Why?
Why would God let you grow through very hard years together, to put you back together, to give you a baby, just to take it away?
What is God trying to tell us?
That we’re not supposed to have a baby together?
That we are supposed to have a baby together but he’s going to make us go through this trial to ensure we’re strong enough for the real thing?
Why would God do that?
What is he trying to teach us?
I don’t understand anything. I try to keep myself busy with work that I get home so tired and go to sleep early, totally forgetting I have three other children who need my attention. I am avoiding all of my goals and aspirations. I have put everything that involves interaction on the back burner. Talking hurts too much. It’s too hard to talk about the baby. About what we’re going to do if the baby doesn’t make it. I’ve never believed in abortion for myself, I could careless what other people do. I just could never imagine knowingly having a baby inside me just to choose to get rid of it. Is it my faith? Was it being raised Catholic and now being Christian? My whole life has been God and honoring the blessings he gave me. Even the closest of people told me to abort it. How do I do something I don’t believe in? I’ve seen the sonograms where the baby is just flipping and moving. How does something so energetic and full of life already, not even know it might see the light of day?
She.
She is a she. But identifying it with any real name makes it personal. I don’t talk to you, ya know? It’s too hard. I knew something was wrong the week after I found out I was pregnant. I always thought this wasn’t going to stick. So I never got close to you. Your daddy talked to you. He talked to you as we laid in bed. He loved you, we both did. We both still do. It’s just best not to get too close. It hurts less in the end.
It’s easy to let go when you’re not attached. That’s just how I was raised. Daddy was a good ole Oklahoma boy and mama was a gangbanger from LA. We were all raised to be tough, life moves on with or without you, work hard and pray harder. Those lessons shaped me into who I am today. Why do I need to get attached? This may or may not work out, either way, I’ll be fine. I always had a plan b. I would convince myself scenarios and situations were going to happen and I would make an action plan for after they happened. Even when they didn’t happen, I had already convinced myself that they did, so I had already moved on from the situation. Why do I do that? I wasn’t abused mentally or emotionally as I child. I didn’t grow up with daddy issues or people abandoning me. Why is it so easy to be okay? I’ve felt heartbreak before, but I never wished anyone ill will. Daddy says life moves on, either way, you’ll be fine. And I was. And I will be.
But this is a different hurt. Losing a baby? But I’ve watched you every week. Grow from the size of a pea to a crazy little baby in there, doing flips and not wanting to be in the sonogram.
Week 12 was the hardest. That week tore me up. I’m not talking to you, and if you make me talk about it, I will resent you.
Week 24. That’s 6 months. That’s how long the state of Arizona gives you to terminate a pregnancy when there is zero quality of life.
Six months.
The twins were born at barely 8 months. That’s not too much further from where you are now. And they were completely fine.
It’s the waiting that hurts the most. How do we have all of these doctor’s and equipment and studies but they still don’t know?
What would you do?
If you were pregnant and happy about it but then a doctor said, hey your baby has a 55% chance of surviving because their skull never fully formed in the back so their brain is poking out, you may want to consider terminating the pregnancy. Or you can go through the whole pregnancy and cross your fingers?
What would you do?
Again, let’s revisit my faith.
I grew up Catholic. Daddy was in the Knights of Columbus and mama was the Secretary for the Catholic Daughter’s of America.
It was a small church. Typical. Pews. Pamphlets that were folded in half and pages torn from kids that didn’t go to Sunday School. A small six foot area with a piano and a few chairs for the choir in the back right. Confessional booths in the front left. Candles and a giving box for prayers and donations. The stages of the cross depicted on the walls and stain glass windows.
It was home.
I loved it there. I was the first female altar server. Father Abran made that happen. Good man. Had a small drinking problem and had to go to rehab for it. He finished his commitment and last I heard, he’s a truck driver in New York. I wonder how that happened? Still talk to his niece though. Anyways…
I loved it there. We were there three days a week. I was baptized there, First Holy Communion, Confirmation. All of the girls were baptized there. I remember the lunches after mass. We all walked through the courtyard, a real work in progress but it sure was coming along. I used to always get a quesadilla. Daddy and mama would get red menudo. I always wanted their bread that came with it. Then the adults would all gossip in the hall around coffee and the kids would run around outside. Or if you were like me, you would go through the hallway, pass the bathrooms and around the corner into where all of the Sunday School classes connected by doors like attached hotel rooms. My favorite place was the gift shop. I wanted everything in there but didn’t want to stay long because it always scared me. But I always snuck through it when everything was closed down. I never took anything or messed with anything. But that’s definitely where my devious behavior began. I never took anyone with me. It always me just exploring the rooms. It felt like it took forever each time but looking back, there was maybe three or four rooms, the office and then the gift shop. But it was tradition. I never got caught though!
I think I could still go to mass and be able to recite it word for word, even though it’s been over a decade. I used to move my hand when they rang the bells. They used to give out the freshest loaves of bread for Easter Sunday sunrise mass. And had the best Indian frybread at our fall festivals. We even had a carnival one year. Those were the best years. Even when I strolled in at 16 years old and again at 19 years old, pregnant and full of sin, it was still home. Hey, a little confessional, maybe ten Hail Marys and boom, you’re back in that communion line. That’s what God does and that’s what his people do: approach you with understanding and forgiveness on your sin, and then you receive communion and go get a quesadilla after. Then it’s home to take a nap.
I think it all started when I stopped going there. I think once the twins were baptized, that’s when I stopped. Because why would I wakeup three sleeping babies to take them to mass where they’re gonna cry through the whole things anyways? There was always tons of Catholic women in large hats and matching dresses that would be willing to hold them, but it was still the point of, orrrr, I could just stay in bed and not have to deal with the hassle of putting on our Sunday best and heading to mass just to come home and fall asleep anyways. So let’s stay asleep, tiny humans. Or wake up right away and start our day, you know, whatever works.
I sure do miss the quesadillas though…
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