The Scarlet Thread: Sometimes You Need to Get It Horribly Wrong Before You Finally Get It Right.

By Yvonne Curri

"The Scarlet Thread" is a true story of a young woman tangled in the scarlet thread of love and destiny. She was fated to pay a high price for that love when her child and lover were torn from her arms. A narcissistic mother, the prejudice of her true love's father, as well as the shady adoption system of the 1960s were all instrumental in separating the three of them.

Years later, while searching for her child, who was lost in the sealed paperwork of adoption, her true love returns after a forty-year sabbatical, setting her on an uncharted, late-in-life journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499076387

Yvonne Curri

Yvonne Curri was born and raised in Upstate New York, and her youthful summers were spent with her family on the St. Lawrence River. As an adult, she lived for a few years in the Adirondacks until she moved to Michigan at the age of fifty and, later, to the panhandle of Florida. As a girl, Yvonne was quiet and introverted, finding comfort in reading Longfellow and Byron. In her teens she met a young man who recognized her talent as a poet and encouraged her writing. It was then that she understood pen and paper to be her true medium for communication with the world. At the age of sixty, she threw caution to the wind and ran away from home to concentrate on what she loved most—writing. Besides writing, Yvonne is an accomplished astrologer of over thirty years, spending her time teaching and life coaching. After four years and a great deal of sacrifice, she is now publishing her first book, “The Scarlet Thread,” and as her son pointed out, “Sometimes, following your dreams takes great sacrifice.”

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Copyright © 2014 by Yvonne Curri.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

All names, places, dates, & facts have been altered to preserve anonymity…..

Except for mine & my sister Annette & my mother

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 10/10/2014

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Contents

Introduction

The Sexual Revolution Of The 1960S

From The Beginning

The Great Escape

Where There Is Lightening There Is Love

The Trip

The Calm Before The Storm

Woodstock

The Perfect Storm

Nowhere To Turn

The Scarlet Suitcase

Life At Mcbride

Two Days Before

Laboring At Home

Labor And Delivery

Recovery And My Daughter

Re-Entry

Dating

The Last Time Ever I Saw His Face

The Years That Followed

The Beginning Of The End

225 Pages Of Text Later

Getting Settled?

My Southern Connection

Closure

A Bend In The Road

The Letters

The End Of The Matter

In Loving Memory

Jeni Gay Flock

& Sharon Bart

Special thanks:

To my sister Annette

Her love, help and support made this book possible.

My friends and family who stood beside me for the past 4 years and never questioned why

And my southern friend who tirelessly assisted in my search for my daughter

Jon who believed

The Salvation Army who housed my body & Soul

Wende Carr who edited &

creatively assisted in choosing the title.

Jim Pauquette artist, longtime friend who encouraged my writing at a young age and is the cover art photographer

INTRODUCTION

Annette%202.jpg

The Scarlet Thread actually began in my youth as I witnessed my big sister mature, and stumble through first love, at a time when our society held a woman’s sexual freedom as taboo. Not only did she love Don unconditionally, as he loved her, but I adored him as well, as he was always sweet and kind the rug rat, as he so affectionately called me. When they were literally ripped from one another’s others arms by our mother and his father, my heart broke for the three of us. I saw firsthand the consequences she suffered at the hands of a mother who refused to have her reputation tarnished by allowing the product of that first love, a baby, into our home. Yvonne was also powerless against the prejudices of a society still held captive by outdated mores, as well as greedy adoption agencies who profited from the sale of womb-fresh, white babies. At the age of fifty nine she mustered the courage to put her experiences on paper, painting colorful pictures with the words that had been silenced, and buried in her heart for so many years.

The color red is emotionally charged, full of energy, power, strength, anger and shame, but it also strongly suggests great joy, passion, sexuality and love. All of these elements are woven throughout this book, this accounting of my sister’s life, as well as references made to scarlet red, thus the title. A scarlet thread symbolizes those whose destiny it is to be together, regardless of circumstances, an invisible bond. There will be times when that thread tightens like a noose, and other times when it tangles, but still, it can never be broken, even after 42 years. Yvonne and Don’s reunion in 2010 was glorious and happy, and I too was glad to reconnect, yet I was somewhat skeptical. It wasn’t until I saw the two of them together that I knew the tie between them still remained. It was on this occasion that I boldly stated, Looks like you two never left 1969!

Although I was an integral part of her life, every step of the way, when I read the book for the first time, I encountered parts of our lives, that while I lived them, I had no recollection of the occurrences. And then in other chapters, areas I was not present for, I was literally brought to my knees, sobbing, unable to continue. And then there were parts which had me laughing hysterically, as our family was quite often comical, but maybe not what most traditionalists would consider humorous. Often times I would hear my mother state comically, They should invent retro-active birth control pills; which was meant for children in general. Well, to me these loving quips were funny-haha, maybe to others, funny-strange. So, as I read on I found myself captivated by a well written, incredible story of love, loss and redemption.

-Annette Curri

THE SEXUAL REVOLUTION OF THE 1960S

Kelly awoke at five a.m. with pains. A second year college student, she felt very much in charge of her body and voluntarily sequestered herself at her older sister’s home for the last few months of her pregnancy, sparing her prominent small town Catholic family the embarrassment of her unwed predicament. Despite her discomfort upon waking, Kelly told everyone in the household that she was fine. I’m just a little sore from having a full bladder during the night. Go about your usual morning commutes to work, she told them. After all, the baby isn’t due for another three to four weeks.

It was 1967 and abortions were illegal in the United States. For gutsy young women, birth control was just coming into vogue. There were several states where it was still illegal for single women to have birth control pills in their possession and New York State was one of them. A trip to the gynecologist was reserved for married women, as the wedding night was to be a woman’s ‘deflowering’; nothing should have entered this virginal vessel prior to her husband’s penis! Audacious enough to wear false wedding bands, some did obtain prescriptions, but the majority of us who lived in small towns were flatly refused and staunchly lectured on sexual morality. We were a generation of unarmed young women rebelliously marching headlong into life with our hormones screaming. No longer would we tolerate the double standards plaguing our mothers. We surrendered to the peer pressure of our time, as reflected in our music.

The house was empty. Kelly noticed, as the morning progressed, that her pain appeared to be getting worse. Trusting that her doctor would reassure her all was well, she went to the yellow wall phone hanging in the kitchen to place a quick call to her doctor’s office. The nurse answered the phone, listening as Kelly explained how she was feeling. Finally the nurse responded with her usual pat answer, The doctor is out of the office today, but he will be checking in from time to time. I’ll give him your message. But based on what you told me, there is no need for worry. The baby is not due yet and if labor were to occur, progression would be very slow. This is your first time. The nurse was patronizing and condescending, which infuriated her. Now honey, the nurse concluded, don’t forget to keep us informed if there are any further changes, and hung up. Despite the woman’s attitude, Kelly felt strangely comforted. After nearly three and a half hours of walking, lying down and sitting, the pain had not improved, so she made another call to the doctor, encountering a busy signal. Disheartened, she was tempted to call her sister at work. A friendly voice to commiserate with would be nice, but alarming her sister seemed a bad idea.

Kelly began to feel some wetness between her legs, so she headed toward the bathroom. Pulling down her panties she saw there was blood, and much to her horror, there was blood on the floor as well. She waddled back to the kitchen, following the blood spots which had previously gone unnoticed. She tried the doctor again, only to be met with the same cold busy signal buzzing in her ear. Against her better judgment, unsure whether the baby was really on the way, she decided to tough it out as the pains were slow, irregular and somewhat bearable. Foolishly concerned about her sister’s floor and her personal dignity, Kelly found a rag, and quickly cleaned up the trail of blood before it dried, it being the only physical evidence of her agony, fear and shame.

By 10:15 a.m., she was too uncomfortable to walk or lie down as the pressure and the pain ebbed and flowed. Unsure of what to do next, Kelly resigned herself the toilet. Pushing her back against the tank helped to alleviate some of the pain, and the pressure on her bladder was so intense she was afraid to pee, fearing she could not keep the baby inside. How could this be happening? The baby was not due yet. Had she miscalculated her period? And if so, who was the father? Kelly pondered. The confidence in her accusations, along with her problem solving skills, disappeared with the arrival of her pain. Forcing herself to remove her belabored body from the commode again, she discarded her soiled panties on the bathroom floor in a feeble attempt to make her way to the phone. In her mind she couldn’t possibly have this baby until the doctor came, or at least until she was able to speak with him. In the bathroom doorway her water broke, fluid soaking her and the floor. Terrified and ashamed of the mess she’d made, and having no other choice, she returned to the toilet. Kelly finally understood the baby was surely on its way. As she sat contemplating her predicament, fighting the pain, she felt the strong urge to push. In quiet desperation she found herself fearing for her life and that of her unborn baby as she dragged herself back to the kitchen. Just as she was opening the back door, hoping to solicit help from Elva who lived next door, one of Elva’s boys ran by. Tommy, Tommy, get your mom for me! Please ask her to come quickly! I’m in real trouble and need help.

Ok, he yelled back, running into his house.

Feeling like an idiot she wondered, how could I have been so stupid? I have been in labor since early morning for God’s sake! What a freaking nightmare.

The consequences of pregnancy for the unwed mother were far from kind and the choice of living in poverty and shame as a single mom was clearly not an option for most middle class girls. The majority of abortions were kitchen table style surgeries performed by back alley butchers looking to make a quick buck, wielding dirty implements and sometimes a good old-fashioned wire coat hanger. The end result was often death or infection. The few legitimate doctors willing to put their licenses and reputations on the line were costly and reserved for the elite. Some women were able to find unsuspecting men and wrangle them to the altar, never divulging the truth that they were ‘with child’ via other men. If statistics were ever calculated, it is my belief that among pregnancies of that day, high numbers of supposedly seventh and eighth month ‘premature babies’ were actually born full-term.

In her misery, Kelly walked back to the bathroom, each step seemingly endless. Her thoughts of cleaning up the affirmation of her torment had long since passed. Acquiescent and defeated, she lie down on the cold bathroom floor and prepared to give birth. A pool of blood and amniotic fluid quickly soaked the back of her nightgown and hair. She shivered uncontrollably as she laid waiting for Elva. When Kelly heard the back door open, she called out. Elva, I think we have a baby on the way. Please try and call the doctor for me. The line’s been busy most of the morning. The number’s next to the phone. Instead of calling the doctor as instructed, Elva followed Kelly’s voice through the bloody trail to bathroom. One look at her lying on the bloody floor and seeing the panic in her eyes sent shockwaves through Elva, who was ill-prepared for such an event. My God, Kelly! What should I do? Elva asked.

Please see if you can get the doctor on the phone. There’s no way in Hell I can have this baby until he tells us what to do. Elva had no sooner walked out of the bathroom when the door slammed open, nearly hitting Kelly’s head. She glanced back in surprise, only to find Tommy, wide-eyed and mouth agape, staring down at her. Sensing the boy’s panic and not wanting to frighten him any further, she smiled, and in the calmest voice she could muster, asked him politely to go outside and play. Obediently, he turned and ran.

Kelly was far beyond controlling the urge to push. Putting her hand between her legs, she screamed out, There is something sticking out! Elva the baby is here! Bring the Wesson Oil and something to cut the cord. Her drenched nightgown and her humiliation were no longer of any consequence. Kelly’s only thought was to get the baby out. Elva, who was not born with great faculties, followed Kelly’s request and came as quickly as she was able, Wesson Oil and scissors in hand. Should I keep trying to get the doctor’s office on the line? It’s still busy. In her pain and terror Kelly screeched, It’s too damned late, Elva! Call an ambulance! Elva, horror-stricken, could not leave Kelly unattended, and instead knelt down by Kelly’s side. The rest of the delivery was a muddled haze to Kelly, it all happened so quickly. Running on pure adrenalin, Kelly delivered the baby on her own as Elva watched helplessly. The cord still attached, Kelly lifted the slippery bundle onto her belly, removed the membrane from the baby’s face and started patting its behind, which resulted in a loud and healthy cry. Snapping back to reality, Elva cried out, It’s a girl! In Kelly’s unnerved state, she snatched the scissors lying beside her on the floor and hastily cut the umbilical cord before clamping it, which caused the baby to bleed profusely. Realizing her mistake, she screamed, Please, Elva, help me tie the cord! My hands are too slippery. With the baby crying and blood everywhere, Elva successfully knotted the cord. Proud of her only accomplishment, she ran to the phone to call the police. Kelly oiled the baby and held her close, as lighter contractions continued.

We were an upshot of the conventional 1950s, girls raised on fairy tales, knights in shining armor, wedding white and virginity- young women standing on the precipice, preparing to fly. Struck by the moment, we were full of hopes and dreams far surpassing those of our mothers. Renouncing our conservative upbringings, we subscribed to a principle that love should not be regulated by law. Regrettably, many of us paid a penalty, thrust into futures no longer of our own designs. With wings clipped by our decisions, as we unwarily attempted to fly, we plummeted to the ground, with fear and guilt our propulsion. The mistakes we made gave birth to our impending lives.

As Kelly held the infant, she could hear Elva on the phone with the police. She sounded breathless, overwrought. A girl’s just delivered a child at home and there’s a lot of blood! Please, we need an ambulance!

It was only a matter of a few minutes before an officer appeared in the bathroom doorway. The ambulance is on its way, he said unaffectedly. Elva, reaching down toward Kelly, plucked the baby from Kelly’s grasp and wrapped it in the towel she’d brought.

Please, Kelly begged, I need to get back on the toilet to dispose of the after birth. I feel it coming! Elva handed the baby to the officer, who was clearly embarrassed and out of his realm, as she assisted Kelly with her request.

Sure looks like you gals have this pretty much under control now. Why don’t you take this crying baby and I’ll wait outside for the ambulance, he said, looking directly at Elva. Elva stretched out her arms and embraced the child. The afterbirth delivered quickly and Elva helped her from the toilet. With Elva still carrying the baby, they walked arm in arm to the bedroom. Once inside the bedroom Elva remove her soiled gown, replacing it with a clean one from the dresser drawer. Kelly was still bleeding. Do you have a belt and pads? Elva asked.

Yes, Kelly replied, pointing to the bag she’d packed for her hospital stay. Elva laid the crying baby on the bed and proceeded to fish through Kelly’s bag. In with her personal belongings were items for the baby- cloth diapers, diaper pins, rubber pants, a white tee shirt and a receiving blanket. Together they quickly dressed the baby and wrapped her in the blanket for the trip to the hospital. Kelly was relieved she had bought things for the baby.

Suddenly felling quite lightheaded she lay on the bed. Attributing it to blood loss, she remained there until the ambulance arrived. The girls remarked that the baby really was a cute, chubby cheeked little thing and began cooing over her, totally forgetting the trauma of her birth. Finally a siren rang out as the ambulance arrived, and when the attendants found them, all appeared calm and under control. Quickly strapping Kelly to a gurney, they loaded the baby and her into the ambulance and raced to the hospital. Kelly listened to the siren as her baby and she juddered back and forth with the movement of the vehicle. The hospital, alerted of their arrival, separated Kelly and her baby immediately. The child was placed in an unnamed bassinet and whisked away. Kelly was given a shot for pain, a blood transfusion and stitches to close a good sized vaginal tear, and then taken to recovery.

Closed adoption appeared to be the only alternative for those who could not bear the thought of the other options. Adoption meant involvement of family, carrying a baby to full term, and enduring the disgrace that went along with it. To save families from humiliation and the expense of their daughters’ condition, many were sent to homes for unwed mothers where they were hidden from the world. Away from unsuspecting eyes, all involved parties desperately hoped no one would ever know these girls were ‘damaged goods’. After their ordeals, most came home and were never allowed to speak a word of their ‘illegitimate’ children. These homes often paid the medical expenses associated with birth and delivery, while anxious adoption agencies waited in the wings, anticipating the profit they would make from the sale of white womb-fresh babies. Keeping these young women off welfare rolls, it was a win-win situation for those employees who worked for the accolades and promotions that followed. Social workers had perfected the fine art of humiliation, with faulty information and the repeated mantra, Your out-of-wedlock babies would be better off raised by a traditional family with a mom and dad.

We were on the cutting edge of a revolution but we were also caught in the past and the conservative society in which we were raised; a culture which was far removed from the non-conformist music which empowered us. Despite our choices, we were forced to live lies which many carry to this day, and which some have taken to their graves.

Once Kelly was in her hospital room, her sister, who had finally heard the news, arrived with her arms full of flowers, candy and a book call the "The Source. The highlight of the visit was not the candy, the flowers or the book. Seeing a loving, familiar face is what eased her heart. They hugged and cried as Kelly rattled on, recounting the events of the day. I was bleeding like a leg was cut off."

You should’ve called me. I would’ve come home immediately.

I know, but it all happened so fast. I must have been in shock.

Kelly’s sister moved on to the legalities. I’ve talked to the social worker at Catholic Charities where I made the arrangements. She was happy to know the baby and you are fine and has already notified the adoptive parents you had the girl they have been hoping for. She said she would be coming by later to see you.

I’d like to go down and have a look at the baby before you leave, if you don’t mind. I’m still a little weak. How ’bout if you plop me in that wheel chair over there, pretend we’re still kids and give me a ride to the nursery? she smiled.

You must be feeling better. I’m detecting a little of your humor coming back, her sister smiled.

It’s been a challenging eight months, Kelly grimaced as she spoke.

Yeah, what’s up with the eight month thing? She asked.

I have no idea, Kelly replied. The baby doesn’t appear to be an eight-month-old baby at all. Did you know she weighed almost eight pounds? I must’ve miscalculated or something. A detail that Kelly did not want to think about.

By the way, do you want me to notify the baby’s father?

No, I’ll take care of that. I’ll send him a letter, Kelly said.

None of that matters right now. All I care about is that you’re alright and the baby will be going off to her adoptive parents’. Before long you’ll be back at school. Why don’t you stay with me a little longer? Give yourself some time to recover and get your figure back. By summer semester you can be back in full swing. Just think, no one ever has to know about any of this. You’ll be as good as new, just like it never happened. We are a family with a long history of secrets. Pinky promise? Kelly nodded as they locked pinky fingers, just as they had done in grade school.

Her sister obliged and wheeled Kelly down to the nursery. They quickly surveyed the babies behind the glass window. In the back row they spied a bassinet turned facing the wall. That must be her, Kelly said.

Just then a nurse walked by. Visiting hours are over! she said with insistence. Neither had the courage to ask about the baby in the back row. With a little less enthusiasm, her sister pushed Kelly back to her room, helped her into bed, kissed her on the top of her head and said, You know, Kelly, it’s not like me to buck the system. I’ll see you tomorrow.

When Kelly was alone in her room, a nurse entered with a tray of food. It was her first meal of the day. My sewing job is killing me, she said to the nurse.

Someone will be by later to bring pain meds, the nurse remarked, then added, It would be best if you avoid sitting as much as possible. You’ve had quite an ordeal today, or so I am told, and have a lot of stitches.

Shortly thereafter, a lady from Catholic Charities arrived, just as predicted. Hello, my name is Clara. I am from Catholic Charities and I spoke to your sister today. How are you feeling? she asked.

Well, I’ve had better days I guess, Kelly responded.

Here are the papers. They’re ready for you to sign, she said, pointing to where she wanted Kelly’s signature. The nurse at the front desk told me you’ll be discharged on Sunday if all goes well. The baby will be released Monday and then I’ll be taking her directly to the foster home where she’ll be cared for until her adoptive family takes her. This is all a very simple process.

Kelly in turn replied, I haven’t seen or held my daughter since we arrived here at the hospital. The word ‘daughter’ echoed in Kelly’s ears. My sister and I were unable to see her from the nursery window. We saw a crib in the back row, facing in the opposite direction and thought it might be her. I’d hoped to see her one last time before leaving. I also have a name for her.

The social worker frowned, Write down the name you’ve decided on, but you realize she’ll be given a different name by her adoptive parents, don’t you dear? It’s best for everyone if you don’t see her. I’ve been through this many times with other girls. Now you have a good rest and I’ll be back to see you the day you’re released. The social worker turned on her heels and abruptly left the room. Kelly felt empty and alone.

There was another side to the generation of Woodstock attendees not depicted in the carefree sexual revolution of free love, a darker side that had slipped through the cracks of Come on Baby Light my Fire. As fervent, strong-minded young women, we snubbed the paths of our mothers who quietly lived controlled lives of despair. Branded as ‘bra burning women’s libbers’, we had thrown off the cloak of convention. Unwavering, no longer constrained by dependence, we would be bound by wild desire. We stepped from the safety of our mothers’ nests into a male dominated world that still held us captive; a place of double standards which did not disappear with the arrival of the pill. In our naïveté, we tried to escape the consequences of our femininity, yet our menstrual cycles remained a monthly reminder of our female bodies. The stigma attached to unmarried sex led us to dread not only social and parental disapproval, but damnation from the churches in which we were indoctrinated. The conservative nature of our country clashed with the counterculture as the pendulum swung out of control. Sometimes to bring about change you have to get it horribly wrong to make it right, and so we became sisters of the fallen angels.

FROM THE BEGINNING

I was raised by a narcissistic mother who spoke in catch phrases and whose personal history was less than ideal. I have a mind like a trap, turning words into images and stories into movies. My brain converted each of my mother’s axioms into vivid Technicolor pictures, and my photographic memory, long and non-forgiving, made her repetitive idioms a chronicle of the unnecessary. The first idiom to which I was exposed, Children should be seen and not heard, immediately conjured an image of a little girl with tape over her mouth, donning a taffeta dress, with layers of multicolored petticoats, in Mary Jane shoes.

Mom’s unpredictable nature was an added bonus. At any moment she could quickly transform from a happy woman to a raving maniac, turning my dresser drawers upside down in the middle of my bedroom floor because the clothes were not neatly folded. My thighs bore the wrath of her wooden spoon, a rainbow of purples which faded to yellow and eventually disappeared. Being the middle child didn’t help either. I was imperfectly placed between my adorable, thespian sister, Annette, who was eight years younger, and Junior, my antagonizing older brother who teased and bullied me into submitting to all kinds of things. One of Junior’s forms of entertainment was to make me stick my fingers in light sockets. It certainly was electrifying, but not at all pleasant. If I didn’t comply, he would tickle me until I peed my pants, knowing full well Mom would spank me. My all-time favorite is the day he insisted I stick both ends of a bobby pin into a wall outlet. I was willing to pay the price of a spanking to avoid the shock, so he agreed to do it himself, but only if I sat behind him with my arms and legs around him. I had dodged the bullet