Miscarriage And Motherhood, When Pregnancy Is A Battlefield
"There’s still a pulse," they told me, surprisingly.
I do remember the last time, though. I was eight weeks pregnant. I got up one morning and found myself in the usual pool of blood. I was so used to it that I didn't say anything to anyone. I called a cab and asked the driver to take me to the ER.
The usual routine: There, they give you an ultrasound to determine whether or not a D&C procedure is necessary.
"There’s still a pulse," they told me, surprisingly. “But it will be a long battle.”
Nine months of solitude
Nine long months of rest. Day after day, being alert to every little sign of my body. Constant terror, so all-consuming that you don't even dare think about that child you carry in your belly. You can't cherish the idea of the baby, you can't feel it as being a part of you, because that's the only way you can protect yourself from an eventual loss.
After nine months, the warrior was born.
I stared at him strangely. Is this my son? For nine months I had not allowed myself the chance of loving him.
This kind of fight
For some, becoming a mother, more than a gift, represents the victorious end to a long battle.
I wish success to anyone who is fighting this kind of fight.
Parenthood should be denied to no man, woman, or anyone else who may desire it — for nature may be adverse, but the judgment and prejudice of others should never be.
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