I looked at him. I knew I had choices. I would never go through anything like this again. Nor would I judge anyone that had to go through this; as writer Carolyn Chute once said no one chooses poverty. No one chooses anger, sadness and rage.
But on this journey inward I also had the opportunity to see and acknowledge my own beauty and magnificence. In the most painful moments of my loneliness and struggle, I discovered what it was about myself that I loved. And there was so much about me that I loved… that until this wrecking ball moment, I was never able to clearly see.
You should trust yourself. You should trust the process. You should do whatever you can, however you can. Take as much time as you need. Yes, yes, this.
I chose Dr. Carrie Miles as my new OBGYN based on her one paragraph biography on the women’s clinic website. She did not mention having children, however did enjoy spending time hiking with her two dogs and that was enough to put my reproductive health in her hands.
But my body is strong and limber today, giving me what I need. Hips opened wide after delivering two darling boys in one night—finally, I birthed a living child; full healing lungs breathe in deeply instead of screaming and gasping after a 15-year childhood stint of sucking on the cancer sticks (family legacy).
My chart says, Pregnancy. Suspected ectopic. As I leave, he’s swabbing the chair with alcohol, and I feel contagious. If you’ve had one go badly, then you know the terrible exponential math at the beginning of a pregnancy.
The only version I have to give him is a straight, married version. I know this is inadequate. My queer Muslim friends need room in this conversation, too. I want him to understand everyone needs a safe space no matter how they love. But I take this one step at a time.
This is how it happens. This is how trust grows and love takes root. I will listen to myself and believe myself. It hurts. I am listening. I will Believe in the shapes that keep shifting, the soft underside of the knee kissed and the arrow of the limb extended and the silk knot of sitting and the walking and walking and walking.
I walked out into the hallway with my soggy-socked feet, not knowing where I was supposed to go or what I was supposed to do or how this had suddenly become my life. I walked down the hallway in the opposite direction of the window, and found what I would learn was called the ‘day room.’ It was lined with dingy chairs and couches and had a TV mounted on the wall, blaring VH1 music videos. When I walked in, I did not see anyone, so I just found a corner of a couch and curled up like an orphaned animal.
I still look for her, even after all these years. I scour crowds, searching for her face, hoping to catch a glimpse of her thick-rimmed glasses, the same glasses that helped to identify her when she was removed from the railway tracks. And yet I know that she is gone. That I will never see her again.
This is what you set out to do when the candles were lit and the rings were exchanged. Only now, you realize that every day requires its own set of marital vows, the ones between the two new people waking up side by side each morning. So each day, you make a fresh promise: in sickness. It sounds the same, but it’s different than the first time.
Endings are the hardest thing to accept in our lives. They are our little deaths. It’s tempting to run into the next thing – from each death comes a new life, a new love, a new chance. It’s why we run out, adopting that new puppy when our 17-year dog has died. We despise the endings. What do they all mean, anyhow?
