Memories of a last chance

I woke in in the fall of my 43rd year, pregnant. How it had happened was through a battle of odds far beyond my mathematical ability as my husband at the time had relegated me to the spare bedroom for eighteen months by then. Still, sometimes he snuck into my room, and me, hoping to somehow win his affection, would quietly agree to whatever small intimacy he might offer.

It was September, and I was carrying his child. For me it was a mix of confusion and sheer joy at the idea of being a mother one more time. My daughter was 24 by then, and I had been so young when she was small that I missed so many of the wonders of having a baby out of my own fear of ruining her. I can remember thinking with every mistake I made she would someday be reclining on a therapist's couch somewhere saying, "and then my mother..." My paranoia and poverty had made her childhood a mix of fear and self doubt for me.

But well into my 40s and with enough stability to bring someone new in, the idea of a child sounded intriguing somehow. I had been madly in love with my husband at one time, and that memory lingered with images of a baby. I imagined a boy who looked like him. I imagined us being in love with this child, and the miracle of it all pulling us back together. I pathetically even imagined my lonely little guest room becoming a nursery, and me being invited back to sleep in my husband's room.

His reaction was somewhat less than what I would have hoped for. Once he congratulated himself on having living sperm capable of making a pregnancy happen, he started naming all the reasons why we couldn't. He wasn't sure. He hadn't planned for this. It wasn't the "right" time. Not once did he ask what I wanted, but it has taken me almost three years to realize this fact.

Much to his relief, the bleeding came. It started as a spot or two, and in a couple of days it became a flood. I drove myself to my gynecologist who thought I was being dramatic when I had called in. Once in the examining room he lifted the paper sheet and literally screamed. My doctor who was in his late 60s and had delivered hundreds of babies whose pictures lined the walls of the hallways in his office, screamed like a girl. "Why did you come here? You should have gone straight to emergency." He gasped. I said nothing as he called for an ambulance to take me to the hospital down the street from his office.

That night I wandered from my bedroom where I had slept most of the afternoon, out into the living room where my husband watched television. He had picked me up from the hospital and we had driven home in silence with the exception of one question from him...had I been afraid. I said I hadn't. What I didn't say was that I had been sad. That I still was, and that I would be for some time to come, maybe forever.

I sat on the love seat adjacent to the couch where he watched the screen. He asked how I was and I answered that I was okay. We sat together for a few minutes before he said quietly, "I've found an apartment. I'm moving out next week."

Thoughts on the body...

This morning in my yoga class I stood next to a girl 20 years my junior, and I couldn't help admiring her confidence. She wore next to nothing, but she wore it very well. Her brown skin was so smooth, and though she carried a bit of weight on her belly and had heavy legs, she was stunning. She even went so far as to wear one of those naval piercings that seem to dance with every movement of her body, a tiny jewel dangling over her tummy.

What I loved was her confidence. She looked at herself in the mirror with complete satisfaction. Every inch of her was pleasing to her own eye.

I never felt that at her age. At her age I would have come to class wearing baggy shorts and a big T-Shirt with the neck cut out--my silent tribute to Pat Benatar. I would have critiqued my body miserably, never appreciating that it was 26 years old and lovely.

Today at 46 I wear tiny shorts and a sports bra. It isn't out of showing a perfect body off, but out of necessity since the room is heated to 105 degrees and any more clothing would likely kill me.

But what I learned from the girl standing next to me was that showing off was perfectly fine. I worked at having that same attitude staring back at me in the mirror. The legs are good, I thought...not bad at all. No negatives, I heard in my mind, dying to point out that my breasts are falling and that my tummy is no longer flat...but no. I glanced sideways at my neighbor who looked out of the side of her eyes in the mirror at her perfect breasts, and almost winked at herself, I swear.

I looked back at me, and there I was. For an instant I did that side glance, happening to actually look at my profile in the mirror along the side wall. The ass has not completely fallen, I thought. In truth, it's not so shabby.

Throughout the class she was my inspiration. I loved the love she felt for herself, and it reflected right onto me. We did 26 poses in a steaming hot room, and at the end I lay quiet, grateful, and lovely in my own right.

Thoughts on writing...

What is it that makes us choose a life of creative endeavor? I would answer that often it isn't a choice. It is a calling that we answer at some point along the way, and it is a path that has as many twists and turns as the most mountainous journey.

Often I am asked how to become a writer. There is no secret to this. Writers write. It's just that simple. The process can be invigorating. It can also be painful. But if you are a writer, you will put pen to paper. You have no other option, if you truly are a writer.

In my life I have often thought how other paths would have been easier. I have even considered heading down one or two of them, but in the end I am left with the knowledge that what I have been given is a gift, and to not treasure it, to avoid it, to turn my back on it as if it never existed, is an insult to whomever out there is in charge. It is a gift like an unruly puppy that must be trained and groomed and loved and disciplined. Without all of these we have a barking mongrel.

So I write.