It was mid-December, 1980, when I woke Jimmy with the news. "Jimmy," I said, "I think I'm pregnant."

"Oh shit," he mumbled. Two minutes later he was sitting up on the mattress, glaring at me. "I thought you had an IUD."

"I do," I said. "I did. It must have fallen out."

He lit a cigarette and we sat in silence for a moment while he smoked. Then he gave me a grin and said, "Hell of a way to wake a man up. Are you sure?"

"No, I'm not sure," I said. "I'm seeing my gynecologist tomorrow."

That night, while he was out playing backgammon, I tossed and turned on our loft bed. How the hell could this have happened? And what was I going to do about it? John and I were still married. He got a lawyer as soon as I left the apartment, and I signed his papers for a quick no-fault divorce. It should have been over in six months. But then the troubles began. He dropped his lawyer, then hired the best divorce firm in the city, as if we had a million-dollar estate to squabble over.

We squabbled, over $20 bookcases and $100 debts. Finally, I hired my own lawyer. He asked John's lawyer for a lump sum settlement and legal fees. The papers went into court for a third time. Now, just as our divorce should have been final, we were beginning all over again.

All this time, Jimmy begged me to marry him as soon as the divorce was final. I resisted, unwilling to leap from one marriage into another. But Jimmy swore he'd never feel sure of me until we were man and wife. Now, humiliatingly, the choice had been taken from me. Who ever heard of "having to get married" at the age of 34? What kind of a teenaged idyll had I been living through?

Well, I'd been rudely awakened to reality now, a reality that seemed to have turned upside down since the last time I checked in. First, there was the matter of my IUD. Just as I thought, I was pregnant, but not because my IUD had fallen out. When the gynecologist did an internal exam, he found it sitting right where it belonged. "Oh, my," he said, "most unusual. We'll have to take that out."

I sat there overwhelmed by the concept of an IUD not working. Because of my MS, I couldn't take the pill. Now, for the first time in my adult life, I had no reliable method of birth control.

"What happens if we leave it in?" I asked weakly.

"It could be dangerous," he said. "Harm the baby. Cause a miscarriage. No, we'd better get that out right away."

At home, I told Jimmy I'd had it removed, and he exploded. "Why didn't you just leave it in!" he yelled. "It would save you the trouble of an abortion."

I stared at him in disbelief. Then I said patiently, as if speaking to a small child, "We're not talking about an abortion. We're talking about a miscarriage, which could hurt me, even kill me."

"Well, don't talk to me about it," he said. "I can see you've made up your mind to have the baby."

He stomped out and I stood there, staring around at our already-overcrowded-and-much-too-small pigsty of a studio apartment. Up until now, it was the one thing Jimmy and I had argued over. Jimmy's idea of housekeeping made Oscar Madison look like a neatness freak.

As I stood staring at the mess around me, I had the odd sensation I'd just awakened from a coma to find out everything in my life was subtly out of place. Was that man who just yelled at me Jimmy, and if so, who was I? And what did it mean that I was pregnant, in terms of my life and in terms of my health?

Unfortunately for my peace of mind, I couldn't get a definitive answer to either question. In terms of my health, Dr. Nathan said an abortion wasn't medically necessary at this time. But that's all he would say, and I was left to puzzle over my other health-related questions on my own.

For example, what if I had another attack which crippled me? They wouldn't be able to give me ACTH if I was pregnant, would they? Would these become the conditions under which an abortion suddenly became medically advisable? If so, was I willing to carry a baby I might end up having to abort to save myself?

But what if I refused to have an abortion when it became "medically necessary"? What if I had the baby, but ended up in a wheelchair or a nursing home? Was I willing to risk everything for a baby I might have to give up at birth because I couldn't take care of him?

Or what if my pregnancy went normally, and I brought the child home? Could I take care of an infant, even with help? And would I have help? Now Jimmy told me he'd decided he didn't want to be a father or a husband. He wasn't leaving, at least not yet, because he loved me. But if I had this baby, he wasn't going to marry me. Assuming I ever got divorced, of course.

I knew this was a power play but, still, it could be true. If I tried to have the baby, I could lose him. But if I had an abortion, I might not want to be with Jimmy any more.

"You'd better think it over!" Jimmy shouted, and he stomped out to the club.

Okay, I thought things over. Why not? I thought about how much Jimmy suddenly resembled a horse's ass. I thought about how I hated to be strongarmed. And I thought about life, seemingly determined to cheat me at every turn.

I'd been a good little girl, a good little student, a good little wife, a good little patient, but none of my "goodness" ever got me what I wanted. I always had to settle for something else.

Would I settle again? Or would I take the risk of bringing another life into the world, hoping that in the future, even if I had to turn that life over to someone else's care, I'd find peace in my heart from knowing that somewhere it existed, because of me?

Jimmy told me to think it over, and I did.

The next morning, when he dragged home - depressed by his backgammon defeat - I told him he could pack his bags or stay but, like it or not, he was going to be a father.

On the morning of November 5, 1980, the headlines screamed that Ronald Reagan was America's new President. From then through mid-February of 1981, I barely skimmed over what the newspapers told me about his plans. Jimmy and I had struck an uneasy truce, but I was keenly aware that these were our last days "alone" together.

For the first December/January in recent memory, I wasn't ill. I was determined to take each day as a gift, to live it as fully as I could. As the old year ended and the new one began, I would let nothing sad or fearful in. Soon my stomach would swell, soon Jimmy and I would have dozens of practical decisions to make. Until then, I wanted as little as possible to do with the real world.

As if to lull me into keeping my "head-in-the-sand" attitude, my daily paper had nothing to say - for several months - about Social Security disability, although there was quite a lot about Reagan's economic plans in general.

On November 16, 1980, Bruce Drake reported, in his column "With promises to keep, Ron's men plot $ moves" that "advisers to President-elect Reagan met yesterday to shape the actual strategy for carrying out Reagan's...pledges to rein in over-all federal spending, slash taxes and cut back government regulation while boosting outlays for the military." Drake also reported that "Reagan advisers...are expected to line up firmly behind dramatic moves in restraining federal spending." But, what these moves might be remained obscure.

Nor was Drake able to offer specifics the next day, in his column "Ron's econ plan: Cut and cut deep." Although the President-elect's advisers had recommended "a plan that seeks even deeper spending cuts than Reagan called for," there was again no clear indication of what these "deep cuts" might be. Reagan would only offer standard political rhetoric, saying that these were "plans for implementation...reducing the cost of government, reducing the burden on the people and getting a prosperity that will be shared by all."

Not content to settle for such blanket reassurances, Drake now pointed out that there had been "speculation that some cuts might come in so-called 'entitlement' programs." But Drake also quoted Reagan that the cuts would "not deprive people of 'needed programs. We're still talking in the areas of extravagance.'"

Although Drake now mentioned a proposal to change the statistics currently used to determine how much Social Security benefit checks should be "'indexed' upward to make up for inflation," there was no indication that it was time to get excited. True, Social Security checks might not be quite the same in the future. But, by and large, this was just the kind of statistical politics Americans liked, numbers that could be used both ways. Adjust a percentage and the total savings, added all together, would sound enormous to the average man, while the actual cost to retirees, when reported individually, would sound so minor as to be virtually insignificant.

Predictably, this proposal didn't generate widespread outrage. In November 1980, most people considered it good news that the president-elect had any plans at all. Reagan was inheriting an economy generally perceived to be a "mess." In fact, November 18th's Daily News offered a report by Louis Harris on the latest Harris Poll that concluded, "Most feel Reagan will do a good job."

A good job at what, exactly? Reducing inflation. Making our military strong. And cutting federal spending. But many people, especially the elderly, were concerned. What was Reagan's plan for Social Security? On November 23, Jerome Cahill's full-page Daily News article "Social Security: how secure?" raised this issue.

Cahill reported that Reagan's advisers were split "into rival camps of 'hawks' eager to cut benefits and 'doves' worried about the political fallout of such a step." The problem at the heart of the Social Security system was - as always - money. Cahill now rephrased the statistics cited in "Positions, please?" in November. "The system will face a $40 billion gap between benefit payments and revenue in the 1982-86 period."

But how could Social Security be so much in the red, when Social Security taxes had just increased substantially? To explain the situation, Cahill quoted testimony given before the Congressional Joint Economic Committee that "the number of aged, retired and disabled persons is growing more rapidly than the number of those who work." Simple enough. What, then, was to be done?

Cahill now reviewed a proposed Reagan "package" for Social Security reform. It included raising the future retirement age and changing the way "cost of living" raises were calculated. But Cahill, a long-term veteran of the political process, doubted that "any of these ideas will ever be enacted into law." He cited congressional experts who believed that "the Social Security system will emerge with the government's 'contract' with the nation's present and future retirees intact."

In fact, Cahill felt confident in assuring his readers that "if changes are made in benefit levels, they very definitely won't affect anyone currently on the benefit rolls or about to join them any time soon." As for "abolishing the system," Cahill concluded, "it isn't going to happen. Whatever Ronald Reagan may have said about Social Security in the distant past, you have his word for it now."

But Cahill failed to notice that, in a speech made on Oct. 10, Reagan had only promised to preserve the old-age component of the Social Security system. If Cahill had noticed, would he have been alarmed? If Reagan had any plans to reduce expenditures from the Disability Trust Fund, such plans would have to get past Congress.

No need to worry about Social Security Disability, then. In fact, in December 1980, the Daily News only ran three items concerning Social Security or the disabled.

On December 8, there was an editorial entitled "More 'disability' foolishness," about a ruling which granted benefits to convicts still in prison. On December 28 we were reminded that "Soc-Sec hikes to riddle pay checks in '81." And twice in December, the News ran the half-page ad: "BILLIONS IN SOCIAL SECURITY CASH REMAINS UNCLAIMED."

This silence on Social Security disability benefits continued well into the beginning of 1981. On January 20 William F. Buckley, Jr.'s column (obscurely titled "Sacrosanct Security and Invincible Inflation") revolved around the theme that Social Security ought not to be "untouchable." But while it talked about "thinking the unthinkable," it dealt again with the statistical issue of automatic indexing.

Jerome Cahill's February 4 piece, "105 ways to slash federal budget," did mention "stricter eligibility rules and less generous benefits for entitlement programs." But the words "Social Security" and "disability" did not appear in the text.

It was February 6 before other proposals to cut Social Security benefits began to surface. Then Laurence McQuillan and Harrison Rainie reported (in their article "How Ron'll carve the turkey"), a plan to remove the minimum $123 a month benefit. But, on February 8, the idea of reducing Social Security disability benefits finally appeared, in Harrison Rainie's article, "A sound theory to get the budget cut."

For the first time the News put it plainly: there was a plan to tighten Social Security disability benefits, although there were still no specifics about how this "tightening" should occur. Still, I should have realized. As Beth Fallon said in her February 9 article "Reagan, his pep talk and the politics of pain," "you cannot cut spending without hurting people. The only question is whom do you hurt and how much?"

From mid-December through mid-February, I was often fatigued. Jimmy no longer wanted me to watch him play backgammon at the club. He said I was so ugly he didn't want to be seen with me. I responded by eating chocolate cake and sleeping on the floor. My weight gain was double the norm, and I knew I'd be fat again when my baby was born.

Not that it mattered. Jimmy now made sarcastic remarks about Overeaters Anonymous and actively discouraged my going. It wasn't hard to follow his lead. I was still in the middle of a divorce battle, and I was embarrassed to be seen in public. I'd even stopped going to Quaker meetings on Sundays. It was partly to please Jimmy. Anything I could do in those days to please Jimmy was worth the effort.

In the middle of my third month, I took a trip to California to tell my grandmother in person that, at the age of 86, she was finally going to be a great-grandmother. My husband's lawyer had just turned over a $3,000 lump sum divorce settlement to my lawyer. This money was supposed to compensate for the fact that over our ten years of marriage John had gotten his Ph.D. while I'd been disabled by multiple sclerosis.

It all came down - as it always did - to money. But this time I was determined to win. I still lived with the memory of those years I'd dragged myself into the office because we were counting on my salary, and the fury John felt when he had to take the higher paying (but less prestigious) School Psychologist traineeship.

This settlement was blood money, and I was determined to use it only for things that mattered. I put aside $2,000 to pay for the baby's birth, and flew late night coach to San Diego, to stay at a Motel 6 three blocks from my grandmother's nursing home. Physically, I felt better than I had for years. The second afternoon I was there I took her out to lunch. I remember guiding her wheelchair through one of those unreal, large, clean California shopping malls. I sat down next to her on the edge of a flower bed while she ate an ice-cram cone.

"Grandmother," I said, "you remember I told you John was getting a divorce?"

"I know," she said, glancing over at me with her watery blue eyes.

"Well, I'm pregnant," I said, matter-of-factly.

"No!" she said, astonished. "Is it John's?"

I shook my head. "No," I said.

"Now," she said in a low voice, as though broaching a delicate subject, "how did that happen?"

"Well, grandmother," I said, "I didn't see a star rising in the east, so I would guess in the usual way."

She nodded her head as though to say she suspected as much.

The next three days were awful. We sat together in her tiny room, she in her wheelchair next to the wall, and I on her bed. She kept her television on. We both stared at it, glassy-eyed, while she hinted indirectly at some issue that was bothering her. I tried to turn her hints into straightforward questions and answer them. But, as time went on, I felt more and more uncomfortable. I actually began to look forward to going home.

Something was on my grandmother's mind, and I just didn't know what it was. As far as I could tell, I hadn't offended her moral sensibilities, nor had I caused her to worry unduly about my health. Then, on our last evening together, she said, "I guess you won't have any more money to come and see me again, with a baby to take care of. And that's the way it should be. I'm an old woman and won't live much longer, and a new baby is more important than anything else, I know."

Now I understood! She was jealous! And I'd never loved her more in my life. It was such a human response to a baby I barely allowed myself to believe in. Suddenly hope came flooding in. Maybe it was real. Maybe I'd really be a mother. Because of me, our family might go on, and I wanted to go on with it, be a part of that adventure of life beginning again.

"Please let me stay strong and healthy," I thought as I hugged my grandmother to me. "Please let me have this baby!"

That night my grandmother and I sat together on her bed until visiting hours were over, talking about good names for boys and girls. "Nettie, Laura, Maude, Merle," she said. "The men in our family were Louis, John, and Raymond. Raymond was my brother's middle name."

"You know, Grammy," I said, "I'll do my best to see you. I've always found a way thus far."

"I know," she said, as I plumped her pillows and helped her settle in for the night. "I'm just feeling a little blue."

"Do you often feel blue, Grammy?" I asked her.

"No," she said, "it's only that you're leaving tomorrow, and you've got so much on your mind. I know. I remember. I was a young woman myself once. I've been through the worries and the heartaches. I'd like to help you, but what can I do now? I wish you weren't so far away."

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