I’m a 78 Year Old Birthmom From Rape, and Have Never Regretted Saving His Life, by Patricia Lawrence

Eight weeks into Basic Training, I went on a double date which was a blind date.  He was

also in the military, stationed at the same base.  All I remember is that we had all driven somewhere and he gave me a drink. I passed out and have no memory of the rest of the evening.  I don’t even remember how I got back to the barracks or in bed.

Two weeks later, while standing in line for inspection, I passed out. I was taken to the base infirmary where the doctor examined me and said, “Private, because of your symptoms, I would say you are pregnant.”  I replied, “I can’t be pregnant because I have not done anything to become pregnant!”  He then said, “Still, we need to do a test to see if you are pregnant.”

I was totally devastated to learn that I was pregnant. Since I hadn’t been anywhere socially, I knew right away that it had to have been that night, and my date must have drugged and raped me.  Of course, I told the doctor what had happened, the Army did conduct an investigation and contacted the rapist, but they kept me out of it and I was never informed of anything.

My commanding officer gave me 48 to call home and tell my mother what had happened and that I was pregnant.  When I called home and told my mom I was being discharged from the Army because I was pregnant, she immediately asked, “Who, what, where, why, when and how?”  I told her about the rape, and she just said that I needed to come home. It took a few weeks for all of paperwork to be completed, I was discharged from the Army, and returned home.

My mother and two sisters met me at the bus station and we got into my mother’s car.  Her first words to me were: “Patricia, you will have an abortion.”  It was May, 1957, I was 18 years old, and I did not know what that word meant.  She told me it meant “they would take the baby” from me. The way she stated it, I knew that she meant something was going to happen very quickly, and that she wasn’t saying they were going to take the baby from me after my baby was born.  I realized this meant they would kill my baby.

The relationship between my mother and I grew colder over the next couple of weeks.  One afternoon, I was asleep on the bed and awoke to my mother holding a rifle within one inch of my face, square between my eyes. I was totally afraid for my life!  I instantly pushed the gun aside, frantically saying to my mother, “What do you think you are doing?”  She said, “I am trying to frighten you so much you will miscarry the child.”

At that point, I determined I would leave my mother’s home. She mocked me, asking, “Where will you go, who will have you?”  I said, “Juanita, my oldest sister will help me.”  But
Mom said, “She doesn’t want your shame.”

However, within days I went to live with my oldest sister, Juanita. Shortly after I arrived at her home, my other sister Mary came to me and said, “Patricia, hold out you hand.”  When I held out my hand, she dropped about 20 pills into my hand and said, “Mom says you are to take these all at once.”  I knew enough to know that taking 20 of any kind of pill was dangerous for your health and that my mother was intending to kill me. I walked into the bathroom, stood over the toilet, dropped the pills in, and flushed them away as I told my sister, “I may be dumb, but I am not stupid.”

After my son was born, my mother confessed to me that the pills were medicine that was given to heart patients, and had I taken them as instructed, according to doctors, I would have had a massive heart attack.  She never apologized, but I think in her own feeble way, she was trying to tell me she was sorry.

Finally, arrangements were made for me to go to the Salvation Army Home for Unwed Mothers in St Louis, Missouri, on November 2, 1957, where I was spent the remainder of my pregnancy.  In the home, I experienced for the first time in my life unconditional love — love from the workers there who loved all of us, and never condemned any of the nine girls in their care.

My son was born on January 11, 1958, in the early morning hours. He was a big baby, weighing in at 9 pounds 2 ounces and was 23 inches long. As he was being delivered, since it was the Salvation Army policy at the hospital within the home for birthmothers placing for adoption, my eyes were covered with a towel. They also strapped my arms down so I could not remove the towel.  They did not let me see him until two days later when I was in the presence of a social worker.  

Giving up this son for adoption was and still is one of the hardest things I have ever had to do in my life, but I knew his life was worth everything that I had gone through.

Two weeks later, I went back home and I was never allowed to talk about what I had been through. I was told by my mom, “now you will never find a decent man to marry you.”  However, seven months later, I met Wayne.   

Years later . . . .  On May 20, 1993, we began the trip to Missouri to the hometown of my son, Bob. We had agreed to meet in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart. When Wayne and I arrived, we did not see anyone who might be my son, so we waited on a bench outside the store. In about 10 minutes, there was walking toward us a big man. He was 6’4″ tall and he had his wife with him. I had described what I would be wearing so he knew how to identify me. As he approached, I felt like a piece of a puzzle had just been put in place.  We shook hands. We talked for a bit, then he asked us to follow him and his wife to their home.

That evening, Bob took my husband and me to the home of his mother for a dinner. It was