The Good News

June, 1976

"You cannot have children, Carol Louise," my doctor said after a physical examination. The announcement that my body would not be able to birth a child was not devastating news to me considering I'd just lost the one and only true love of my life. According to a recent news report, the statistics showed that at age thirty the chances of me finding love again were almost nonexistent; I was destined to be an old maid. An old maid without kids.

September, 1980

"The test is positive," the nurse said. I hung up the phone and thought about the word "positive." Did that mean positive I was or positive I wasn't. I called the nurse back and this time she said, "You're having a baby."

"But, but, but the doctor said I couldn't have children."

"Well, guess what? The doctor was wrong."

I beat the odds. Four years after losing the love of my life, I'd found another and this time it was with a cowboy from the south side of Indianapolis. We were engaged; I was going to be a farmer's wife, the stepmother to two beautiful little girls, and now, with the news that my doctor was wrong, I was going to be a mother.

"I have some good news and I have some bad news," I said but I could tell he wasn't in the mood to pick which one he wanted to hear first so I said. "The good news is we're going to have a baby, and the bad news is I'm afraid you're not going to think that is good news." Silence. He was thinking. This thoughtful interlude led me to believe my concern about him not thinking the news was good might be correct.

Not everyone was happy with the news. My boss said, "Carol Louise. I'm so disappointed in you. I thought you were smarter than that." My doctor said, "You're too told to have a baby." My aunt Gracie said, "That's not how we do things in our family." Mother cried a lot. But the person I most wanted to hear from was silent.

November, 1980

He couldn't stop laughing. The minister stopped the wedding. "That's okay," he said. "When some people are really nervous, they laugh." But the more he tried to stop, the harder he laughed and soon everyone in the church was laughing along with him. All five of us.

Not everyone was pleased with the six o'clock in the morning wedding. My boss said, "Carol Louise. You never cease to disappoint me." My doctor said, "Who gets married at six o'clock in the morning?" My aunt Gracie said, "That's not how we do things in our family." Mother cried a lot. But the person whose opinion I cared about the most couldn't stop laughing.

April, 1981

I'm going back now to that Monday morning, the twenty-seventh day of April, 1981. Thirty-three years ago today. A trip down memory lane. It's seven in the morning and already the sun is bright. The windows in the downstairs parlor (also our bedroom) are wide open, which invites the outdoors inside where we are lying in our waterbed, asleep. The warming ground releases its earthy, rural smells and the chickens and birds cluck and sing outside our window as they go about their business, oblivious to what's about to let loose inside the old white farmhouse.

Ouch! The first one wasn't too painful and it didn't last long. But then after my water broke, it was Ouch! Ouch! and OOOOOUCH! He was incredible. As I whined and moaned and groaned and stood helpless in the middle of the parlor clutching my swollen belly, he, the cool and always calm cowboy, took control, and within minutes we were in the car and on our way to deliver our baby boy.

Not everyone was thrilled about the birth of my son. My boss said, "While you were gone, we gave your job to someone else." My doctor said, "Don't ever do this again!" My aunt said, "This is not how we do things in this family." My mother cried tears of joy, and the person whose opinion I valued the most couldn't stop smiling.

Summer, 1981

Three beautiful reasons to smile