When I turned eighteen, I wanted out of the house, but my mom was the master of the guilt trip and convinced me to attend a local college while living at home.
I hope you’re still reading. None of this is meant to play on your sympathies or manipulate you into feeling sorry for me. I own what I’ve done and know you’ll think poorly of me no matter what sob story I give you. My only goal here is to provide you with a sense of closure, so you don’t spend your entire life wondering why I did something so outrageous.
After college, I put my foot down and informed my parents I was moving out no matter what they said. Dad yelled, Mom cried, and Saint Sister saved the day as she always did by offering to move into an apartment with me. Our parents still hated the idea but eventually agreed. I can only assume they hoped my sister would be a positive influence on me.
And she was. We got on great, worked jobs we both enjoyed, and reveled in our newfound freedom. Neither of us went wild as we still had the daily reminders from our mother of what could happen in the big, bad world if we weren’t overly cautious.
When I hit twenty-two, I began having strange muscle twitches in my face and a few other areas. I ignored it for months, assuming I needed to drink more water or eat more bananas. Then, I mentioned it during a routine doctor’s appointment, and my physician recommended I see a neurologist. In my never-ending quest for independence, I didn’t bother taking anyone to the neurology appointment with me. The specialist ran a battery of tests and called me back into their office a week later.
Ever heard of Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis? Also referred to as ALS or Lou Gehrig’s disease?
It’s a nasty illness with a shitty prognosis. Most people who develop it are diagnosed in their mid-life years. Twenty-three is young, rare, and offers little hope for a lengthy life.
I left the neurologist’s office in a fog with pamphlets, prescriptions, more appointments, and a whole host of rage in my gut.
Fifty percent of those diagnosed lived for three years.
Twenty-five percent lived five years.
The prognosis was even poorer at my age.
I’d spent my entire life so cautious, so careful, so sheltered, all for the purpose of surviving as long as possible. I’d never gotten a tattoo or been blackout drunk. Never hooked up with a stranger, never driven a hundred miles per hour in a car, never used drugs, and never woken up in the morning wondering why the hell I’d made the decisions I’d made the night before.
Sitting in that parking lot, I was bombarded by all the experiences and rites of passage I’d missed out on and might never enjoy. My clock was running out, and I’d never catch up with it.
I cried in my car for hours as I thought of all the things I’d miss out on if I died in the next three years.
Climbing the ladder in my job.
Falling in love.
Watching my sister fall in love.
Getting married.
Having a baby…
And that was the one to break me. I’d never hold my own child in my arms. Never feed him or her with my body. Never watch their little face as they sleep. Never know the exhaustion of a first-time mom. Never chase a precocious toddler around the house. Never feel the frustration only a sassy teenager could cause. Never watch my child get married and begin their own life. I’ll never forget the crushing pain in my chest that followed the realization. For a moment, I worried I was having a heart attack.
Here’s a fact about me. I’m a preschool teacher. I love children. Love them. I’ve always wanted at least four of my own. Being a mother has always been my ultimate goal in life.
And I’d had the chance ripped away from me on a beautiful July afternoon while I sat in a cold, sterile doctor’s office alone.
I snapped. It’s the only way of explaining what happened to my brain. All I thought of was how I could have a few years with my child if I got pregnant right away. And I wanted that more than I wanted to live those three years. So what followed was driven by desperation and despair.
I’d had tickets to that concert for months.
I got drunk.
I planned to find a man.
You caught my eye.
You made me laugh.
You were sweet.
You were hot.
I poked a hole in the condom I reassured you I had like some irrational soap opera villain.
We had sex in the very same car I’d sobbed in earlier that day.
The following day, I woke up shocked at myself for my reckless behavior. I remember pouring coffee and willing myself not to vomit. I’d finally broken all my parents’ rules, woken up with regrets, and had a one-night stand. All it had taken to truly rebel was a death sentence.