Mother’s Day

I saw a tweet, Meme? Post? The other day that made me Lol. ‘Traumatic experience taking too long to turn into art.’ Personally I try to be VERY efficient about transforming mine. I turned our fertility journey comedy-tragedy into a play during the pandemic, wrote in the few weeks before I had Joe, and called it Mother’s Day. I highly doubt that it will ever be produced, it’s much too sad and self-indulgent, but I DID in fact write it, so I think once a year, I’ll just scatter it’s ashes here! Below is a part of the play when the main character (ME, MAYBE?)’s Mother comes to visit after her daughter has had another miscarriage. Happy Mother’s day to all who are, to all who are longing to Be.


I remember —

I was about five months along with you. And I was a bit less worried than I had been with your brother. But still, you’ll see, a Mother’s worry really starts from the first kick, if not before. The first time the baby does something, anything, on their own,  it becomes: why are they doing that? And are they doing it enough? And are they trying to tell me something is wrong? And why did I forget to turn the stove off last night, did I gas her and I just walked past a cigarette, is she dead? I opened a jar of tomato sauce, accidentally punched myself in the stomach, and convinced myself I’d murdered you! That sort of thing, every day.

So I went for my monthly check up, I was alone. Your father was at work, I said I was fine to go.

And the doctor – he had a hard time finding your heartbeat. It just wasn’t there.

It felt like eternity. He kept saying hold on – let’s try over here.

And then He got so quiet.

So I closed my eyes because I couldn’t look at the doctor’s face while he searched.

And I said a prayer.

At first I said please God, don’t do this to me.

And I heard and felt nothing.

Don’t do this to me.

But then I realized,  I’d prayed the wrong thing.

That wasn’t a Mother’s prayer, ‘don’t do this to me.’

So I said please God, Please protect and keep my daughter. Please protect and keep my daughter. It’s not about me. It’s about her.

I laid there, dying with each second.

And suddenly the doctor said THERE she is! And the room filled with the sound of your heart.  You were there the whole time,  tucked up inside of me. Curled up. So comfy and small and tight. The prayer woke you up. That’s how I like I to see that memory, and yes, I realize that’s how I choose to see it, but also, every day of your life I look at you and I hear your voice and all I see is an answered prayer.


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