Strong anonymous women

We go forward. We go back.

The excruciating physical pain that a woman feels when trying to push out of her exhausted body a dead fetus – that unborn child who already has a monochrome-printed profile and a name – is exceeded solely by the preternatural sorrow (and unutterable rage against the Gods above) of seeing the stillborn weighed, measured, tossed into a plastic waste bag, placed carelessly in a cardboard box and labelled “miscarriage”. Nobody makes the sympathetic effort of shielding you from the haunting image of the deformed seven-month-year-old lacking the nasal pyramid or performing the sordid medical procedures outside of your purview.

How do you keep from going insane after a truculent experience like this? How do you grow the courage of ever carrying another baby in your womb? How do you manage to come up with a minuscule grain of trust when addressing doctors who disregarded your condition, ignored your suffering and explained nothing of the phenomenon that left you non-mother?

Hope, faith and an intimidating character strength are the only answers I was given by the friend who recuperated after this unsparing episode. I don’t even need a miracle, just a little bit of attention. And if, eventually, I don’t get it, I’ll just adopt. That is what she told me, tears welling up in her inane eyes, body convulsing with painful memories and chagrin. She is right, of course. She just needs a moment of God’s time, when he does not turn his head away, but caresses the lives at stake. She needs just a little devotion from her gynecologist and some hints of humanity from the medical staff in the delivery room. A few moments in time, that’s all. Less than a drop in the infinite ocean of Time.

Somehow, because you believe it is still possible, because you want your dream of motherhood and you want to feel a baby in your arms, because you hope it will go right this time, because you know God has done it before for others, because you wake up the next morning, trembling and aching, but you make it through the door, because there is a husband who holds your hand, a family and some friends who hold your arm while limping up the stairs, you DO get over it. You do not forget. You cannot forgive. You do not understand. You dream. You pant. You panic. You cry. You collapse. And then you whisper.. but maybe, this time.. Please! .. and in the shadows, among the volcanoes of your disheveled spirit, you open your eyes again and push ahead.

We go forward.



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