On Turning Ten
The birth day that didn't come and what that means to me now.
I wonder if other women do this, women who have lost babies. Do they count the years? Imagine the present from a past that went differently? Mark the days – the loss, the birthday that never came? Surely I am not the only one.
Today he would be 10. Today, if the due date were correct and everything went according to plan. But obviously, things didn’t go to plan. Whose plan was it, anyway?
Last month, I was at a coffee shop with a friend. She knew a man who came in with his son. As my friend chatted with the man, I observed the boy — his distracted youthful energy, soft brown curls, big blue eyes. The others deep in conversation, I decided to engage him.
“What grade are you in?”
“4th. I’ll be in 5th next year,” he said as he swung on the back of a chair.
“Are you on summer break yet?”
“No, we have 2 more weeks,” he answered, winded.
I nodded.
“And my birthday is next week and my brother’s is the 19th and my dad just had his.” In constant motion, he talked about a friend who had a party at some kind of skate park. I couldn’t focus… the next question lingered in the air.
“How old will you be?”
“I’ll be 10!”
My heart sank. So this is what 10 is like. I took him in. The erratic movements. The hairless legs that looked like pencils holding up shorts that were too big. Energy like an excited cat, eyes darting from one shiny thing to another. A slender neck holding a head he still needs to grow into.
I looked at his small torso and wondered what it would be like to hug him.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.
Many years ago, I taught a special yoga class for a group of moms. I knew they had youngish school-age boys and I thought it would be sweet to read Billy Collins’ poem, On Turning Ten. I can’t remember why that seemed appropriate – were they moms of Boy Scouts? Was it a boys’ soccer team? Maybe someone had won it from a school raffle or auction I had donated to. Whatever it was, I remember not being able to relate to them – they were moms of boys. I didn’t know anything about boys.
When I was pregnant I joked that if I had a boy, I would ask the doctor, “Why does she have a penis?”
In the past few months, as I have watched this 10th birthday approach, I’ve thought about the poem.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.
The truth is, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a mom. Over the span of about 20 years, I didn’t want to, then I got to be a bonus mom, then I wanted to, then I grieved not getting to, and was happy to be childless. Then I got pregnant.
And what has been hidden in the shadow of the grief is the fact that my first word when I saw the two pink lines on the stick perched on the edge of the sink was, “FUCK.” Followed by a chorus of “NOs” as I marched in defiance around the house.
In the hours that followed, I began constructing a new vision for my life because clearly this was Meant To Be. All the signs said so….
When I went to the doctor to confirm the test later that day, the doctor’s name was Anjali, a Sanskrit word that means reverence, divine offering or blessing. She was not my regular doctor. I was visibly distressed and she told me I’d been given an opportunity, a gift and my job was to take the best care of myself that I could.
In my 30s, I’d been told I couldn’t get pregnant naturally, after trying for two years.
After doing the math, I realized this baby had been conceived in New York City, my magical heart-home… on my prior-marriage wedding anniversary… and the first time my current beau and I said, “I love you.”
These seem like small things, coincidences, until you stack them up to make an altar to life-changing news you can’t make sense of any other way.
By the end of the day, I had surrendered and planted myself firmly into new beliefs that would ultimately end up keeping me stuck:
This is the chance I never thought I’d get.
This is the purpose I’ve been looking for.
I get to be a mom.
It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
At the appointment for the amniocentesis, the doctor seemed hopeful. There were no deformities, all of the anatomical measurements were on track for a healthy baby. And still, when we left, she said to me, “Don’t let anyone tell you you weren’t a mother.”
“It just wasn’t for as long as you wanted.“
For a long time, I was resistant – even angry – about the idea that this experience, this devastation, was something that I would grow from.
On one hand, I wanted to “get the lesson.” I was paranoid that I might go through all of this pain and heartbreak and not learn anything.
On the other hand, I was angry that there might be wisdom and spiritual growth that came from it. That I should be grateful that I got to be pregnant. All of the platitudes about leaning into challenge, making meaning, feeling it to heal it, and transmuting my pain into something beautiful, even something that might help others, really pissed me off.
When I got pregnant, it felt divine, like a miracle. When it ended, especially the way it ended, I was rocked. If it wasn’t divine, what was it? If it was divine, what is this? It can’t be half miracle and half meaningless. For many years, I lost my faith in everything. I was filled with rage.
What is different now at this 10-year marker is a truth that I don’t need to be a mom in a specific way. Against all cultural bias and pressure, my life as a childless woman can still have purpose and meaning.
And that can live right alongside the deepest sadness and regret that he was not born and is not here in the physical world today.
There were times I worried that if I let go of the sadness, I would be letting go of him and how precious and important he is as a part of my own flesh and body.
Earlier this year, on the anniversary of his death, I finally entertained the possibility that maybe that whole experience didn’t happen just to make me sad or blame myself or live the rest of my life wondering why or what if.
That maybe his life was exactly the length it was supposed to be and it was meant to change me in the ways that it did. I didn’t “miss out” on anything. I didn’t do it wrong.
You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
I have filled journals probing unanswerable questions:
What have I learned from this?
How am I more human?
What were you here to teach me?
Today is not for answers.
But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
~
As I write on this day every year:
Thank you, little spirit, wherever you are. I miss you every day. I wish I’d gotten to meet you. Maybe someday I will. Thank you for your life. I love you.
~
Listen to me read the full poem:
The nature of life results at times in us being broken. Sharing this story is a way to give love to my scars and bow to my humanity.
I would be honored to hear a story of yours — hit reply or leave a comment.
Sending love in all directions,
Michelle
I remember ten. Sitting on a swing alone outside of school after school in Taiwan. First awareness that I am here on this earth as me and that I've been here for awhile - individual and somewhat unique in ways particular to myself. Expectation of more to come as this person.
Clearly - I was not of the mindset to be a poet, as Billy Collins obviously was!
Michelle- I'm so sad to read this. You have a most amazing way of sharing your feelings and thoughts with us. You are a great mother to all of us and to your fur kids. Not the same as your own children.
We love you a lot; you pour your heart and soul into everything you do to make it a better world. Thank you for being you and sharing. Hugs
PS- I met a 10-yr old, and I thought of you.