting classes after school. I guess I’m going to parenting classes.

The Past. I didn’t see the car. I saw my mother throw herself over the stroller. Then we were hit.

The Present. I am laying in a hospital bed, holding my phone. I want to call her. I want to hear her voice. I want to yell at her, cry with her, hug her.

The Future. I need a job.

The Past. My mom (My Mother) saw the danger and, without hesitation, chose to protect the baby. Not her own daughter. Not me.

The Present. I hate the baby. I love my mother, but I’m angry. I can’t even ask her why she chose the baby’s life over mine, over her own. I put down the phone and fall asleep.

The Future. I will leave the hospital. I will pick the baby up from the neighbors. I will walk up six steps. I will heal, physically. I will invite a few of my mother’s friends over for a small memorial. I will place her ashes in the baby’s room where she can watch me raise her granddaughter.