Love, Justine

The years 2010-2012 are basically a slurry, foggy blur of memories because I was drinking so much. Dubya and I got divorced and he got everything–the house, the dogs, my car, and the toddler. It was like a bad country song, and I was the one left crying into my beer. 

Or my vodka, rather.

I went to rehab twice during this time, and stayed sober for the while after the second time. Prynot went back to prison for four months for a parole violation during this time, leaving me effectively homeless. Prynot was on parole for a burglary he had committed with his friends in his twenties. This was not his first parole violation. His first parole violation happened when he had a consensual sexual relationship with a 16-year old, resulting in his becoming a Registered Sex Offender in the state of New York.

I found out about this well after I already lived with him and thought I was in love with him. After Prynot went back to prison, I moved in with my sister Elizabeth and her husband Stryder, and their two (going on three) boys. I continued to see Prynot on and off when he got home from prison, and found out I was pregnant in early April of 2013. I cried–a lot–and settled on an abortion. I had abandoned the one living child I had, and had divided long ago to stick to cats, who I had much better luck with.

I went to my doctor, who confirmed that I was pregnant and told me that he didn’t perform abortions. He gave me the number to the nearest Planned Parenthood and told me I should do an ultrasound to make sure this wasn’t an ectopic pregnancy, since I’d had one before. 

The ultrasound showed that I was five weeks pregnant, and then the doctor turned to me and said, “It’s twins. I’m not kidding.”

I burst into tears.

I continued crying for about three weeks, and wrestled with myself over the thought of aborting twins. I’m a twin. I thought I was okay with one, but two? I couldn’t stomach it.

I talked with my seemingly happily married sister about her and Stryder adopting the twins, but in the end, I couldn’t stomach that either. Now that I lived with her, I saw that her marriage wasn’t all that happy either, and she drank a lot every day. 

I decided I would make it work, whatever that meant.

Lilly was now three years old, and I had visitation privileges with her a couple of times a week. I stopped drinking and taking Vicodin like it was candy. I moved in with my parents, who insisted that I get a job. I started working at the local Sheetz gas station. I also started puking uncontrollably several times per day–a condition known as hyperemesis gravidum. I could not gain weight to save my life. I was working overnights as a Shift Supervisor, and then had visitation with Tiger during some of the days. I was extremely sleep-deprived. Prynot would not change his lifestyle–namely using and selling drugs–so I broke up with him. My parents started transforming their garage into an apartment where my boys and I could live when they were born. When I was around five months pregnant and had gained barely any weight, my doctor told me to stop working. I was relieved and exhausted. I went into labor several times, and at 7 ½ months pregnant, six full weeks early, the doctors couldn’t stop it anymore. 

The boys were coming, whether we were ready or not.

On November 7, 2013, they were born via emergency C-section because I was in full-blown labor and they were both breech. The Coudersport hospital does not have a NICU, so they had wanted to fly us to Dubois, PA, but the weather was too bad. So, instead, two teams of doctors and surgeons came in two ambulances to Coudersport, and then drove the boys the two hours to Dubois. My doctor said that the OR had never been that crowded. He also told me when I woke up from general anesthesia that I had “bled from everywhere possible.” I lost a third of my blood volume in the surgery. I recovered for one day, then drove myself in the car I had bought from my sister to Dubois. I had no money and 50 staples across my belly.

The boys were born at about 3 ½ pounds apiece and 12 inches long.

They were about the size of a loaf of bread.

I had never seen such tiny humans. Enter Superman and King. They were jaundiced and needed to reach five pounds before they could be discharged.  We stayed for three weeks. There was a nonprofit that served the parents of NICU babies if they were poor, putting them up in a local hotel and paying for meals, but they turned out to be too Christian to help me, and I wasn’t Christian enough for them.

The husband of the couple who ran the organization came to interview me, and my heart sank when he asked me as an intake question how many fathers there were to my five children. 

They wouldn’t help me because there were three.

So I slept in the “Nesting Room,” meant to facilitate bonding for families about to be discharged, and when that wasn’t available, I slept on the couch in the waiting room. I was nursing every two hours, and I wasn’t about to leave the babies there with nobody.

Needless to say, I was exhausted.

And in an enormous amount of pain.

And hungry.

I had a Food Stamp card, but the hospital didn’t accept EBT as a method of payment, and even a salad was $10 in the cafeteria. So I walked to the nearest supermarket and bought food there. One night my mother bought me a small pizza.

Thanks for all your help, Mom.