The time Ethel said “no” – that I couldn’t stay out past 11:00 p.m. on the night of my prom.
The time Ethel and Merritt said “no” – that I would not be allowed to wear the promise ring that Larry gave to me.
The time that Ethel and Merritt said “no” to a wedding reception – that we would have cake and punch at the church and nothing more – and forever alienated my husband and his family.
The time that my husband of two years said “no” – that if I had the baby I was carrying that he would leave me.
The time Ethel and Merritt said “no” – that I would not be allowed to wear the promise ring that Larry gave to me.
The time that Ethel and Merritt said “no” to a wedding reception – that we would have cake and punch at the church and nothing more – and forever alienated my husband and his family.
The time that my husband of two years said “no” – that if I had the baby I was carrying that he would leave me.
During the Christmas break of 2009, the poem "Burrito Supreme" spilled out of me. I was surprised when it did, as it came from out of nowhere. I thought I was past all the emotion of the abortion my husband forced me to have. I didn’t know it at the time, didn’t learn about it until our divorce in 1987, but he was doing all kinds of drugs when I got pregnant. I knew about the marijuana, knew about him sucking the CO2 out of whipped cream cans, knew about his freebasing, but I didn’t know about the PCP he had sprinkled onto the Sherman cigars he was smoking, or the LSD he was dropping, or the degree to which he was snorting cocaine. It was my brother who told me; my brother was one of his drug suppliers during the time I got pregnant, which was just about the time my brother, a drug addict himself, shot some guy in a cocaine deal gone awry and had to leave California to toll the “attempted murder” statute and because he was already on parole for credit card fraud, burglaries, and God knows what else because Ethel and Merritt kept all of my brother’s “indiscretions” a secret from me.
My husband, in his third year of law school, blamed his reasons for the abortion on me. He deemed me too fat, at 5’6’ and 135 pounds. He deemed me too stupid, having dropped out of college at the end of my sophomore year to marry him and, at his prodding, go to work full time, because he refused to support me and insisted that I earn my “share” – which really meant that what we earned went to pay for all the things my husband loved: ski equipment and clothing, ski trips, 35mm camera equipment and film, and, of course, and most importantly, his drugs, while the things that I loved were ignored.
I had the abortion, and hated him from that moment forward. But I had nowhere to go, refused to “give up” only two years into my marriage and admit failure, and was so used to the emotional and physical abuses inflicted on me by the people who raised me, that the emotional abuses I received from him seemed a small price to pay for the fact that he never hit me.
Here is the poem I wrote during the Christmas break of 2009:
BURRITO SUPREME
He bought me a burrito supreme
from Taco Bell.
Left me in bed,
drove off,
returned with a burrito supreme.
I ate voraciously --
to numb my anger,
to assuage my grief,
to appease my hunger.
"No food or liquids for 12 hours."
Paid for the "general" anesthesia.
He bought me a burrito supreme
from Taco Bell.
Or, was it an all-meat burrito?
Ground beef,
shredded cheddar cheese;
orange-colored fat
oozing from hastily folded
corners of flour tortilla,
dripping,
through my fingers,
onto the bed sheets.
He passed me a napkin
to clean up my mess,
to wipe away the stain.
I don't care
about fuckin' bed sheets.
He bought me an all-meat burrito
from Taco Bell . . .
a gesture of gratitude.
The dutiful wife receives her due.
The submissive wife receives her solace.
The obedient wife obeys her husband.
"Danette," nurse called flatly.
He squeezed my hand.
My eyes searched his, pleading.
He responded, a patronizing smile,
his "don't be silly" smile,
his "the answer is still 'no'" smile.
I left him with his new issue
of Sky & Telescope.
Powerless.
I followed the nurse;
disrobed; hung clothes in locker;
put on blue, cotton gown, open in back, tied at neck and waist;
climbed on table; put feet in stirrups;
slid down;
slid down more;
slid down some more.
"That's a good girl. You're perfect now."
I.V. sodium pentathol, to sleep through it all.
Powerless.
Woke up.
Groggy.
Nauseated.
Ohhhh, so nauseated.
Threw up.
Cramps.
Bulky pad between legs.
It was done.
His fetus gone;
my baby gone;
hope gone.
Finished.
"How are you feeling?"
Like fuckin' shit!! Dead inside. Hate him.
I don't answer.
"Let me help you down."
Led to changing room.
"No tampons for two months, okay?"
Nodded acknowledgment.
Opened locker,
removed gown,
dressed,
adjusted pad,
evidence of his demands,
mocking my concession.
In the lobby waits my husband,
my dead baby's father waits,
and I numbly, glumly go . . .
to him.
"Hey, Mel!"
He jumps up, smiling broadly.
My baby's dead, you fucking bastard!
"How're ya'feelin'?"
I hate you!
He chats cheerfully.
I hate him.
Doesn't mention the baby.
I hate him.
"If you have that baby, I'll leave you,"
he'd said. "I swear, I'll leave you."
I hate him.
Back home, he asked,
"Would you like something to eat?"
I must have answered "yes,"
because he left me, then returned
with an all-meat burrito
from Taco Bell . . .
or was it a burrito supreme?
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