The right to choose
It's not always that simple...
“Be grateful you had a choice!” I heard this twice over the holidays after I divulged my family’s recent loss (P.S. is it still considered a loss if it’s an abortion?)
It was a choice. They’re right. I live somewhere where I decide whether I stay pregnant. Not some sweaty man in a too-tight button down shirt and poorly decorated office. It’s sickening to think that if I lived just a few states over, our circumstances would be very different.
But it also really didn’t feel like I had a choice. Saying I had a choice implies that I could have gone the other direction. It makes me feel like I could have made a wrong decision. A choice means there was another option. There was not.
My son’s were simultaneously screaming for me last night, while I hid in the living room, shoveling the cold remnants of my dinner into my mouth. I had been with them all day. All. day. Every meal. Every trip to the bathroom.
“Why is your pee bloody?,” my four year old asked, scared.
“This is what happens to women. It’s normal,” I respond calmly, hoping my tone will encourage him to let it go. Women suffer. It’s normal.
They seem particularly clingy to me recently. My eldest has been refusing to let go of my neck when I hug him. My youngest refuses to let me leave his eyesight. They have to sense what’s going on, right?
“Mama’s sad,” I tell them. “Christmas is over and I am tired.”
“I’m sad Christmas is over, too,” the preschooler pronounces, slumping a little lower in his chair. He’s mimicking my body language. He’s choosing to be sad with me right now. That’s a choice.
Every Tuesday night I go to Al-Anon, a support group for family and friends of alcoholics and addicts. Every Tuesday, I go. Every Tuesday, I leave my kids and my husband after not having seen them all day, because they’re usually in school, and I get in the car and I just leave.
It’s so selfish. How could I choose to miss dinner and bedtime and bathtime every week? This time when our children are young is so fleeting, so precious. Yet I’d rather sit in a circle and listen to women talk about their experiences, strengths, and hope? I didn't choose to be born into an alcoholic home.
The meeting the night after Christmas was a beacon of light throughout the holiday. Knowing I would get to go was more exciting than any present I could have received. Every Tuesday mama goes to her meeting and dada does bedtime. Then I bring home dinner and my husband and I get some private time. We all win.
But this Tuesday, the kids were all still awake when I got home. They were desperate for me. That hour and a half I had been gone was too much to bear. It’s like they sensed that I had made a choice to get rid of one of their own, and would possibly do the same to one of them? Or maybe they sense that parts of me are disappearing with each hard choice of motherhood?
I’m not just losing a baby, I’m losing a part of myself.
I got home at 730p, not having eaten anything since our rushed lunch earlier in the day—when I ate my tuna sandwich in three bites standing in the kitchen with my four year old on my hip, while my youngest sneezed into my water bottle.
I had to eat. I was starving. I have been bleeding all day long, still.
Still??? It’s been a week.
Every time I go to the bathroom there’s so much blood, and it seems to be increasing in intensity rather than letting up.
I need meat. Nutrients. Food. Nourishment.
But my kids need me.
Your kids need you, woman.
My husband was doing a good job of telling them to let mama eat and I’m doing everything I can to remind myself that eating is taking care of them. This is a choice. I could put my fork down and sacrifice my sustenance for their comfort, or I can keep eating and prioritize my personal health.
In the end, I do a mix of both and go to bed hungry.