Dinner. A six person booth. J, my Dad and J on the far side. My Mom, D and myself on the other. In that order, so that I was on the end in case Munchkin kicked me in the bladder and I had to make a hasty retreat to the bathroom. I ordered a chicken salad that, even in my pregnant state, was far too big for me to even attempt to consume. I didn’t have much of an appetite; my nerves tied my insides in thick, coarse knots. I was wearing my white, wrap front maternity blouse that tied in the back and a pair of knit khaki pants that weren’t maternity, just a size bigger than normal.
I remember all of this. I remember this intricate little details. Why? Well, it was the first night and first person-to-person, in-my-face conversation I had with J and D. Honestly, I do not remember what was said in the same specific manner. No clue. I’m a visual person and, as you can see, a lot of those stated memories are visual ones: what I was wearing, what I ate, where we sat. Though, I do remember snip-its. I remember that I said I liked Dave Matthews Band. D said she didn’t really know a lot about the band. I remember thinking that was sad; Munchkin be-bopped so frequently to DMB in my womb and she wouldn’t experience it in the “real” world.
One thing that will forever embed itself in my memory is the well-meaning waitress playing twenty-questions after our meal. I remember her asking me when I was due and other questions about the baby. My hair was on end. I choked on my words, my emotions. She had no way of knowing that the baby would not come home from the hospital with me and that two of the people at the table, instead, would take her home. I remember feeling the pain, not for the first time, as I answered the questions as though I would be her parent but, knowing full well, that I would not own that responsibility or title. It was not the last time I would have a similar conversation, not able to admit that I was not parenting my own child. I felt such shame, even before placement.
I remember saying goodbye and climbing into the Mustang. J hugged me and pulled me as close as possible without jamming my pregnant belly into the center console as I cried. I cried real tears. I cried hard. I cried for the loss I hadn’t even yet experienced. I cried because I wanted people to ask me about the child growing within my womb without it making me feel guilty; guilty for knowing that I would be “giving her away.” I cried because even though things felt “perfect,” my heart was still breaking into a thousand pieces on a daily basis. I cried because I secretly wanted J and D to be horrid, awful people which would give me the ability to say, “No, I think I’ll parent.” They were everything I wanted for Munchkin, everything I wished in my heart of hearts that I could be at that point in time. The fact that I wasn’t what I needed to be hurt me in so many ways, for myself and the loss I would experience and for my child and the loss she would experience.
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My previous post jarred these memories. I’m attempting to write more coherent pieces on my old journal entries. I will eventually come back to this post and edit it further. Look for more writing about old memories to come. It’s very cathartic to dump all of this here. Thank you for letting me write.
