Gifting

JournalWord: Protect me from what I want.

***

3 hours ago, I felt the most excruciating pain of my life. Physically, that is. Emotionally, I felt it an hour ago. I should never have agreed to hold her. I should have turned down the nurse’s offer the moment she entered the room. Now, I can’t pull my arms away from my body. 

Her body is so small; so much more human than what I had been believing for the last nine months. She has a tiny mouth, and a nose that looks like his. I could see the tips of her tiny fingers peeking out of the folds of her pink blanket, and something fluttered in me when I saw all ten, itty-bitty digits. Is that what a mother should feel? The flutter and joy of a newborn? 

I would think so when Margaret and Jerry rushed in. They were beyond happy and Margaret was bright red in the face, exhilarated as if she were the one who had just given birth. They’re going to take my baby away from me. I remember wishing, back when I had first met her and her husband, that she would be the one to go through with this; to go through the pain of labor, to go through with the decision, and to finally have her own child. 

Oh, how I wished it could have been her instead of me. But when they came through that door, anxious to see the person I was giving to them, every dreadful wish of never having this moment became a shattered mess. I don’t want to give my baby up. I am being irrational, I know, but at this moment, all of my concrete decisions blows up into dust. 

I was so scared to give her to them and I squeezed my little girl too hard. She screamed and I panicked, ashamed of how terrible a mother I would have been. Margaret picked her up and cooed to her, like a mother should, and I could only watch as she stopped the crying. Jerry thanked me over and over, and I couldn't even look at him. I felt like I was betraying him for thinking such ludicrous thoughts. 

I couldn't keep her. There isn't any logical reason why a homeless teen like me should be given the gift of a child. I say that but I can’t stop thinking about her tiny hands, curled around Margaret’s ring finger. They thanked me countless times and cried over their new baby for the next fifteen minutes. I couldn't bring myself to look at them, for fear I would crush their dream, crush their chance at a family with a couple words. 

This is for the best, I repeated to myself. This is the best for her. Finally they were ushered out of the room by the same deceitful nurse who scrambled my rationality. However, before they left, they asked me for a name, and although I had continuously spoken of my need to disconnect all ties, my lips moved to form one hurtful word: Allison. 

They seemed taken aback at the mention of my mother, knowing the hate I had for her, for her abandonment. Sitting in my hospital bed, arms still holding my rib cage up, I feel lighter. It might be the loss of six pounds, and it may not be because I've finally forgiven my mother. I can’t tell, but I hope this feeling will leave, because now I've got nothing to fill in the space.    

***

Wanting what we can't have, even if it was our decision to not want it in the first place.

~mera.