As a child, I often heard my father say, “A promise made is a debt unpaid, in the code of the frozen north.” I never knew what that meant. Even now at the not-so-old age of 44, I’m still not sure I know exactly what he or that phrase meant, and he’s been dead for nearly 20 years, so asking him to clarify the meaning won’t solve the mystery. What I do know, is that he tried to instill in his children that when you make a promise, you keep it, because if you aren’t credible, you aren’t anything. And sometimes your credibility is all you have to carry you.
My parents and I had a challenging time—especially during my adolescence. I was fearless, and I was a hellcat. I had a temper that could bring darkness and misery to our home without warning, and a tongue that could eviscerate anyone in my path. On my bad days, I could make Shakespeare’s shrewish Katherine seem angelic. But, on my good days, I could be gentle, gregarious, charming, and witty.
As horrible as I could be, I wasn’t without a conscience. In fact, I often felt such repulsion and remorse for my violent outbursts that I would sink into a deep depression. Once, my demons persuaded me to ingest every pill in the house. And, countless others, they coaxed me into fantasizing about finally succeeding in my attempts.
As I got older, the distance between my heaven and hell seemed farther, but I still managed to visit them both—whether I wanted to or not.
About six months after my father died, I found out that I was nearly 12 weeks pregnant, which terrified me; a baby was never in my plans. I had a difficult time caring for myself, and I feared that I would be even more incapable of caring for a child. However, I also knew that conscience would not allow me to terminate the pregnancy, and there was no way I could carry a child to term and give it up. For me, there was no other option but to try my best to do right by the life that was growing inside me.
The following six months were horrible. I was often sick, and I spent the last two months of my pregnancy confined to bed, until two weeks before my due date when my doctor induced my labor for fear that I might have further complications that could harm the baby and me.
After more than 22 hours of labor—more than six of which I spent pushing to get what felt like a basketball out of me—my son was born. When the doctor placed him on my abdomen, I looked at him, and in my exhaustion, I thought, “He looks like a purple Yertl the Turtle,” but before I could muster the energy to touch him, a nurse snatched him away. I figured they were taking him to clean him, but then I saw her running for the door. I told his father to follow them. I didn’t want my baby to be mixed up with someone else’s.
I don’t know if it was denial or delirium, but it didn’t register what was going on. It wasn’t until I asked to see him that they told me my baby was in the neonatal intensive care unit. He wasn’t breathing when he was born, and he had an infection and a broken clavicle.
By then, all I wanted was to see and hold my baby, but the nurses said I would have to wait. They couldn’t roll a gurney into ICU, and they said my epidural made it impossible for me to stand and walk to a wheelchair. I insisted that the epidural didn’t work and that I could completely feel my legs. That was a lie. I was so exhausted, and my legs were so numb that it would have been easy for me to believe that I had been born with just a trunk, head, and arms. Yet, I knew that if I wanted to see my baby, I would have to try to make my legs work. As I slowly swung them around and tried to focus on lowering them to the ground, I feared that my legs would snitch me out and reveal me as a fraud. But, they remained ever faithful, and I stood and walked the couple of steps to the wheelchair.
The nurses rolled me into the ICU and showed me my blotchy, puffy-faced, cone-headed baby boy, who was resting under an oxygen tent with more wires and cords attached to him than an old-time telephone switchboard.
I placed my finger in his tiny hand and began to cry. At that moment, I realized that I never knew love—not the kind of love I felt for him, and if he didn’t live, then I had no reason to either.
They kept my baby in the hospital for about a week. In that time, they pumped him full of antibiotics and ran myriad tests on him, and I visited him daily—as soon as I woke, and I stayed until the nurses ordered me to go home to rest.
When the time came for us to bring him home, his doctor assured me that while his broken bone would take some time to heal, he was healthy and would grow to be a hearty boy.
It was the first time my baby and I were alone that I made my promise to him. I cradled him in my left arm and held him close to my chest. I felt so blessed that he had been sent to me, and even more blessed that he was alive and healthy. I looked into his blue eyes, ran my fingers over his soft fuzzy auburn hair, gently kissed him on his fat little cheek, and very softly whispered to him, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone and more than you will ever know, and I promise I will never hurt myself. I will be here for you for as long as I can. I promise.”
Countless times after his birth, my old demons visited me, but I kept my promise. Keeping that promise felt like it often worsened my hell, because in those darkest moments, I felt even more trapped. But, I made a promise, and a promise made is a debt unpaid, in the code of the frozen north. I knew that while death would be an escape, it was not an option for me. Death by my own hand might bring me peace and end my hell, but it would only be a beginning for my child—the beginning of a life of pain, emptiness, and questioning.
Four months after my baby boy celebrated his 13th birthday, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. As I learned more about the disorder, my life began to make sense: the never-ending emotional rollercoaster ride, the suicidal ideation, and the self-defeating actions. I’ve often questioned if I’ve done right by him. I fought like hell to try to present myself as sanely as I could—at least when he was around—and I’ve always tried to keep my promises to him—all of them—but I still wonder if I could have done more or if I could have done it better. At times, I’ve even questioned if he would have been better off without me as his mother.
My baby boy is 17-and-a-half years old now, and he’s starting his senior year in high school. He is an amazing person. Not only is he strikingly handsome at 6’ 2” with chiseled features, but he’s mystical and brilliant. He’s also incredibly compassionate, and he tries hard to keep his own promises. People love him and say he’s a very special person. I agree. It was because of him that I was able to stay as stable as I did before my diagnosis, and it’s because of him that I aggressively sought treatment to be as healthy as I can.
I am grateful for many things, but I’m most grateful for him. If he hadn’t come into my life, I never would have made that promise, and it turns out that life is good—very good—and I’m glad I’m here to see it—with him.