Thirteen years ago, this day, I was lying on a hospital bed, my head lower than my torso, in a desperate attempt to keep her in me. This baby who had been conceived with such drama, a surprising pregnancy within three months of restarting treatment after Priya’s birth. I had been on the Mag drip for four days already, doctors trying to halt the contractions, wagging their heads dolefully as they read the numbers on the charts. I had become inured to random hands being thrust up where I had been taught was intensely private, but that had stopped because they were scared of accidentally rupturing membranes.
It was just too early, only 26 weeks of a 40 desirable. She was uncooked, unfinished, raw and unformed.
I felt inadequate as a woman, a mother, unable to keep my child safe even in my womb. And lay there wishing it would be done, because another thing I had become used to was babies dying. And learning to make peace with it. No dwelling on it, why think negative thoughts? Wearily I had decided, this was it, no more!!! I could bear this roller coaster of hormones, injections, procedures, ultrasounds no more. This factory would shut down, it was done.
It has taken me thirteen years to understand those difficult times were nothing, compared to what you feel as you watch your child grow. A piece of your soul breathed into this form now taller than me, who treats that precious body and heart with careless insouciance. I know if I fuss too much, she will wrap herself into a shell, calmly humoring me, her eyes in watchful kindness.
No, I have to step back, and whistle carelessly, and watch as she saunters her way through life. A perplexing mixture of cool nonchalance and deep, very very deep, absolute lava molten passion. She calmly listens as I whip my self up into maternal concern, angst and sturm, sometimes even spares me a moment or two of there there, then tells me things that simultaneously take my breath away and allows me to heave a sigh of proud relief.
She keeps me dancing on her fingertip, in quiet contained calm. My solemn harlequin.
