Most of the time I don't think about the fact that I did not give birth to my son. Usually, I enjoy reading the experiences women write about their own pregnancies and childbirth, thinking, somehow, that I can live vicariously through their words.
But in the past year, I've discovered a place deep inside me that is painful when touched, and I have to set aside whatever touched it.
Like The Blue Jay's Dance.
It catches me off guard, this pain. A few months ago, for example, someone I care about had an unplanned c-section and she was grappling with her feelings about not having a chance to hold her son until a few hours later, after he was all cleaned up and dressed. That he didn't seem like her child in the same way her first son did disconcerted her. Nursing made a difference, but she still felt a real sense of loss.
I mourned with her.
Then suddenly and over and over, tears flowed unbidden as I found myself grieving my own wrenching sense of loss: I am a woman who will never, ever know what it is like to create life. Ever. I will never know what it is like to bond with my own flesh and blood. I will never nourish a child with my own body.
This is why I decided to pick the book up again and finish it this week: Today is my son's 16th birthday. And I love him.
I am lucky mom.
Update the next day: In case anyone reads this and thinks they need to walk on eggshells around me, please, please, please don't think that. I very much want to share in your joys and sorrows. Just last night, in fact, I dreamed my sister told me she was expecting a baby. All I felt was pure happiness at the thought.
2 comments:
Isn't it amazing that there are pools of fresh tears hiding inside us throughout our lives, that are suddenly tapped and released, only to be secretly refilled when we aren't looking? I continue to appreciate your words.
Wendy, that is a beautiful way to put it. Thanks!
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