A HARDENED HEART

“Certainly sons are a gift from the LORD, the fruit of the womb, a reward.”

Psalm 127:3

I was a changed woman the second the nurse placed Ryan into my arms. In those first few days everything felt natural. The drive from the hospital was like we transported the most valuable piece of crystal in the world. One small bump or swerve could cause it to shatter in a thousand pieces. Neal drove while I sat in the back and hovered over the precious cargo.

Two weeks and a rapidly growing ten pound baby later, my mother left to go back to her life and Neal went back to work provide for our family. I was glad to be alone and I did well for the first few weeks. However six weeks of spending late nights rocking, feeding, and changing Ryan to get the wailing to cease left me undone. The days weren’t so bad; but the sleepless nights crept in and snatched the patience from my spirit.

One night Neal found me with Ryan on the glider rocker half out of my mind. It was late in the evening and Neal had been out with friends. I’d fed and bathed Ryan to get him to quiet down but no position or action on my part could get him calm. By the time Neal found me it had been close to an hour of singing and rocking in the chair.

“Hush…little…baby…don’t…say… a…WORD…” Each word came out stronger than the next. I was the evil witch from the west with a colicky infant on her shoulder threatening it to quiet down. The back end of the glider rubbed against the wall with the force of each push.

Neal poked his head into the room. “Hey, hey now. What’s going on?” He entered and rushed over to the glider. He took Ryan from my arms and with a firm hand stopped the back of the glider from hitting the wall. “Why don’t you take a break?”

Numb from the wails in my ear I got out of the rocker without a smile or nod to Neal. I walked out of the room in a daze and sat on couch in the den. Ryan’s squalling saturated the house. I couldn’t hear my own thoughts.

Minutes later Neal entered the den empty handed. “I put Ryan in the crib. He seems pissed more than anything. His diaper’s dry. You’ve fed him right?”

I glared at Neal in response.

“How long has he been this way?”
“Over an hour at least.” I got up, went to our bedroom and crawled back in bed.

Neal followed close behind. “What should we do? Is he sick?”

“No he’s not sick. I’ve done everything the books tell me to do. He doesn’t have a

fever. He’s eaten. I bathed him. I even tried to massage his tummy but he won’t stop crying!” I broke down and cried into my pillow.

Neal changed and got into bed beside me. Neither of us spoke. It didn’t seem possible but Ryan’s cries got louder and louder.

“Come on.” Neal got up and grabbed my hand. He led me into the room he’d built in the very back of the house. It was an office/play room but with a couch. We closed the doors, huddled on the couch together and cried. Eventually exhaustion took over the three of us and we all fell asleep.

Despite the sleepless nights Neal, anxious to get back in the saddle, kept track of the six weeks till my check up with Dr. Gordon. I was anxious but not for the same reason. I couldn’t shake loose the extra thirty pounds of weight gain and sex was least of my priorities. Sleeping, showering, eating, thinking, and maybe a nap or two reigned at the top of the list. It was no secret to the both of us sex was not something I wanted to jump right back into. Not to mention the dozen or so stitches that mended my most personal area. The thought of anyone or anything going near me made my chest tighten.

“Everything looks good, Shannon.” Dr. Baker stepped away from the table. “You can go back to living a normal life. Tell Neal all is well.” She smiled as if she said something funny and took off her gloves. The ‘SNAP!’ of the rubber made me jump.

Embarrassed, I giggled to overcompensate for my nerves. “Great.”

“Take it slow. If it hurts or seems tight then be sure to communicate with Neal.”

“Okay.” I hesitated. “I guess I’m nervous that it will tear apart again.”

Dr. Baker laughed. “Oh, no. Your husband isn’t that strong.”

We both laughed and I left without telling her I was afraid to have sex again. Not afraid of Neal but afraid of the triggers. My first time was not by choice. Instead it was violently forced on me and I could never forget the tightness, the pull of the skin, and the slight tearing. My fear was this would feel the same. But I didn’t say anything. I never told her about the rapes before and it wasn’t a subject I wanted to get into.

That evening Neal came in the door, greeted me with a kiss, covered Ryan with kisses, and then came back to me for a second time. “So, what did Dr. Baker say?” His smile was mischievous.

My heart pounded in conflicting beats. One was an attraction for my husband; the other was repelled by the fear. I couldn’t breathe. “I’m good to go.”

“Alright then.” Neal grabbed the napping baby out of my arms and laid him in the bassinet. “Let’s go.”

Fear rushed through my veins and froze my heart. “Hold up.” I didn’t move. “I’m good to go but I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Rejected, Neal turned back around and came over to me. He reached out his arms and pulled me into a hug. “I’ll go slow. I promise.”

I wanted to tell him the truth. I wanted to explain but I didn’t want him to feel as if I compared him to the men who raped me. I smiled up at him and rested my head on his chest. “I know.” How could I deny him of something he had already given up for more than six weeks?

I pushed back the desire to run. As anticipated the triggers were intense. I fought the need to push him off and instead through clenched teeth and deep breaths I managed. Neal was gentle, kind, loving, and concerned, constantly asking if I was okay. He wasn’t anything like the uncaring, unhearing, violent and savage first time. But I couldn’t help that my mind formulated triggers from the abuse. In the end Neal was happy and I was left to quiet my beating heart and hope the next time my mind would be easier on me.

I was not prepared to nurse the wounds from a full episiotomy. The minute detail of eight to twelve stitches needed to repair the vaginal wall slipped by me during the labor and delivery course. I should’ve realized a baby’s head is larger than the tunnel from which it emerges. Worse, I felt ill-prepared and unaware of being strapped into the monster of all rollercoaster rides – motherhood.

Month after month sleepless nights meant foggy days. I shuffled about, going through the motions in a daze. There were more nights of holding Ryan as blood-curdling screams emitted from his tiny precious body. Back and forth, back and forth, I’d rock in the glider in his room and gently bounce him as I sang, “Yahweh, I know You are near, standing always at my side. You guard me from the foe and you lead me in ways everlasting.”

It was one of a few church hymns I could remember. I could only remember the chorus. The crying crept up decibels and my anxiety boiled to dangerous levels. Neal found me more than one night when my rocking became more forceful, deliberate, and my singing a chant. “Yah – WEH, I. Know. You. Are. Near.” The sandman stole my rationale and I was desperate for this baby to understand he had to get some sleep because I was undone. Tears flowed down my cheeks as my wails synced with Ryan’s.

Some days the motherhood roller coaster was on a level track and I felt rested, able to take on the day. Ryan was on a set schedule for eating, naps and baths and eventually he adhered to the schedule which made motherhood a bit more bearable. I enjoyed Ryan. I smiled when his face lit up and I did everything I could to hear his deep belly laugh. With his scheduled one to two hour nap life became more manageable and I got the rest I needed. By the time Ryan was six months old we mastered his schedule and any chance of deviation would throw one or both of us off kilter.

The schedule gave me a false sense of control. I assumed I’d stepped off the roller coaster and managed to maneuver through motherhood with few issues. My health was good, I wasn’t having any major joint flare-ups and my friend, Liz, who had given birth to a little girl around the same time as Ryan, commiserated when needed.

I’d returned to work on a part-time basis working from home. During Ryan’s naps I accomplished what took all day in the office. When I did go into the office my neighbor across the street from us watched Ryan. It was a treat to get dressed up, have adult conversations, and refrain from making zerbert sounds on my co-workers bellies or talk in a voice ten octaves higher than normal.

At eight months Ryan crawled. At first he got up on all fours and then rocked back and forth and hummed. Neal and I laughed because it looked like he was revving up his engines waiting to take off across the room. Once he got going he was all over the place but he never stopped rocking. ‘THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!’ I’d hear banging from his room only to find Ryan managed to scoot his crib across the room and bang it into the wall.

At twelve months Ryan skipped a step and went from crawling to running. The minute he had freedom of true mobility he was off. In one second he walked beside me into the kitchen and the next I’d turn around to find him standing on the table or on the windowsill.

“He is a typical boy.” Grandparents and well-meaning neighbors quipped when I moaned and groaned about not having a moment to sit. I needed a break. A few months before Ryan’s first birthday, I had a sudden urge to get a graduate degree. The idea came to me in the shower. Like manna from the sky God literally dropped the idea into my head. The University of Houston Clear Lake was closest to our home. I researched what programs they had to offer and found a MFA in Humanities/ Creative Writing. My heart leapt for joy. I would learn more about what I loved to do most, write and get a break.

Neal agreed to stay home two nights a week with Ryan and my father agreed to help pay tuition. Three weeks later I studied for the GMAT exam for acceptance into the program. By fall I couldn’t believe I was a student again.

Everything worked out well in the first semester. Ryan and Neal bonded. I was more productive with my part-time job. The classes I took were interesting and opened my eyes to the art of writing. For once I was not bogged down by all of the other issues that plagued the beginning of our marriage.

When Ryan was eighteen months old he was eligible to go into the Mother’s Day Out program. Two days a week he was in an environment with other kids to play, nap, and learn his ABC’s and 123’s for five hours each day. I took full advantage of this break. If I wasn’t going into work then I wrote papers, studied or enjoyed time with friends. But these days didn’t come without a price.

“Hello Mrs. Deitz.” Ryan’s teacher greeted when I came to pick him up. She often held a look of exacerbation on her face. “Ryan bit a friend on his finger today.” Or “Ryan hit a little girl because she bumped into him.” Or “Ryan threw a fit today and wouldn’t sit in time out.” It was a rare day if I didn’t hear some report of ‘bad’ behavior.

At church, in the nursery, we received reports of bitten fingers. After Mass one morning I picked Ryan up from the nursery. She gave me a look of disapproval. “Ryan has not been on his best behavior today.” She looked down at him and raised her eyebrows.

Beads of sweat formed on the nape of my neck. I felt judged and caught between seeking the approval of this stranger and upset with Ryan for acting out. I looked down at Ryan. “Were you bad today?”

The woman gasped. “Don’t say that. It was his behavior that was bad, not him. You never tell a child they are bad.”

My cheeks blazed with embarrassment and shame. I picked Ryan up, held him tight in my arms, and walked away before she could see me cry. Her words stung. I was mortified and defensive. I knew she was right but I turned the moment of correction into a judgment call on my character and added it to the pile of resentment that fed my low self-esteem.

Ryan didn’t go back to the church nursery after the incident for quite some time. Instead we sat in the church’s cry room and tried to get Ryan to stay in a pew which lasted roughly the first ten minutes of Mass. The remaining forty minutes Ryan and I spent in the back of the cry room. I stared at the maze of colorful stained glass blocks that made up a floor length abstract window and tried to figure out what it represented. Ryan pounded on each block of color with his tiny fist. He’d run to one side of the room and back again to the window completely distracted. Ryan was the loudest and most active child in the room and I failed in public discipline.

It seemed pointless to attend Mass when we couldn’t get anything out of attendance except communion. At this point in my life I had yet to embrace communion as the body and blood of Christ and the more noise Ryan made in the cry room the more embarrassed I became. There was no reason to attend.

By the end of the second semester in the masters program I had come unglued with Ryan. He would not behave. I tried time outs and he would sit for a minute in the corner but the behavior didn’t stop. If I spanked he hit me back. He grabbed the wooden spoon if I put it in front of him to give him a warning. On days work called and needed something on the spot before Ryan’s nap, he would tear the house apart during the ten minute phone call. I couldn’t get anything done and my housework suffered the most. There was no control of this two year old.

On one particular harrowing day the house had been ransacked. It took five attempts to successfully strap Ryan in the high chair for dinner. I didn’t pick up the house because I knew I could get to it after Ryan went to bed. Neal came home from work, walked through the back door into the kitchen. He dropped his keys on the kitchen counter and looked around at the living room that was off the open concept kitchen. “Do you think maybe you could pick up a little before I get home? I work all day and it’s frustrating to come home to a messy house.”

Stunned I gripped the box of goldfish I had in my hands and almost crushed it flat. “Excuse me?”

“The house looks like crap. What did you do all day?” He stormed off to our bedroom to change.

How dare he. My mind raced with all kinds of smart comebacks. I fumed with anger but was wounded with hurt. My only defense was to scream and yell. It was how we communicated as I grew up. My sister screamed. My mother screamed. My father yelled and used intimidation to keep us from screaming and yelling back.

I yelled because it was how I learned to be heard. I needed Neal to hear me. The problem is when I yelled I did not say the things I really wanted to say. Instead I allowed the hibernated hurt and anger to rise up.

Psychologically I’d guard myself with protective armor because what I heard was, you are not good enough.

I yelled a stream of explicatives. “If you think it’s so easy why don’t you f’n stay home? Do you think you are f’n better than me? Do f’n think you can do this? Then do it yourself!”

Neal knew exactly what to say to make the argument end. “You’re crazy you know that? A psycho.”

I shut up because it hit a deep wound. In many ways I was a child who was called ‘bad’. Years later in couple’s therapy Neal confided he said those things because he knew it would get me to stop yelling. This didn’t make what he said right or acceptable. What he said was verbally abusive.

My yelling was verbally abuse.

My rage and need to control coupled with Neal’s reflexive tendency to defend with words created a cycle within our marriage that chipped away at the bond that brought us together.

School became an outlet to be someone other than mom or wife. I was the youngest and one of the few females in a critique group. We shared what we wrote for class and helped by giving constructive criticism. For the few hours we met in class or when we got together over the weekend I felt accomplished and with purpose. At home I felt like a failure as a mother and wife.

I loved to write. Writing took me places I was too afraid to venture in real life. I could sink into memories that helped me escape the emptiness inside. One short story assignment led me to write about Matt, the young man I fell in love with when I was fifteen. It had been ten years since his tragic car accident. He was seventeen years old when he passed away, a year after we’d begun dating.

The memories of our young love came like a tsunami of emotion that toppled the walls I’d built up around my heart. I thought about my current relationship with Neal and how in many ways both men were alike. I sat on my bed with an opened notebook on my lap. I looked at the TV with no attention to the scorned lovers on the daytime drama. Instead my mind replayed the first date Matt and I experienced as we drove through the country side in the darkness of night.

The ceiling fan twirled on full speed rustling the paper on the notebook. The past replayed like a show and a tidal wave of emotion rose high and left me defenseless. A gurgled cry emitted from my throat as I experienced the loss all over again. Matt, I thought as I stared through the tears at the TV screen, I miss you.

A reality that would never exist played before me. A scenario of Matt and me as friends. We wouldn’t have been lovers, or married. I knew that much to be true. But he would’ve been my friend and I needed a friend to understand what I was going through with Neal and my inability as a mother. I need to know you’re here.

In that moment the TV turned off and turned back on with just enough pause as if someone had physically punched the on/off button. The fan kept its pace. The bedside lamp remained on and never flickered. My breath caught in my throat and the hair rose on the nape of my neck. I felt comforted like someone had put a warm blanket around my chilled body. My tears turned into uncontrollable laughter. I wrapped my arms around myself toppling over onto the bed and allowing the laughter to heal the part of me that felt the most empty.

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