In the car I break down, forehead-to-knees-contact style, and bawl, bawl for my lost child, for my lost innocence. Losing your virginity is nothing compared to killing your baby. And how these women, how Danielle could sit with such composure is an unsolvable mystery to me; is there no pain? No sense of irretrievable loss? There is nothing that can make this act right in my mind, though I have never once opposed the right to do what I did.
I saw the ultrasound, the sonogram that was performed. From the angle of the monitor, I could tell that I was not intended to see the blip inside me. But standing, I managed to see her, see a tiny little blob of cells growing and thriving. "Eight weeks and one day," the tech said, and it was near enough to send me into a whirlpool of anguish.
On the drive, poor distracted Shae, trying to juggle my sobbing self and his immovable parents, he rear-ends the car in front of us. His attention is on a cop and some weird traffic interaction with a man completely blocking the other lane, and I turn in time to see our car lurching too-fast forward. I yell, "Shae! SHAE!" but it does no good, and now he's got about $2,000 worth of damages to his front fender to handle. With no collision insurance. The terrifying, bald and tattooed 30-something-year-old has nothing to blame Shae for, no damage being done to the SUV he drives. Thank god for that.
And we get back to Brooklyn, and I take intermittent 15-minute long cat naps in between his mother and father bursting in to move things from one apartment to the next.
I hug his mother the first time I see her, and think, "I just aborted your grandchild."
I saw the ultrasound, the sonogram that was performed. From the angle of the monitor, I could tell that I was not intended to see the blip inside me. But standing, I managed to see her, see a tiny little blob of cells growing and thriving. "Eight weeks and one day," the tech said, and it was near enough to send me into a whirlpool of anguish.
On the drive, poor distracted Shae, trying to juggle my sobbing self and his immovable parents, he rear-ends the car in front of us. His attention is on a cop and some weird traffic interaction with a man completely blocking the other lane, and I turn in time to see our car lurching too-fast forward. I yell, "Shae! SHAE!" but it does no good, and now he's got about $2,000 worth of damages to his front fender to handle. With no collision insurance. The terrifying, bald and tattooed 30-something-year-old has nothing to blame Shae for, no damage being done to the SUV he drives. Thank god for that.
And we get back to Brooklyn, and I take intermittent 15-minute long cat naps in between his mother and father bursting in to move things from one apartment to the next.
I hug his mother the first time I see her, and think, "I just aborted your grandchild."
