Between contractions, I sucked on ice chips and stared up at the ceiling tiles and thought about the child in my belly, working up the courage to leave the safety and protection of my body and face the world, such as it is.
Did she know going in how bad it would be, this world and all its horrors? Did her spark of consciousness see something in my spark of consciousness and decide that it was worth the risk? Does she dream, tucked away in the sensory deprivation tank of my womb? What does she dream of? Does she remember things that we forget when the cord is cut and we are suddenly alone and the world erupts into a chaos of violence and love?
Another contraction hit, different from the rest, those other ones were just practice, I could tell now.
Every muscle in my body clenched in effort. Yes, darling, yes, I want to meet you. And it was exactly as Patti Smith sang, it was dawn and the storm settled in my belly and the sky split and the planets hit, balls of jade dropped, and existence stopped, mine and hers together, for the briefest of moments before she burst through in a rush of blood.
Chaos then as medical professionals swabbed and swaddled and placed her in my arms. I wondered if the third time would be the charm or if we would have to start all over again.
She looked up at me as I held her tenderly and looked down into her eyes, deep brown, almost black. Again. I wanted blue.
The obstetrician registered my dissatisfaction. Would you like an After Birth Abortion? he asked, and I nodded, regretfully. He took the baby from my arms, expertly broke her tiny neck, and tossed her into the bin.
