On Thursday I found out, in a seriously traumatic encounter with a naturopath, someone who wouldn’t recognize my humanity, that my baby has a mysterious birth defect.

On Monday we’ll go get more tests done, but in the meantime (and in my already ragged state), I’m thinking a lot about bodily integrity, perfection, karma, and love.

Dear Baby,

My sweet, sweet little baby. I’ve wanted you as long as I can remember. I dreamed of you from the depths of my own childhood. It is frightening how much I love you, your little octopus movements inside of me. The gorgeous perfection of you.

It was so strange and beautiful to look inside of you for the first time, while the doctors took measurements and consulted each other, completely ignoring your dad and me. As if all that mattered were the numbers. As if you weren’t the most special and important thing in the entire world.

The oval of your skull…

(Big! of course!), the architecture of your ribs and spine, your diaphragm moving in and out with such strength and vigor that they could barely measure you. I had to laugh because of course. You’re practicing your breathing with the same enthusiasm as your kicking, punching, and giant somersaults. I can feel the intensity of your personality, the sheer crackling mass of your energy.

And then that black circle.

It was huge on the screen. The easiest thing to make out. Floating in your abdomen, more distinct than other organs. The doctors paused their relentless measurements; they weren’t expecting this.

We don’t know what it is. Maybe nothing. Maybe something. The men looking inside of you couldn’t quite say. And your father and I looked at each other with tears in our eyes, and everyone got quiet and tense. “More imaging needed. Maybe surgery. At the hospital they can…”

Now it seems there are some warring versions of how to be. In one I can hate this big black circle, rail against this imperfection, this intrusion into your beautiful self (so rudely highlighted by the doctors’ disrespectful intrusion into both of us). But it’s inside of you, Love.

And every way you are is perfect.

Your job isn’t to meet my expectations. Your job is to be you. My job is to love that even as I get to watch it unfolding. That’s the contract, the promise I made back in February when we conceived you.

So I’m choosing to remember you’re perfect anyway. Whether you have long years of health, only a little while here with us, or anything in between. And this scary black circle inside of you, this scary black circle is part of you, so it’s perfect too.

This is the way you’re coming to us. So we’ll go where we need to go with you. To the hospital if need be. Into surgery if that’ll help.

Your dad and I are here loving you. Trying to protect you. As long as we can. As well as we can. You just be. That’s plenty.

Love,
Your Mother

Comments

Love to all!