Choices
{Originally published by ConverseMomma on Ordinary Art.}
When I was having the first of three miscarriages, sitting on the couch stuffing ice cream in my mouth, and sobbing at all the EPT commercials on television, a bloody maxi pad tucked between my legs, I got a phone call from someone close to me. She was pregnant, young, scared, and about to have an abortion. She wanted me to console her. She wanted me to wrap my arms around her and rock away the regret. I remember wanting to slap her. Instead, I spoke calmly through clenched teeth. I told her it was going to be okay, assured her that I loved her, even as I felt the soft spots of my heart, that once she had claimed, hardening against the impact. It was not fair of her, of me, of circumstance. But, this is how it was.
Two miscarriages, an oncologist office, and a handful of “experts” later, they told me I would never be a mother, not in the traditional sense that I had always imagined when I was young and reckless with the way I used my body. Instead, I pinned my hopes to adoption, on an 18 year-old girl. She wore a tiny bikini the weekend that we met, and swam beside me in the hotel pool. She just knew she could never have an abortion, not with all those couples eager and waiting. She wanted, instead, to give a gift. I thought about her capacity for bravery, and all I could do was hug her, go back to my hotel room, and cry.
When my son was born, and the nurses called me Mommy, the woman who carried him for nine months and pushed him out into this world, lay weary in her bed beside us. The beginnings of her loss were already creeping across the hospital room. I just could not see it. I did not think her choice was anything but noble, me being on the receiving end of it. We celebrated with popsicles sticks that left our fingers sticky and blue, and I tried not to see the way her mother had to hold her up, her unsure legs too shaky for the long walk to the parking lot, unassisted. In the months that went by, her grief only grew. It became something large and imposing, threatening the fragile bonds that we had established all those months that she had been convinced the choice would be an easy one, but turned out never to be. My son is a gift she gave me, but at what cost to herself? That is the question left unanswered between us.
I did not want to acknowledge the loss. I just wanted the simple celebration that I thought should be my right as a new mother. For a long time, I was so thankful for my son’s birthmother’s decision that every time I heard the word abortion I considered it a slight against the blonde-haired child that I held in my arms, and sang lullabies to against the backdrop of silence, in the nursery with the walls I had painted in blue. I felt abortion was a kick straight to the empty damaged uterus that I carried inside my body. How could a woman be selfish enough to have an abortion when adoption was an alternative, when couples waited years to fill their homes with the pitter patter of little feet, when my son was alive and growing strong because of his birthmother’s choice?
This answer is simple.
Those women are not me. They have their own paths, their own reasons, their own stories to tell. If I keep sitting here in judgment, expecting them to make determinations with their body based on the heartbreak of my own, than I have no right to call myself mother, sister, and friend. I dishonor the pain that my son’s birthmother suffered when she let Bug go, with nothing but the hope he might come back to thank her for it, when I expect every woman faced with this decision to choose as she did. Adoption is not an easy choice, and not the only one worth making. The truth is that these decisions are never simple. I know that. And this is why I write these words down, and will my heart to listen. I want to be glad when I read something like this, and learn that there are women who live without regret. I need to support that. I need to understand it. If I don’t, I will be the one stuck carrying around a regret that should not belong to me.
Editor’s Pick by MommyTime at Mommy’s Martini. Ordinary Art is one of the first blogs I discovered when I found out blogging existed, and I was hooked from day one. ConverseMomma is a lyrical writer who isn’t afraid to explore the sometimes searing emotions associated with mothering. With two young children, a job outside the home, an intense love for her family, and deep aspirations to pursue her writing full-time, ConverseMomma’s blog explores a whole host of topics that expose the difficulties, contradictions, and beauty that make up a mother’s life. In fact, she told me, she almost pulled this post because she was concerned that it was too raw — and that’s precisely why I admire her: she thinks so carefully about what she does and doesn’t shy away from what can be hard to write (or read). You may be interested in seeing this post with its original comments. And while you’re there, don’t forget to subscribe to this wonderful writer.
Editor
Mommy Time
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January 22nd, 2009
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Category:
Author-ConverseMomma, Birth, Channel- Family, Editor- MommyTime, Featured 1, Mothers, Moms, Motherhood, Parenting, Pregnancy, Thursday 1, abortion, adoption, miscarriage, women health
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Thank you for sharing this. I’ve never heard, and honestly, never considered this point of view. This perspective is so very unique.
Jennifers last blog post..Campaign Promises
Excellent, excellent writing from an excellent, excellent writer!
I remember this one. I remember it because it’s important, because it’s poignant, because it defines, reveals and challenges. I remember this one and I’m so glad to see it given a new life here!
erin
Woman in a windows last blog post..MY RIVER, MY BANK
It is all so complicated. To appreciate just how complicated, that is the trick. And you do — this piece shows it.
slouching moms last blog post..Cream Hill Lake
Oh, the fillaments that hold us up sometimes and ties us up other times. This is a beautiful reflection of that balance. Beautiful.
emilys last blog post..It’s a New Day
To be able to will your heart — successfully — to see another’s point and to not have your heart break? Too impressive. This is a beautifully written piece.
What an absolutely beautiful post. Thank you for letting us into that sensitive space.
Jessica (from It’s my life…)s last blog post..Being president isn’t a job I would want, but no one made them take it.
I agree very beautiful Post!
stopping by to say congrats on your Weblog nom!
http://2009.bloggies.com/
georgies last blog post..Peep Off
What a beautiful post… and an unsurpassed willingness to see all sides of the coin.