The story of a lost and found child (by L. Rodriguez in Kentucky)
During the end-of-the-semester banquet I casually mentioned my daughter to a friend, and the chair of my major’s department overheard. She quickly turned to me, surprised, and said, “I never knew you had a child! How do you do it? This changes my whole perception of you!” While her reaction was positive, I cringe at the possibility of my role as a mother influencing my professors’ perceptions of me, for better or worse. It is not that I am ashamed or that I hide the fact that I have a child–my daughter often accompanies me to department events and other university activities—but I, like many professional women today, realize that when you call yourself a mother, expectations of you change, so I don’t often talk about her with people in charge of my grades to limit the possibility of differential treatment.
For me, my daughter is my inspiration, not a hurdle. Working to give her a better life drives my every achievement. While it is not always easy, it helps that I have a supportive partner at home and that I waited until she was enrolled in elementary school to continue my education. I have met other student mothers who struggle a lot more than I do because their children are much younger and/or they’re single parents. Compared to them, my difficulties seem insignificant, but they exist. But while life is easier now, it hasn’t always been this way.
I got pregnant with my daughter when I was fifteen after leaving a neglectful and abusive household. As it turned out, lonely men are one of the few types of people willing to take in homeless female teenagers, and so I moved in with my adult “boyfriend” when I was fourteen. Even at that age, I knew it was not right, but it was still better than being at home because at least he fed me.
I panicked when I took the first pregnancy test. I had already dropped out of high school and did not want to be tied to this man forever, and I thought having a baby meant I was stuck. I went to a gynecologist for confirmation, and when I started crying, my doctor told me I should have thought about the consequences of my actions while I was busy having “fun” and that I was lucky I did not have AIDS. I was too young to understand that he was judging my life based on his own stereotypical view of teenage pregnancies, and I felt so ashamed.
I wanted to look into other options, and I ran across an advertisement for a pregnancy center that offered information on abortions and adoptions. I managed to make an appointment for later the same day, and soon I found myself in a place that looked like a medical clinic, but with pictures of fetuses and biblical quotes on the walls. I was taken to an “examination room” where I was to meet with a clinic counselor. While I waited, they played a video called “The Silent Scream,” a film that depicted a developing fetus “screaming” during an abortion procedure. It was horrific and I felt sick for even considering that option. When the counselor finally came in, I told her that I was 8 weeks pregnant. She politely informed me that it was too late for me to have an abortion anyway, but she gave me some literature on Christian adoption. Of course, I later found out that place was a “crisis pregnancy center,” an anti-choice establishment specializing in scaring teenagers with disturbing propaganda, lying about abortion time frames, and pretending to be an actual medical clinic despite having no medical professionals on staff whatsoever.
After having been scolded by my gynecologist and being told that I should give my child up to a “nice Christian couple” by people claiming to be nurses, I dreaded all my upcoming medical appointments.
I wish I could say things improved from then on, but that is not the case. Even though I made sure to keep all my prenatal appointments, no one ever recognized my dedication to my child’s health. Every time I went to an examination, I felt ashamed. I had a nurse tell me that if I was her daughter, I would be smacked. The nutritionist at the health department would not accept that my iron deficiency was from my inability to hold down my meals (I had extreme nausea and vomiting throughout my pregnancy), and she told me to cut back on the junk food because, “You are a mother now. You can’t eat like a kid anymore.” Even on the day I delivered my daughter, when she would not latch onto my breast and I was nauseated from the medicines, the delivery room nurse scolded me for giving up breastfeeding so quickly when all I wanted to do was sleep off my medication and try again later. She said, “You know, now there are more important things than YOUR comfort. If you weren’t ready to make sacrifices, maybe you should not have gotten pregnant.”
Life is easier now. My daughter is 10 and she is awesome. I have a truly supportive partner and we have been together for 8 years now (her biological father left me sometime in the midst of the pregnancy). I am now one of the top students at my university (after working my butt off to get a high score on the GED), and I am graduating with highest honors. I succeed because I have no other option and because I realize that schoolwork is not the hardest thing I’ve ever had to endure.
I still struggle. I worry that focusing on my studies is stealing the time I should spend watching my daughter grow up. When I was 20, I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome and I am likely infertile as a result (my doctor says that there is a chance that medication could help me conceive a child, but without it, conception will be difficult). My daughter may be the only biological child I ever have, and I worry that I am missing too much. However, I cannot let her live the life I lived, and I lead by example. Through my dedication to my studies and my perseverance, she is learning the value of her own education. Being connected to a university allows me access to events and activities that provide further education enrichment, and I make a point of bringing her to as many as possible. I love my daughter, and I view my education as a means for providing her with better opportunities in the future.
I have heard people argue that stereotypes are based on reality, and I don’t disagree. However, this is not a valid reason to further engage in stereotyping. Although I did not fit the mold of the so-called “typical pregnant teen” who thought more of her own pleasure than her child’s well-being, many people who interacted with me interpreted my actions through that lens. Perhaps it allowed them to better maintain their own emotional distance; admittedly, it is easier to accept a teenager making bad decisions than one who was given poor options. However, I internalized the criticism I received from the representatives of the medical community because I trusted and admired them. It took me a while to understand that they, too, could misjudge a person; and I could have just as easily accepted their words and fallen into the stereotype myself. The criticism I received was neither medically nor emotionally helpful, and recalling my experiences makes me feel like a lost child again even after accomplishing so much. If my story influences even one doctor or nurse to think twice before stereotyping a patient, I will consider it a success.
About the Author:
L. Rodriguez graduates this month with a BA in Social Science, and will be continuing her education in a Master’s Program in Public Health. She currently resides with her daughter and partner in Kentucky.
Nurses for Social Justice 