When
I signed on to get on a methadone program, I had no idea how much
work I was going to have to put into it. The clinical director
visited me at the hospital to explain the program. I had to go to the
clinic every single day (every day?!) to receive my medication. I was
expected to go to four weeks worth of orientation groups, plus go to
a prenatal group every week until I delivered my child. I had to see
my counselor weekly and submit to at least two random urinalysis
tests monthly. It really wasn't a lot but in the beginning, it seemed
like my entire life from now on was going to consist of nothing but
going to the clinic.
My
first day there was so long. I had to wait for an hour (it may have
even been longer) to do my intake. People asked me what number I was
- number? There were girls arguing, talking about fighting (what did
I get myself into?). The intake alone seemed to have taken hours,
being asked a million questions. Why do they want to know if I ever
sold my body to get drug money (luckily for me, that was one route I
never fell into)? Finally, after what seemed like ten hours, I was
able to get medicated.
I was
supposed to go to orientation and start prenatal groups that week but
I didn't go. Finally, about two weeks later, I was asked why I hadn't
been to either of them. I said I didn't know when they started for me
(I was lying). I met my counselor, who was a very nice woman, but I
wasn't going to break down and tell her more than she asked.
I
stayed off heroin for my first week there. Jim still got high. It was
agony, seeing his continued use. One day, we were fighting (we
actually fought pretty much everyday). He left the house and I began
to clean our bedroom. I pulled the bed out and lying right in front
of me was a full bag of dope. I picked it up. My first thought was to
flush it down the toilet - that would've pissed Jim off. Instead, I
put it into my pocket. I used it an hour or two later.
Later
that night, I told Jim about finding it. He asked me where it was and
I told him I flushed it. I got the reaction I knew I was going to get
- anger. I then told him the truth. Of course, he was mad. He wasn't
mad because I did it, but because I didn't give it to him so he could
do it. This is how our lives continued throughout July. We fought, he
went and bought dope. I was right back to using again.
At
the end of July or beginning of August, I had a prenatal appointment.
When I was in the hospital, they took some blood for some tests. At
my first appointment, I was told that I tested positive for the baby
to have Trisomy 18, Edward's Syndrome. I had no clue what that was.
I've never heard of it before. It was explained to me that it was
like Down Syndrome...only much, much worse (Down Syndrome is Trisomy
21). Most babies that are born with Trisomy 18 don't make it to their
first birthday, with most dying in the first see of life. I was
devastated. Was it because of my drug use? No. It's because when the
fertilized egg begins to split, three copies of chromosome #18 are
made instead of two. I was told that I could elect to terminate the
pregnancy and that the time for termination was almost up - I had one
or two days to decide if I wanted to continue with the pregnancy. I
was almost SIX MONTHS along.
