I try not to talk about it. I try not to think about it.
Maneuvering my Buickβthe huge, clunky stroller with two infant seats attachedβa diaper bag slung over one arm and the cross-body strap of my purse (that Iβm certain leads to Narnia) falling off my shoulder, into a narrow doorway with a ninety degree turn leading to another door. The handicap button is broken so I shift my butt out one way to hold one door and kick my leg out to catch the second door. Meanwhile, Iβm attracting an audience. We are attracting an audience. No help, just stares, gasps, as I straighten up my back and suck in a breath because I know the comments are coming.
βOh my gosh!β
βTwins?β
βIβve always wanted twins!β
βYou are so lucky!β
βYou have your hands full!β
There arenβt enough ocular muscles for the eye roll I want to give. Instead I smile. More like, flash a toothy grin, as my two curly heads pop up to inspect the forming crowd. Or address them: I think they are used to it at this point.
They are beautiful. Miraculous. Strong. Busyβ¦insert any adjective, really, and Iβve probably felt it at some point.
I dreamed of being a mother. I dreamed of the wonderful life that me and the love of my life would build in the suburbs someday. And then I became a single mom.
The morning I told him I was pregnant, it was early. I was up around 6am getting ready for work. I emerged from the steam of the post-shower bathroom and he was awake. Usually he slept while I got ready, but this particular morning, he was picking up from the night before and making my bed, βYouβre still on the pill, right?β
I knew this conversation would have to happen at some point, but I wasnβt prepared, not like this. Iβm not sure what my face did, but I stopped dead on my way to the closet and it was as if he read my mind. βYouβre notβ¦you canβt beβ¦pregnant?β Yeah, I felt the same way when they told me. That same level of shock when a nurse ran in seconds before the technician started the x-ray, to stop it because I wasβ¦pregnant?
What followed next hurt. It hurt deeper than any pain Iβd ever felt. I had to βget rid of itβ because:
He had a daughter due next month
Iβd ruin his life
He wanted to tell me
But didnβt know how.
Howβs that for a tragic ending to a ten year on-and-off-but-weβre-certain-weβll-work-it-out-because-we-love-each-other? We love each other? We? Love? Loved? My heart broke into a thousand pieces, but I wasnβt hysterical. Iβm not even sure I cried right then.
I didnβt cry when I found out there was not one, but two heartbeats.
I didnβt cry when I had to move out of my apartment and in with family βuntil I get on my feetβ. I didnβt cry at ultrasounds alone.
I didnβt cry when there was complication after complication, that meant week-long hospital stays. Also, alone.
I didnβt cry when I stood up the morning I was exactly 32 weeks pregnant, and my water broke.
I didnβt cry when they cut them out and were whisked away promptly by a team covered in all white.
I didnβt cry when I was discharged and they werenβt.
I didnβt cry when my fever spiked dangerously high and I was in so much pain I couldnβt move.
I didnβt cry when I was readmitted.
I didnβt cry when days turned into a week, then weeks.
I didnβt cry surgery after surgery, to drain the growing abscesses from the infection.
I didnβt cry when I needed a blood transfusion.
I didnβt cry when I got sicker and was quarantined, unable to see my babies.
I didnβt cry when I didnβt recognize the emaciated figure in the mirror.
I didnβt even cry when it was clear that I was dying.
I simply prepared. At 28, I prepared for my children to be raised by someone else, because no one was certain that Iβd be here.
I imagined motherhood to be this beautiful experience. I imagined caring for my children and loving them the way that only a mother could. I imagined a family. My family. The reality was, it was just me, and maybe not even for very much longer.
That was less than a year ago, that I lay in a hospital room alone and dying. Today, Iβm just trying to get us and all of these bags through the most poorly planned entrance, while a crowd of onlookers stares and makes their lovely comments; not one offering to hold the damn door.
Yes, Iβm lucky. Yes, I have my hands full, and they areβ¦everything.
About Deja: Deja started reading at the tender age of three. In first grade, she set the personal goal to read every book in her schoolβs library. She finished sometime around third grade, so whatβs a girl to do when she runs out of books? Start writing, of course! Dejaβs favorite writing style is stream of consciousness, modeled after one of her favorite writers, James Joyce. Deja graduated from Indiana University in 2013. Since, she has edited the works of writers, written for Shoppe Black, and designed book covers. When sheβs not writing, you can find her wrangling her identical βwild thingsβ or winning Jeopardy from her couch.
3 Comments
Candi
June 22, 2019 at 5:16 amThat was awesome Deja’. You were always so smart and such a skilled writer. You draw the reader in so we feel and understand exactly what you’re attempting to convey. So proud of your acomplishments. Congrats on being a mom and on your your future successes. Love you, Candi
Shacahri
June 29, 2019 at 1:43 amThis was beautiful to read. I prayed for you and never met you, but heard great things about you. Checked in with your mom daily on how you and the babies were doing. God is so faithful! Youβre a great writer.
Hamidah Shabazz
July 1, 2019 at 4:24 amVery inspiring and touching, you are a very strong young woman. Blessings to you and those 2 little blessings you have. You definitely are a survivor and an inspiration.