There Goes My Social Life (13 page)

Let's work together to find real solutions. The real “war on women” is the abuse itself—and the blame, political posturing, and finger pointing that politicians do in order to score points at the polls isn't helping. It's got to stop.

NINE

LIFE AND DEATH

We are never defeated unless we give up on God.

—Ronald Reagan

I
paid the driver my $20, got out of the cab, and looked around. I couldn't believe I'd finally gotten the courage to ditch Axel, but it felt good. It felt liberating. It felt scary.

“You look lost,” a tall man said to me. He was trailed by a couple of guys who looked amused by me standing there with one suitcase and a confused look on my face.

“You don't know the half of it,” I said.

“What can I do to help?”

I didn't answer. Why should I talk to this man on the street? I mean, other than the fact that he was sexy as hell?

“It looks like you might need some coffee,” he suggested.

That, I could do. His friends left us and we went to a nearby café. Timothy was a New Yorker—in fact, it turned out he came from the same part of the city as I did and we knew some of the same people. But even more interesting? He was a singer. I'd heard some of his songs on the radio.

We chatted for hours, and then—finally—it was time to go.

“Can I drop you off somewhere?” he asked, laying down some cash on the table. I was relieved when I saw him pay for our food, because I didn't want to admit I had no money to my name. When he saw the blank look on my face, he smiled.

“Wanna come back to my place?”

I did.

This began a love affair that would change my life forever . . . but not because it lasted.

I moved in with him and tried to forget about Axel. I loved Timothy's music, and it was fun seeing his career take off. He was half Sicilian and half black—he walked around like he was the toughest guy in town. At least it felt that way to me. My newfound luck in love, however, didn't solve everything

“I heard Axel's been asking for you,” my friend said to me. “Looking for you,” she added, emphasizing the word
looking
.

My heart dropped.

“He's pissed that you disappeared.”

“Tell him to go get a punching bag,” I said. “It'll be like I never left.”

But underneath my bravado, my blood chilled. I delved more deeply into my drug use to dull the fear.

One day I lay on the couch, trying not to vomit. The drugs, depression, and fear had created a horrible nausea.

But then I began calculating. When was my last period? A lump formed in my throat. I couldn't even remember. Definitely more than one month. Could it have been three? Four? I didn't quite keep track.

Don
'
t jump to conclusions
, I thought. I got myself off the couch and went straight to my gynecologist, a kind man who really seemed to care about me.

“You are, indeed, pregnant,” the doctor said. “Four months, to be precise.”

I looked at him, stone-faced.

“I'm pregnant,” I said to Timothy that evening. I was bracing myself for his disappointment. To my surprise, he immediately broke into tears, leaned over, and kissed me.

“This is great!” he said, squeezing me. “We're having a baby!”

“You can cancel the celebration,” I said.

“Why?” he asked, his eyes wide in disbelief. “We can handle a kid.” Plus, he already had a baby from a previous relationship. His son was a little toddler already, and I could tell he adored him.

“Not like this.”

“You can't have an abortion,” he begged.

If I had this baby, I'd be tied to Timothy in a way that could never be broken. As much as I longed for a family and a “normal life,” I'd never actually seen a normal relationship and just assumed this one wouldn't last. Especially since he was a musician who was always on the road. One thing's for sure: I couldn't easily leave while toting a diaper bag.

“Please,” he begged.

“It's not up to you,” I said.

He wasn't angry with me and seemed to handle me with even more care.
Would a baby actually be a good thing?
And so I decided to wait and think, but the next few weeks didn't instill much confidence. Timothy stopped coming home at the right time and started staying out all night. I lay in bed for a couple of weeks and wondered what I was going to do. After turning it over and over in my head, I realized that I only had one option.

Timothy was sitting in the waiting room, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

“Please, please, please don't do this,” he sobbed. Tears were falling down his face.

“I'm gonna get this abortion,” I said. A mother is supposed to protect her children. So, in a way, this abortion would be my first maternal act. I was protecting my child from an unstable relationship and a drug-using parent (me). I was surprised that Timothy had volunteered to drive me to the clinic, but I realize that he figured he'd use the drive as one last and final opportunity to try to change my mind.

The problem he had was that I was onto his game. He was still cheating on me, with probably several women. No matter how much he begged and pleaded with me during the entire drive, I knew I was alone and I'd always be alone.

“Stacey?” the nurse called my name, and Timothy let out a heave. He grabbed my hand, “Please! I'm begging you.”

He was standing next to a wall. When I turned to leave, he slid down to the floor and put his head in his hands and cried like a baby. Then I walked in to get the procedure, facing it all alone. I changed into the little white gown, and a tear fell down my face. Then I began crying. Really crying. When I lay down on the abortion table, the nurse put an IV in my arm and left the room. Probably she wanted to get away from what had become heaving sobs. Because I was already in my second trimester, they would have to put me under to take the baby.

I felt misery to the core of my being. I was sobbing so loudly that I figured the nurses would come in to see what was wrong, to see if the IV had shifted to cause me such pain. But the pain was in my heart, in my soul. That searing pain caused me to do something I'd never done before in my life. I called out to God.

Please
,
God
.
You
'
ve got to tell me what to do
.
I don
'
t want a sign
,
I don
'
t want a feeling
,
I need you to tell me
.

And He did.

“Keep your son.”

I heard His voice just as clearly as I'd heard it when I was a toddler with my finger stuck in the television. I recognized the warmth, the tenor, the sobriety of it.

My son? It was a boy?

I reached over and ripped the IV out of my arm, causing blood to spurt everywhere.

“Calm down!” a nurse instructed. “Wait a minute.”

“No! No!” I screamed. The fact that I didn't know how much time I had to make my wishes known seized me with horror. What if I suddenly realized I wanted to keep my baby—my son—only to wake up and find out that they'd already taken him? “I'm keeping my baby! Stop! Stop! Stop!”

The nurses ran over to me to put pressure on my arm and clean up the site.

“Okay, calm down,” my doctor said. “Let's just take a look and see if everything's okay and then we'll decide.”

When he did a sonogram, I heard a faint little heartbeat, and that was it. I was overcome with love for this tiny being. And, yes, it was a boy. Many times, Democratic politicians preach the gospel of abortion as if it's one of the sacred rituals of their party. But the fact that abortion gives a permanent solution to what's really a “temporary problem” (though I don't even think you can accurately call a baby a “problem”) is one of the biggest travesties of their party. They claim with a straight face that Republicans wage a “war on women,” but they are the ones with policies that literally rip females from limb to limb in the womb . . . the one place that should be the most protective place on earth. I am so glad that I didn't exercise my so-called “right” to kill the baby inside of me. It would've been the biggest mistake of my life, and I'm not sure how I would've emotionally recovered.

That's one thing liberals don't want to talk about. Abortion causes severe regret in many women, regret that's not easily shaken.

Also, I realize how awful this must've been for Timothy. Many times liberals say that men shouldn't have an opinion on abortion—it's the woman's body, after all. But that's exactly wrong. I didn't make a baby by myself. It takes two, and one of them has to be a man. The fact that I was so callous toward Timothy's feelings about his baby shames me. Abortion is not a “women's issue.” It's a human rights issue that affects both sexes. After all, probably about half of the babies killed in abortions in America are boys. Doesn't that give men the right to speak on the issue?

Just because a man can't give birth to a baby doesn't mean he can't powerfully defend a baby. And that's what Timothy did that day. The fact that he was so upset about the abortion really affected me. I would keep the baby.

It didn't mean it was going to be easy.

How am I going to take care of him?
My mind reeled.
How am I going to change my life to make it worthy of a child?

I went out to Timothy, who was still in the waiting room, his face splotchy with frustration and grief.

“I didn't do it.”

His eyes grew large and he stood to his feet and grabbed me. This time, he embraced me with such relief I felt he might never let me go. I stood there with his big arms around me and allowed myself to feel his comfort. From that day forward during my pregnancy, I never touched another drug or sipped another drink.

Finally.

A reason to live.

“Hello?” I fumbled for the phone. It was dark, and I had no idea who could be calling at that hour. I cleared my throat and tried to push the sleep out of my voice.

“I hope you lose your baby,” a woman said, then giggles in the background. Timothy was on tour, and his fans somehow got our number and called.
Were they jealous that he was connected to me? Were they more than just fans? How would they know our personal number?
But when he came home, he dismissed the late-night calls, looked at me with those big eyes, and said, “I'll always be there for you, baby.” He talked like he was in one of his romantic songs, which—by the way—had become hits.

“Maybe you should come on tour with me,” he said. “It might make you feel better, and I don't want to be separated when you're so close to your due date.” I thought it was a brilliant idea. Not only would it show all of the hangers-on that this man had a real life and real family, it would let me spend time with Timothy while he was working. I loved how his career was taking off, and it would be invigorating to see it firsthand.

When I was eight months pregnant, he was invited to perform on a nationally prominent late night show.

“Are you going to help me figure out what to wear?” he asked, smiling. We went shopping together and pulled together a good look for Timothy—a gold hoop earring in one ear, jeans, a black tee shirt, a white leather jacket with red sleeves and an upturned collar. This
was
the early nineties, after all. Even though he was touring, he wanted to take advantage of the television opportunity, so he caught a flight to Los Angeles. I stayed in New York and waited for him to come back the next day. It was weird being in a hotel in what used to be my hometown. I whiled away the day wondering about the baby in my body, daydreaming about Timothy's success, and wondering what next amazing job my agent might bring me. Things were suddenly taking off for us. When it came time for the show, I opened a KitKat from the minibar and turned on the television set.

Timothy walked out onto the stage with the mic in his hand. The backup dancers looked sexy, the disco balls on the set were dazzlingly reflective, and the smoky set looked amazing. When he sang his rendition of his song, the crowd leapt to their feet. The host came out on stage to shake his hand. The host usually did this right before going to a commercial break—it was a way to remind the audience of the name of the singer they had just heard. When the host came out and chatted with Timothy, he asked him many questions . . . including whether he was single. I laughed. He probably asked him that because the women in the audience went wild for him. Part of being with a talented guy in the entertainment industry is that women everywhere are always throwing themselves at him. I'd have to get used to that now that his star was rising.