Five months have passed since Dennis was released from the hospital. Although his health is improving, he isn’t ready to take on strenuous work projects. Not only does he have to adjust to physical limitations, but also to the emotional toll of worrying about his health and work. We are both worried about work, money, and health. It doesn’t take long for the mental strain to take a toll on our relationship. There is an overwhelming sense of unease in not knowing what will come next, if Dennis really is okay, and who will watch Mckenna if I return to work. The rapid decline of any semblance of security over the past few months leaves both of us on edge, angry at the slightest verbal misstep, but, even more, afraid.
Before Dennis, the kids, and house, I was excited about the opportunities life presented: that I would be professionally accomplished, with choices and perpetual happiness. I entered the workforce as an independent woman, and barely existed in the present moment because I was so excited about my future. After Dennis, the kids and the house, I was still happy, until five months ago when things changed. Now, the future I was so excited about entails unanticipated maternal desires and being late on the mortgage for my childhood home, which Dennis worked so hard to renovate. Last week was horrible. Dennis and I had an explosive argument. We went too far with insults, blame, and accusations. It was terrible to see I could participate in such volatile anger. After the argument, I sat up for most of the night thinking about the anger we displayed and how much Greyson and Mckenna may have heard, even though they were in bed. Only deep rage will speak, cast blame, yell, and break things in the manner in which we did. The kids don’t have to hear us argue. They know something is going on, even though we try to hide it. They are extremely perceptive. They sense tension in our body language, facial expressions, and the tone in which we sometimes speak to each other. Dennis is angry that I’m still home with Mckenna and I’m angry he cannot support us. This situation has not only brought primal fears out into the open, but is also shedding light on the depths of our emotional wounds. I’m scared and I know he is too. I love him, and I know he loves me, but right now, neither of us feels loved by the other. We are now two months behind on the mortgage.
I will have to ask my parents for help to cover at least one month’s mortgage payment. I really do not want to ask for help because asking for help requires a conversation. The monthly mortgage statement is mailed to our house, so they are unaware we have fallen behind. In a desperate attempt to ask them for as little money as possible, Dennis and I pawn our wedding rings, a few pieces of jewelry and some of his tools. It is surreal to walk into a pawn shop with a Movado watch given to me by my mother. Of course, we don’t get much, but it is something to put towards the mortgage. Worrying about the mortgage falling further behind, calling the loan servicer, and sending in what we have for payments pushes me to the limit. I am now applying for work. In September of 2006, after less than two months of looking, I am hired and return to work.
Since I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for three years, my hourly pay is shockingly reduced. As a teacher, my final hourly rate was close to twenty-five dollars, and I supported myself with this income. The position I’ve accepted at USC, however, pays fourteen dollars per hour. With a monthly salary of $2,250 before taxes, yes, this will fully cover the mortgage, late fees, and penalties, if we don’t need to eat; if we don’t put gas in the cars, pay for childcare, pay the car note, car insurance, utilities and telephone bills, and the co-pay for medical prescriptions. We will still have to pick and choose what and when to pay. Nonetheless, I say okay to the hourly rate and don’t dare jeopardize anything by asking to negotiate for more. The bills are now so out of control that paying them seems like a fantasy from a previous life.
With me working, household chores are building up along with the pile of bills on the desk. I simply refuse to do everything I did as a stay-at-home mom and work. It is too much to go to work, take care of the kids, cook and clean because I am too exhausted. In fact, I am abnormally exhausted. My mind is overly occupied with thoughts, questions, worries, fears, and even hope; hope for anything better than this. I have passed many days feeling cheated, like a victim, like I’m drowning. Why are we experiencing this? What do we need to learn that warrants this? It seems like our life is at a standstill, like we’re waiting for a miracle. But the miracle isn’t showing up, or at least not the miracle I have I mind. Things are getting worse because we cannot get current on the bills. And, to make matters worse, every single day there is a voice, a feeling, an idea, something within me that says, “Write.” Every single day. And every single day, my mental response is, “But I’m not that good of a writer. I don’t know what to write about. I don’t have any money or resources to spend time on writing.” I’m not sure what this feeling is about, or where it stems from, but it is persistent. I have kept a journal since I was in fourth grade, and I still have every single one of them. I have always enjoyed writing and have long told myself I will one day write a book, but how can I write now? My mind is too distracted. I have too many things to worry about.
Since I started working, Dennis is more involved with the kids. He takes Greyson to Cub Scouts meetings, takes him to school, cooks breakfast, and helps with lunch preparation. He’s experiencing the effort required to take care of children, manage a household, and work, and he doesn’t seem to mind. Household cleaning chores are another matter. When I was home, the house was clean all the time. Now it’s a disaster. When I come home from work, I look the other way and ignore the dirty dishes, just like he does. Last month we set a record. I refused to clean the kitchen and so did he. He says he doesn’t like to wash dishes. Oh really? The dirty dishes sat in the kitchen sink for three weeks! I finally gave in when my friend said she was coming over.
Seeing that I’ve been so tired and lethargic, and now that we have medical coverage again, Dennis insists that I go to the doctor. We have our moments of dipping in and out of arguments, having off-and-on power struggles over who is doing the most, and sometimes finding solace in each other late at night when the kids are asleep. When I go to the doctor and tell her how tired I feel, she insists I take a pregnancy test. I assume she’s joking, until she rolls the ultrasound machine into the exam room. Why do I need a pregnancy test if I’m still having a period? She puts the gel onto my lower belly and slowly moves the wand around. “What the…?!!” I gasp. The black-and-white image on the monitor displays a leg, an arm, and something that resembles a head! I am almost four months pregnant and didn’t know it! Apparently, it wasn’t a period. It was spotting. And the miracle I didn’t have in mind is due in six months. Although this pregnancy is not miraculous by a standard definition, miracles come in many forms. Whether it is the baby, the internal prompt to write, or finding a new way of being, there is something undiscovered within me wanting to come into the world. Like the slow development of the baby, for me to move into new ways of thinking and perceiving life, the change I will have to undergo will also require gestation. I will have to undergo two birthing events—one for the baby and one for me—to understand that the origin of everything I need is within me. Our third child, Gavin, is born in April of 2007.
When my three-month maternity leave ends in July of 2007, it isn’t an option to