Vicky's Story

"June 3, 1966"

I laid in that hospital bed sobbing, for what seemed like a lifetime. No one understood my pain. No one was there to help. My mom, dear thing, tried to understand but couldn’t. She came to the hospital trying to console me and all I could do was cry and ask her to leave. She pleaded with me to keep the baby. She pleaded with me to let her raise it. She begged to see this precious little girl and she couldn’t understand why I was so adamant about not seeing her myself, let alone, hold her in my arms.
She didn’t know that it took every bit of will power and strength that I could muster not to look at my baby. It took EVERYTHING I had. I knew that if I held her and felt her and looked into her eyes, I would NEVER be able to give her away. This was my flesh and I COULD NOT let myself feel that.
I was completely alone. I was completely alone in the decision that I was about to make and I knew I could listen to no one lest they weaken me and change my mind.
From the time that I got pregnant, I knew I would give the baby up for adoption. There was no way that I was bringing a child into this world without a "real" family. My parents had divorced when I was 12 and my dad, being a commercial fisherman, was gone most of the year even when my parents were married.
I wanted my child to have more. I was determined not to do wrong by this baby. I had made a mistake. I had gotten pregnant by someone that I knew I could not marry. I would not compound that mistake by raising a child without a family. I believed in Ozzie and Harriet. I believed in Ward and June Cleaver. I believed that my baby deserved the best that I could give her I was positive that the best was not me and mine.
I was an only child and had always felt lonely. My dad was never home and my mom was split between desperately trying to get some crumb of affection from my dad and giving me so much focus that even at a very young age, I knew she was trying to live her life through me. I had to be "good enough" because she was sure that she wasn’t. My mother gave me everything she could, in her way, and I was about to do the same for my baby.
A Washington State "case worker" entered the hospital room. I had never seen her before. I had had no discussion with anyone about the adoption except the doctor and an attorney that he sent me to. The woman was very gentle and loving but again, all I could do was sob. She was supporting me to see the baby. She wanted me to hold it. She told me that they believed that the best place for any child is with it’s natural mother. I sobbed even harder. She was getting to me and I couldn’t allow that. The shields went up. I was vacillating back and forth between being a whimpering pile of emotion and the self-determined rock that I had learned to become to withstand the pressure I was feeling.
The baby was an "it." I had to leave it that way. I couldn’t bring more reality into my decision or the decision would never be made.
I asked again about the family. The case worker said they were good people. She said my baby would live South from Seattle and not remain in the city. She told me they were Norwegians and a "real" family. I felt the first smile that I had felt through this whole ordeal light over my face. I was drugged and spaced and emotionally drained but I remember feeling peace in that moment. I can feel that feeling, even now, as I sit here writing. When I felt that sense of peace, I once again knew that my decision was right.
I wanted my baby to have so much. I wanted her to be free to explore all that life has to offer. I wanted her to be, do and have it all.
I’m sure that I signed some final papers at the hospital but I have blocked all of that. The case worker told me that the family would not come to the hospital and take my baby until I had left. She said that I could change my mind right up until the time that I left the hospital.
The next few days are a blur. I remember the pain of the incision cut straight down from my belly button. I remember tearing at my stitches. I remember sobbing and I remember feeling numb. I remember thinking, once more, about the future this baby would have being raised by me; alone, poor, struggling to support us with a low paying job somewhere. I had second thoughts but as swiftly as they came up, I would put them out of my mind. I WOULD NOT DO THAT TO MY BABY. I WOULD NOT.
Mom and I would go home from the hospital in a taxi. My stepfather was of no support so he didn’t bother to come and pick us up. He was so afraid of feeling his own feelings that he came nowhere near this event.
My dad never knew that I was pregnant. Amazing, now at 82, when he was finally told, he wonders why I didn’t tell him at the time. I wonder why he doesn’t wonder where he was for the 9 ½ months of his daughter’s life when she grew from 125 to 196 pounds and went through such hell/major transition.
I remember sitting outside the hospital in the wheelchair waiting for the taxi to come. I knew that this was my last chance. I knew that once I left the hospital, my baby would be taken away. I felt so alone. I felt lost. It was like my mind had to do what my mind had to do but my heart was disintegrating inside of me. I have never felt such sorrow.
The taxi pulled up. I could feel the nurse’s empathy as she helped me from the wheelchair. My mother was sobbing. I was overcome with the pain. We pulled away and all I could feel was death. It overcame me. It was in me. It was in my mom. It was everywhere. I had just given away...MYSELF.

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