I am a failure. I had one job to do, and I biffed it. All I had to do was grow another human being inside of my body, and I was so careful. I did everything right. I read the books, quit smoking and drinking. I even gave up caffeine, for godsakes. I knew I was at a high risk for post partum depression, and so I marshaled a support team, and spoke honestly about my concerns to my midwives. I was so ready, so prepared. Over and above all of this was the sheer wonder and excitement of what I was doing. I felt like a mom from the minute I suspected I was pregnant, and over the course of the pregnancy, as me and my little package aced test after test, I became more and more excited.
But I failed. There’s something wrong with my baby. My baby, who even now is unconscious while the surgeons work to repair my screwup. Somewhere, somehow, the genes we passed to our baby got tangled up, and now I cannot even breastfeed her without risking her aspirating. The roof of her mouth never formed. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. And I’m scared.
But I failed. There’s something wrong with my baby. My baby, who even now is unconscious while the surgeons work to repair my screwup. Somewhere, somehow, the genes we passed to our baby got tangled up, and now I cannot even breastfeed her without risking her aspirating. The roof of her mouth never formed. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. And I’m scared.
Thanks for participating (again). :-) I think you've done a good job here, capturing the sense of responsibility a woman feels towards her pregnancies and the outcome of those pregnancies. I also like the idea of passing test after test. It does feel that way, doesn't it? Both the literal tests and then everything else. Thanks for sharing this. I hope to see you back next week.
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