Mel Ortiz
What’s In A Name?
(Excerpt from Making Lemonade: Memoirs of a Teenaged Mother)
The green glow of the stove’s digital clock read 6:45 when the dull sporadic tension that had been nudging at my belly for hours finally convinced the rest of my body to join in. Strong and steady, the constricting pain instantly immobilized me and simultaneously robbed me of my ability to breathe. Doing my best to ignore it, I went about the remainder of that evening as normally as I possibly could, pausing only to brace myself against the squeezing pains that came at regular intervals, and hoping against hope that they would stop. I knew full well that they would not. I was 17 years old; lived in a shelter with my baby, Sally; and was in labor with my second child.
The date was Friday, May 24, 2001, and it was too soon. This was not supposed to happen. I’d thought I had until late June. I needed every second to prepare for the decision I’d made. Now I was robbed of time.
* * *
Two months earlier, I sat in that small room, with its barren off-white walls and air that smelled as old as the woman across the desk from me looked.
Assigned to me by Catholic Social Services, this woman specialized in handling my type of case. She handed me a manila folder that contained the information of couples she thought to be a good match for me.
Translation: Couples who didn’t care what kind of baby they got.
One week later, I was back in that same two-story brick building to meet the lucky couple who had won this baby lottery. I’d pulled their names from a giant hat that contained thousands of others who also wished and waited for a phone call.
They appeared exactly as they had in their profile photo: a very pretty and petite thirty-something wife, with straight, chin-length dirty-blonde hair. She wore it loose and tucked behind her ears. The husband, tall and very handsome, reminded me of a TV dad. You know, the kinds you see in commercials that smile and hug their kids, pick them up, and spin them around.
They could pass for that couple in the glass of new picture frames. I wonder now what they would think if they knew this was the reason I had chosen them, for their looks and their Victorian home with its wraparound porch.
We sat in that room for some time and tried to feel each other out. We told as much as we dared to about ourselves. But of all the words we spoke, two stuck: that name. Amanda Jean. The name came with a story that I cared even less for. And after doing my best to smile and nod through it, I made a request: Should I give birth to a girl, please allow her to keep the name I give her, as a gift from, and reminder of me. Her mother.
They told me they would consider it. Their faces and tone told me otherwise.
* * *
Those two words ran amuck in my mind as I timed my contractions. I stopped, with one hand gripping where sink and counter met. The other cradled the rigid curve of my stomach. In through the nose. Breathe deeply.
Amanda.
Out through the mouth. Short bursts. Focus.
Jean. Amanda Jean.
I found a grease splat on the oven’s backsplash and focused.
Breath in.
Amanda Jean.
Breath out.
Amanda Jean.
An hour of steady contractions at regular intervals assured me this was no false alarm.
The receiver felt two times its weight in my hand. I dialed 9 to be connected out of the shelter, only to learn that neither my mother nor my sister could take me to the hospital. My next option would have been to call an ambulance, except my one year old couldn’t stand bright lights and sounds. I didn’t know why then, but I learned later that baby Sally was already showing the classic signs of Autism. The ambulance was out of the question. It was nearly midnight when I made the decision to get there myself.
Baby Sally slept in the no-frills crib next to the bunk bed while I shuffled through the two-room unit. I grabbed the diaper bag and packed it with the usual: diapers, wipes, change of clothes, baby food. As I slung the bag over my shoulder, the strap cut a course between my breasts, above my belly, with the bulk of the bag resting on the small of my back. I walked over to the borrowed crib doing my best not to wake her. I leaned over the rail and slipped one hand through her legs and the other behind her shoulder. With little more than a sigh, she came to rest across my chest. Her little face, framed by the beginnings of curls, settled on my forearm.
I grabbed the stroller. One arm ran the length of sleeping Sally, and the other quietly opened the unit door.
Quick. Nudge door open with foot. Pick up stroller. Make it out before door closes.
The sound of the slamming door behind me echoed in the hallway. Sally still slept.
It was only a few feet from this door to the first of the heavy fire-grade doors that keep occupants in at night. It may as well have been a mile. With the recognizable aura of tension threatening to engulf me again, I needed to make it to that door or risk dropping the stroller—a commotion that would send Sally into a fit.
Okay.
Deep breath in. Lift stroller. Hold Sally close.
Move. Move. Move. Almost there.
Put stroller down. Swing open door. Pick up stroller. Walk through door.
Move. Move. Move.
Wedge door open with stroller. Hold on to railing. Exhale. Small breaths.
As I waited for that contraction to pass, I focused on the fine blond hairs that veiled Sally’s cheek and temple. Once released from the squeezing pain, I had five minutes to make it down the narrow staircase that would take me outside.
I pressed my back against the wall of the stairwell as best I could. With one hand on the stroller and the other around Sally, I couldn’t use the railing. I walked down the stairs sideways, the only way to accommodate the size of baby, belly, and stroller.
Once at the bottom, I placed my still-sleeping daughter carefully into the stroller, buckled her in, and pulled the protective plastic cover over top. As I opened the final door, I braced myself for what was to come. It was windy and raining—pouring, actually. I stepped out. I was soaked almost instantly.
The door closed behind us with a heavy, hollow noise. There was no way back inside. The intercoms were left unattended at this time of night. I had no rights to re-enter, and I held no key.
I had no choice but to move forward that night.
I made my way down the streets—usually busy, now dark and deserted—that stretched before me. I was alone, soaked, cold, and in labor. The only cushions against my pain were the navy-blue foam of the stroller handles—and the hope that the baby I carried would have a better chance at life than me.
Amanda Jean.