telephone bills, and the co-pay for medical prescriptions. We will still have to pick and choose what and when to pay. Nonetheless, I say okay to the hourly rate and don’t dare jeopardize anything by asking to negotiate for more. The bills are now so out of control that paying them seems like a fantasy from a previous life.
With me working, household chores are building up along with the pile of bills on the desk. I simply refuse to do everything I did as a stay-at-home mom and work. It is too much to go to work, take care of the kids, cook and clean because I am too exhausted. In fact, I am abnormally exhausted. My mind is overly occupied with thoughts, questions, worries, fears, and even hope; hope for anything better than this. I have passed many days feeling cheated, like a victim, like I’m drowning. Why are we experiencing this? What do we need to learn that warrants this? It seems like our life is at a standstill, like we’re waiting for a miracle. But the miracle isn’t showing up, or at least not the miracle I have I mind. Things are getting worse because we cannot get current on the bills. And, to make matters worse, every single day there is a voice, a feeling, an idea, something within me that says, “Write.” Every single day. And every single day, my mental response is, “But I’m not that good of a writer. I don’t know what to write about. I don’t have any money or resources to spend time on writing.” I’m not sure what this feeling is about, or where it stems from, but it is persistent. I have kept a journal since I was in fourth grade, and I still have every single one of them. I have always enjoyed writing and have long told myself I will one day write a book, but how can I write now? My mind is too distracted. I have too many things to worry about.
Since I started working, Dennis is more involved with the kids. He takes Greyson to Cub Scouts meetings, takes him to school, cooks breakfast, and helps with lunch preparation. He’s experiencing the effort required to take care of children, manage a household, and work, and he doesn’t seem to mind. Household cleaning chores are another matter. When I was home, the house was clean all the time. Now it’s a disaster. When I come home from work, I look the other way and ignore the dirty dishes, just like he does. Last month we set a record. I refused to clean the kitchen and so did he. He says he doesn’t like to wash dishes. Oh really? The dirty dishes sat in the kitchen sink for three weeks! I finally gave in when my friend said she was coming over.
Seeing that I’ve been so tired and lethargic, and now that we have medical coverage again, Dennis insists that I go to the doctor. We have our moments of dipping in and out of arguments, having off-and-on power struggles over who is doing the most, and sometimes finding solace in each other late at night when the kids are asleep. When I go to the doctor and tell her how tired I feel, she insists I take a pregnancy test. I assume she’s joking, until she rolls the ultrasound machine into the exam room. Why do I need a pregnancy test if I’m still having a period? She puts the gel onto my lower belly and slowly moves the wand around. “What the…?!!” I gasp. The black-and-white image on the monitor displays a leg, an arm, and something that resembles a head! I am almost four months pregnant and didn’t know it! Apparently, it wasn’t a period. It was spotting. And the miracle I didn’t have in mind is due in six months. Although this pregnancy is not miraculous by a standard definition, miracles come in many forms. Whether it is the baby, the internal prompt to write, or finding a new way of being, there is something undiscovered within me wanting to come into the world. Like the slow development of the baby, for me to move into new ways of thinking and perceiving life, the change I will have to undergo will also require gestation. I will have to undergo two birthing events—one for the baby and one for me—to understand that the origin of everything I need is within me. Our third child, Gavin, is born in April of 2007.
When my three-month maternity leave ends in July of 2007, it isn’t an option to enroll Gavin at the same facility as Mckenna. The monthly rate for infants is $1,200! Mckenna has one more year in preschool. She can feed herself, is potty-trained, and it still costs $700 a month. Greyson is now in second grade, and is supervised on the playground after school until Dennis picks him up. I return to work on a part-time basis, but we have to get creative on how we will manage a childcare situation that allows me to continue to breastfeed without going deeper into debt. I explain all of this to the Project Manager, my immediate supervisor, and request to bring the baby to work with me two days a week. My mother agrees to watch the baby on Mondays, which leaves Wednesdays and Fridays for me to navigate with him at work. The Project Manager discusses the situation with the two primary Project Investigators. Both women agree to my request.
During my work hours, I work diligently while Gavin sleeps, and do not waste any time socializing. I take him to meetings, carry him in Greyson’s Baby Bjorn when I deliver paperwork, and walk around outside with him in the stroller, so he will drift off to sleep after my lunch break. Having a baby at work is inconvenient, but I make it work for a little over a year with my annual performance review resulting in “Exceeds Expectations” across the majority of categories.
Things are moving along, although not necessarily in the best way. The kids, Dennis, and I trek through the daily routine of domestic and professional responsibilities while the country surreptitiously moves deeper into economic crisis. Then, during the worst of the economic downturn in 2009, funding for our research project is frozen and the grant not renewed. I am laid off from work.
With the layoff, I have the option to withdraw the full amount of funds from my retirement account, or leave it as is. With close to three years working on the project, I accrued roughly $6,000 in that account. With Dennis’ secondary signature of approval, I make the withdrawal. We put the money towards our living expenses and some towards the mortgage, but we are still behind on the mortgage. By now, my parents are receiving telephone calls from the loan servicer, and I am trying to avoid going over to their house. That is impossible because my mother wants to spend time with the kids. I resort to trying to drop the kids off when I hope Matt isn’t home. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. One Saturday night, he is home. When I walk into the house, I can feel the tension before I turn the corner to greet him in his dining room chair. A bill from the loan servicer lies on the table in front of him. “We’re going to lose that house,” he says. “And we might lose this house! This is going to ruin us. I cannot believe you let this happen! This is not how we raised you. We don’t have $16,000 to give these people!” At that moment, I should have said, “I’m sorry.” I should have told him how sorry I am that Dennis and I did not keep our end of the agreement, and that I am so sorry our choices affected them this way. But that’s not what I do. I stand in silence whirling in embarrassment, anger, fear, and disdain for everything, and instead of apologizing, I try to defend myself. Maybe I did wait too long to return to work. Maybe I should not have been home with Mckenna in the first place. Maybe I should have asked for more money when I was hired at USC. No matter how much we put towards the mortgage, we cannot catch up and stay up. My stepfather and I, the two most defensive individuals in the family, are primed for an argument over the house on Forty-first, and argue we do. I don’t have any reason or right to defend the fact that the house they refinanced for us is in pre-foreclosure, but I do. Despite my defensive position, I feel terrible. I feel so alone. I am sorry for everything, and I cry on the drive home.
Since we moved into the house, the mortgage has been sold to two different loan servicers. Each time the loan is bundled and sold, vital information regarding our payment history is “lost,” and always to the advantage of the lenders. We lived through a four-year cycle of sending in money orders for the mortgage, missing monthly payments, avoiding creditor phone calls, having the water and power shut off and restored, borrowing money from my closest friends, regretting borrowing money from my closest friends, hoping the neighbors won’t notice random strangers standing in the middle of the street photographing the house, and watching property investors in nice cars periodically stop in front of our house to get a good look. The prolonged loss of a home takes a staggering toll on physical and emotional health, because we create emotional meaning tied to where we live. A home is normally a place of refuge and sanctuary; it’s where you find safety and comfort, and create lasting memories with people you love. But when you’re dealing with foreclosure, the house no longer feels safe. It’s no longer comfortable. It becomes a living reminder of instability. You can no longer do
