Unmother, REVISED Options

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Unmother  (REVISED)

(From the flash exercise)

REVISED:  Thanks to you all for your help.  Especially to Jox re: making the poem part of the story.  Got rid of the "exes" as that is a another story!


"It's mid-morning on a mild summer's day. You're in the front passenger seat of a car that is being driven along a four-lane highway. You've been travelling for thirty minutes when a large building appears on the left, set well back from the road in spacious grounds. The vehicle turns off the highway, enters a wide circular driveway, and pulls up in front of the building.

The driver gets out of the car and goes to the boot/trunk to remove a suitcase and a small canvas bag. After placing these in the porch, he returns to open your door. You step out…"


and, hesitating, I get out of the car, dreading the consultation that awaits us.   My husband, John, gently offers his hand to help me out.  It has been a long trip.  As I watched the countryside flash by my window, my mind returned to the prior days, the days before this scary, final, important trip.  All the memories, all the trials, all the bittersweet years that culminated in this visit to the fertility clinic in San Francisco.  

As a child, I always played make-believe with my friends. I was always the mom and I had at least 8 doll-babies. The other kids played the part of my kids and I tended to boss the mercilessly.  They didn't mind because, even then, I loved to cook and all our playtimes included chocolate chip cookies, warm from the oven.  They would do just about anything I suggested, even the things that got us all in trouble.  I always thought I would live on a farm and raise lots and lots of children, chickens, livestock, horses.  I would live in an old yellow house with an attic where I would spend hours making quilts and clothes for the kids.  My husband would be strong and kind and he would love our farm life just a little less than he loved me.  I would bake pies, make bread, and spend the summers putting up jam.  On holidays, every holiday, I would decorate the house from top to bottom.  The kids would help.  We would love each other fiercely and loyally.  The kids would grow up, fly from the nest and then, my later years would be spent with the grandchildren.

Some dream.  Reality was very different.   I finally found my soul mate.  We were both in our early 30-somethings.  We were both anxious and eager to finally create the "family" we had always dreamed of.   We both grew up in fragmented families with lots of problems.  We were survivors.  We tried unsuccessfully for a year to start the  family we both longed for.   I spent untold hours in cold white rooms having tests while unaffected professionals urged me to "relax".  John also had tests, the problem was not with him.  We managed to get through these days of angst and nights of tears, still loving each other, still hopeful.  

So, this is it.  Here we are at the world-renowned, state of the art Medical Center.  We will get our final answer today.  The previous tests, scans, x-rays have been forwarded.  We walk to the front doors and enter the cool reception area, dark wood, quiet, subdued.   A pale blonde receptionist in a crisp white medical coat take our names and politely directs us to the overstuffed chintz chairs in the waiting area.

Ten minutes pass while we hold hands.  Words are not necessary.  We have said them all before.  A door down the hallway opens and a doctor approaches us, invites us to his study.  We follow quietly.   Once inside, he produces a folder containing all of the previous medical workups, scans, x-rays, etc.  He gazes at us both with a bittersweet not quite a smile, clears his throat and says, "I'm sorry".

Later, in the car, on the way home, the memories again flooded back. I remembered crocheted blankets, and tiny sweaters I had knitted.  All the woven dreams I packed away, until I heard the dreaded news; I would NEVER have the privilege to unwrap my baby's things.

I recalled showers I attended trudging through a steady rain. My arms filled with gifts for unborn babies, wrapped in pink and blue with fancy ribbon, topped with Teddy bears and rattles.  Once at the shower, I sat there stricken, silent, envious.  I watched moms in smocks, their bellies ripe with pride, discussing nausea, pregnancy terms, labors, and all those sleepless nights with 2 a.m. feedings.  They complained about their backaches and their husbands who refused to change diapers. I sat there smiling stiffly, trying not to hear about choice of names, the nursery colors, first teeth, first steps, first words, then the dreaded question...

"Do you have any children?" I would always answer slowly, my voice smaller than intended; "Well, no, unfortunately, I couldn't have them".  Embarrassed, they would turn their faces to the others in the room; the moms who spoke "their" language, the members of the "club".

The conversations continued, as if I were not there. I would drop my eyes, fold my trembling hands, and become the polite observer.  I would make myself control the tears.  But, when they told how many stitches it took to close their wounds, I sat there and wondered, "How many will it take to close mine? "

FIRST DRAFT:
and, hesitating, I get out of the car, dreading the consultation that  awaited us.   My husband, John, (third in line..the other two were impossible to live with) gently offers his hand to help me out.  It has been a long trip.  As I watched the countryside flash by my window, my mind returned to the prior days, the days before this scary, final, important trip.  All the memories, all the trials, all the bittersweet years that culminated in this visit to the fertility clinic in San Francisco.  

As a child, I always played make-believe with my friends. I was always the mom and I had at least 8 doll-babies.  The other kids played the part of my kids and I tended to boss the mercilessly.  They didn't mind because even then, I loved to cook and all our playtimes included chocolate chip cookies, warm from the oven.  They would do just about anything I suggested, even the things that got us all in trouble.  I always thought I would live on a farm and raise lots and lots of children, chickens, livestock, horses.  I would live in an old yellow house with an attic where I would spend hours making quilts and clothes for the kids.  My husband would be strong and kind and he would love our farm life just a little less than he loved me.  I would bake and make bread and spend the summers putting up jam.  On holidays, every holiday, I would decorate the house from top to bottom .  The kids would help.  We would love each other fiercely and loyally.  The kids would grow up, fly from the nest and then, my later years would be spent with the grandchildren.

Some dream.  Reality was very different.   After two failed marriages, I finally found my soul mate.  We were both in our early 30-somethings.  This was it, we were both anxious and eager to finally create the "family" we had alwasys dreamed of.   We grew up in fragmented families with lots of problems.  We were survivors.  We tried unsuccessfully for a year to start that family.   I spent untold hours in cold white rooms having tests.  John had tests also, the problem was not with him.  We managed to get through these days of angst and nights of tears, still loving each other, still hopeful.  

So, this was it.  Here we were at the world-renowned, state of the art Medical Center.  We would get our finaly answer today.  The previous tests, scans, x-rays had been forwarded.  We walked to the front doors and entered the cool reception area, dark wood, quiet, subdued.   A pale blonde recetionist in a crisp white medical coat took our names and politely directed us to the overstuffed chintz chairs in the waiting area.

Ten minutes passed while we held hands.  Words were no necessary.  We had said them all before.  A door down the hallway opened and a doctor approched us and invited us to his study.  We followed quietly.   Once inside, he produced a folder containing all of the previous medical workups, scans, x-rays, etc.  He gazed at us both with a bittersweet not quite a smile, cleared his throat and said, "I'm sorry".

Later, in the car, on the way home, the memories again flooded back and I started a poem in my head. I would write this down as soon as we were home and I was alone to think this out and try to salvage my broken dreams:

Unmother

I remembered crocheted blankets,
tiny sweaters I had knitted,
woven dreams I packed away,
until I heard the dreaded news;
I would NEVER have the privilege
to unwrap my baby's things.

I recalled showers I attended
trudging through a steady rain,
arms filled with gifts for unborn babies,
wrapped in pinks and blues with ribbbons,
topped with Teddy bears and rattles.

I sat there striken,

...silent...

watched smocked Moms with backaches,
thier tummies ripe with pride,
discussing nausea, terms, labors,
all those sleepless night, 2 a.m. feedings,
and Dads who wouldn't change diapers.

I stayed there smiling siffly,
trying not to hear;
choice of names and nursery colors,
first teeth, first stpes, first words,

then the dreaded question...

"Do you have any children?"

I would always answer slowly,
my voice smaller than intended;

"Well, no, unforutnately, I couldn't have them".

Embarrassment would turn their faces,
to the others in the room; they joined
moms who spoke "their" language,
the members of the "club".

The conversstions then continued,
as if I were not there.  
I would drop my eyes,
fold my trembling hands,
become the polite observer,
and make myself control the tears.

When they told how many stitches
it took to close their wounds,
I sat there and I wondered,

How many will close mine?