Her Bad Mother

Friday, March 27, 2009

Love Thursday, Friday Edition: The Beckoning Of The Bicycle

I have trouble keeping my days of the week straight. Also, my seasons. Is it spring yet?

God, I hope so. We have some bike-ridin' to do.

(Love Thursday. Is lovely. And is beckoning lovely. Come, lovely, come. On a little red-trimmed, sparkly-streamered bicycle, come.)

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Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Abortion Means Never Having To Say You're Sorry

"She only saw him once.

Once, from behind the window of the nursery. He was wrapped in a blue blanket, and he was oh so small. They asked her if she wanted to hold him, and she said no. Just as she had in the delivery room, right after he was born, when she had squeezed her eyes shut so that she wouldn't see him, her heart, the heart that she was giving away. She said no.


It would have killed me, she said. It would have killed me. I couldn't have gone on. I loved him.

So she said no. She refused to hold her son."

I was holding my own son - then just two and a half months old - on my lap when my mother told me this story. I would be stating the obvious if I said that I clutched him a little tighter as I listened to her words and watched the tears brim in her eyes, but I'll state it anyways: I held him, tightly, and my heart ached to think of not holding him. My heart ached to bursting at the thought of not holding him, of giving away any opportunity to hold him. And then my heart ached some more, because I had, once upon time, done something that, in some respects, amounts to the same thing.

When an anonymous poster made a plea, last week, for everyone to pause and consider the emotional fallout from adoption - this within the context of debates concerning the emotional consequences of abortion - I immediately thought of my mother and the gut-wrenching turmoil she experienced as a result of giving up a child for adoption. And then I thought of myself, and of the secret inner dialogue that I conducted with myself while she and I sat discussing that boy, that child that she had given up for adoption years before I was born. The secret inner dialogue that went something like this:

Me: Oh, my god, my god, how terrible, how heartbreaking, how did her heart survive it?

Myself: How did YOUR heart survive it?

Me: Survive what?

Myself: Abortion.

Me: That's so different.

Myself: It's not.

Me: The heartbreak of giving up a child...

Myself: Isn't abortion a kind of 'giving up'? Except, you know, MORE FINAL?

Me: Yeah, but...

Myself: But what?

Me: She's mourning a child that she lost, a child who is still out there somewhere.

Myself: Exactly.

I clutched Jasper to my chest and squeezed and thought about the child who is not out there somewhere. A little part of my heart collapsed in on itself.

My mother's heartbreak was almost unbearable to absorb. Her guilt, her worry, her desire to both know and not know whether he'd been given a happy life, whether she'd done right by him to give him up. She insisted that there was no regret - she'd done what she had to do, she had no choice, it was the best thing to do, the only thing to do, at the time - but regret is complicated. She didn't regret making the choice that seemed best for him, but she still hurt over that choice. She hurt over that choice because it represented a loss, for her. Because it represented the loss of an unknown and unknowable future. Because it was a choice that changed someone else's life, someone else's future. Because some part of her felt that she needed to explain that choice, perhaps apologize for that choice. Make it clear that the choice was made out of love.

The choice that caused her so much pain was not the same kind of choice that I made. There is no one to whom to explain my choice. There is no one to whom to apologize. No claim can be made that my choice was made out of love. There is no one to whom I might make that claim. Because that's how abortion differs from adoption: it means that the only person you need ever - can ever - explain your choice to is yourself. It doesn't matter whether you're sorry or not. Abortion means never having to say you're sorry. It means never even having to consider the question.

Which is not to say, of course, that we don't consider the question. I've been considering the question - of whether or not I'm sorry, of whether or not I should be sorry, of whether or not sorry matters - since I first set foot in that abortion clinic. I have agonized over this. As I've explained in these virtual pages before, I can't say that I regret having had an abortion, but I also can't say that I don't. It's complicated. Its complicatedness sometimes hurts my heart. Which is precisely why people talk about the emotional consquences of abortion. Because many women find, like I did, that their hearts hurt. Because many women struggle to figure out how to reconcile the complicated tension between regret and not-regret and find that they're unable, and because many women do so while bearing their children, their wanted children, in arms.

But that struggle - that is, my personal experience of that struggle - is one that can, most of the time, be compartmentalized, tucked away on some back shelf of the psyche and forgotten until some event - pregnancy, say, or miscarriage, or one's own mother's admission of having given one's brother up for adoption - prompts one to go rummaging around on the shelves of Buried Hurts and Ambivalent Regrets and Things That I'd Rather Not Think About Unless My Sanity And/Or Moral Stability Depends Upon It. My mother's struggle with her longstanding conflicting emotions around having given up a child for adoption is not - has never been - something that she can just tuck away on a shelf and forget about. She has never passed a day, she told me, without thinking about her lost boy - without looking at the faces of strangers who seem about his age and wondering is it him, without reading in the newspaper or hearing on the news something about any male person of his vintage and wondering is it him, without casting back to that baby in the blue blankie and wondering what became of him what became of him what became of him?

And that is so hard for her. I have seen the heartbreak on her face. Some 45 years or so after the fact, and the heartbreak is still there. I see the heartbreak on her face and I tell myself, there but for grace went I. And, thank gods for that grace, that I did not go.

But it is not so simple. It is not nearly so simple. For I know that the primary reason I am able to compartmentalize my own, quiet struggle is because it is entirely my own, and it is entirely my own because of the nature of the choice that I made. My child does not wander this earth, living another life. My child - and it is such a mental and emotional wank to even use these terms - was never born. My child never became my child. He/she/it was embryo, barely fetus, not a child. I did not have a child; I had a pregnancy. And then I didn't.

(And yet. Even as I say that - "I did not have a child; I had a pregnancy" - I want to take it back. I'm a mother. I've had a very early term miscarriage. I very nearly lost Emilia to miscarriage. I know the terror of losing or fearing to lose that embryo, that not-quite-fetus, that not-child who is loved none the less for his or her unformedness. I would never have said - could never have said - of the embryo-that-became-Emilia, this is just a pregnancy, there is no child here. For even though she was not yet child, she was the cellular embodiment of my wish that she become a child, that she become my child. In the absence of that wish... is it just cells that remain? I don't know. I do not know. I have not yet sorted this out. It is painful, trying to sort this out, this which might be, simply, unsortable. All I know is that these experiences are different, despite their similarities, and that I remain firmly committed to the rightness of having the ability - the choice - to distinguish between them. Ah, me.)

What remains: my inconstant, ambivalent hurt, and my mother's endless heartache. Neither of these would I wish on anyone, but neither would I hold them up as justifications for tampering with our rights to choose those hurts, those aches, over others. We both chose our heartaches, out of desire to avoid greater heartache for ourselves or for others. In my mother's case - in any birth mother's case, I think - a more difficult choice was made, because it was a choice that opened up another future for another life, a future that she would never be able to see but would always, always feel. I, on the other hand... I chose the road that denied other lived futures, and that has made all the difference.

The right difference, the wrong difference, I don't know. It is, ever and always and only and nevertheless, the one that I chose.

I live with that.

*Because you're asking: yes, we are - I am - still looking for that boy, the lost boy, my brother. There has been some very limited progress recently, and I'm hoping that it yields something, but I don't want to jinx things by speculating. Thank you all for caring so much.

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Monday, March 23, 2009

Rainy Days And Mondays And, Also, Zombies, Get Me Down

I don't have anything personal against Monday. It's not like Monday's ever done anything to me that she - oh, don't give me that, you know Monday's a she - hasn't done to every other living being on the planet - pine beetles hate Monday too, pass it on - it's just, you know, Monday. BLAH. I'm just never ready for it.

(I know. I work at home. In my pajamas. So what am I complaining about? I work at home in my pajamas, surrounded by chaos, with a baby chewing on my leg and a three-year old shrieking at eardrum-shattering volume and cats dragging dismembered Dora dolls under the sofa for further gutting. It's like Resident Evil around here, but with babies instead of zombies and no Milla Jovovich coming with a team of commandos to save me. So.)

Where was I? Right. Monday.

It is Monday and I have had neither sufficient caffeine nor B12 vitamins to kick-start anything approximating energy or will or lifeforce and so all you get from me today is what you got last Monday: weak jokes and some links.

1) CNN linked to me today. But it was about breastfeeding stuff and we all know how that goes. Wee bit of a traffic spike, but also: mean e-mails! And stupid comments! Telling me to COVER UP MAH BOOBEEZ K THX!

Can I just put this out there? Could everyone out there who is skeeved, squicked or otherwise disgusted by breastfeeding (in any and all of its forms) please find a more interesting way to express your belief that your right to not be skeeved, squicked or yucked overrides my child's right to be nourished than EW BOOBIES GROSS WHY CAN'T YOU JUS COVER THEM SELFISH BISH?!?!? Or, maybe you could, just, you know, look away?

2) My mother is persisting with this whole blogging thing. And now she's threatening to be - quote - 'a thorn in (my) side.' Also, she wants to tell you about the 'deep V' tanline caused by her grandma-boobs and bitch about her bifocals and, maybe, give other grandparents advice on how to torment their children by corrupting their grandchildren. This is either going to be really terrible or really awesome. Probably both.

3) The Basement. It's not a happy place today.

4) No, I didn't purchase the DVD of the movie Twilight this weekend. I wanted to, though. Mostly because I've heard that Robert Pattinson's commentary is bust-a-gut hysterical (Robert Pattinson, who is on record describing his character thusly: "When you read the book," says Pattinson, looking appropriately pallid and interesting even without makeup, "it's like, 'Edward Cullen was so beautiful I creamed myself.' I mean, every line is like that. He's the most ridiculous person who's so amazing at everything. I think a lot of actors tried to play that aspect. I just couldn't do that. And the more I read the script, the more I hated this guy, so that's how I played him, as a manic-depressive who hates himself. Plus, he's a 108-year-old virgin so he's obviously got some issues there." How can you not love this guy?) and I could totally get on board with having my gut figuratively busted.

Instead, I just read pretty much the entirety of Cleolinda's commentary on everything Twilight. And busted a gut. Seriously. BETTER THAN THE BOOKS. Almost.

5) They should do a remake of Resident Evil, but with cats. They could get a Siamese to play Milla Jovovich's role. That'd be funny.

This is the shit I think about on Mondays. It's a kind of hell.

(Closing comments because, seriously, I am exhausted UP TO HERE with debating breastfeeding. Comments are still open at the CNN-linked post, but having responded to one stupid comment there I am already spent and have given up. Reading about Twilight is a far better use of my time today.)

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