There are some phrases that don't make sense because we don't want them to make sense. Take the title of this post, "Lost Baby Announcement." That means that the announcement for the baby has gotten lost in the mail.
But that's not actually what it means. "Lost Baby Announcement," means that I'm announcing a baby was lost. The funny thing---if indeed there is a, "funny thing" in this discussion---is that I didn't know there was a baby to be lost. Finding out you've been pregnant and at the same time finding out that the baby is no longer viable is a strange moment.
I didn't look.
The doctora took out the IUD and tried to show the proof. I turned away. In a way now I wish I had looked. My husband looked. I think men need to look at unsettling reality. Women? Maybe we don't. Maybe we can't. It's hard to look at things we'd rather forget. We aren't able to look once and then go on to the next activity. We endlessly roll around those images and "what ifs". No, it's better that I didn't look.
I can't say I'm sad but I am quiet; introspective. It's a sobbering moment to realize that while you were carefully weighing a life option God took care of it for you. As John Lennon said, "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans." Yet, because I had chosen five years ago to have a Mirena IUD in place, I destroyed one of my husband's biggest dreams.
For all these years, I really liked having the Mirena. My months went by easily. I never suffered like I had with the Paraguard. I was feeling good---until this Spring. Now, I realize that the Mirena had stopped releasing hormones. I was no using effective birth control. I was using an abortive method only. According to sheiks, this is still halal but, as a woman, it doesn't feel good to me. I hadn't known. Now, that I do know...what do I do with that information?
It hardly seems fair to be in a loving, halal marriage with a man who wants a baby and yet to stop the process. That's my heart talking. My head is telling me other things. Believe me, I'm not without balance and there's a lot to explore on this issue.
I find myself playing my own version of "Vanilla Sky" and looking for clues after the fact that I actually had been pregnant.
"I don't know how I got so fat!" I remember saying that and really wondering how I'd let myself go.
Jumping jacks in class felt like a bladder burster.
Then there's all those times I've been falling asleep before my little guy's bedtime.
I do think of Mr. Boo. He's like an only child over here in Egypt. Family means so much in this country. To have another child means to have someone who will be with my son; as a Muslim and an Egyptian-American.
To have a child with my husband means that our marriage is validated. The whole community here supports my husband's role as Mr. Boo's Baba. However, it's not a completely sealed deal. For us to have a child together means that our family is complete in the eyes of others.
And, "yes," my mother would kill me if I had another child.
Right now, I need to stop thinking so much and just take a deep breath. There had been so much abdominal pain these last days that I couldn't really do that. Now, I am free from the discomfort alhumdulillah.
Alhumdulillah for everything.
Yesterday, after the doctor's appointment...actually before the doctor's appointment...I had my husband agree to take me to the dress shop around the corner on Faisel Street. I hate going to the doctor so much that I need to imagine a kind of carrot in front of the cart. We went.
On our way home, we walked down the street Wafa wal Amal, which connects Faisel to Al-Haram Street. We saw a crowd of police. Sure enough, there'd been an armed robbery at the Hermes Exchange. My shopping request had come from some place inside me which felt right. In the end, that request meant that we avoided being in the wrong place. Thank God.
May we all heal from pain, listen to our souls and grow from our experiences.