Re:Visions Spring 2006 Issue #4

S PRING 2007 | I SSUE 5 But your body has a deeper instinct, a need to have that word applied to you— pregnant.

Of course you don’t want to be. It’s not the right time for you, and you don’t want children, yet. But hearing this word makes you wonder if it is time.

If the little bundle of cells had moved down just a few more inches, into its rightful growing place—instead of a final resting place—then what would have happened?

This is the point when you realize that you have a motherly instinct you didn’t know you had. You always suspected it though. The little tightening in your chest when you see other people’s children fall amidst the aisles of the grocery store—you suspected that it was a motherly instinct. Now you are sure of it. You are sure of your capacity to love this thing, this little growing thing.

As soon as you realize this though, you remember that other word— ectopic. You’re not sure quite what it means but you are sure it isn’t good. Like something misplaced or mistaken. The word itself even makes a retching sound that reminds you of the sharpness of the pain in your side. Ectopic. The word is foreign and foreboding. It will make that sharp pain in your side move to an excruciating pain in your chest, that same spot where you feel the warm burn of your motherly instinct.

And then, holding the hand of your husband, you will begin to blame him. You will forget about the time you forgot to take you pill. Instead you will remember only all the messy, malicious sperm that you never wanted from him. You only wanted his love, his touch, his tenderness. But now his love is the poison that is making your side ache. He is the nail driving into your most vital parts. You welcomed him at the time, but are paying for now. You feel that his love has gone sour. Worse, it has begun to rot inside of you.

And all these awful words, these bitter thought, so horrendous and pricking to the ear, were just caused by an attempt to love each other. It was an unintentional hurt. But you can’t see this.

You won’t remember it until later, but you do love him. You can’t help but love him and the body he can hardly control. You do love him and the mass of him, and you always did love the thought of little pieces of him breaking off and melting into you. You will remember this later. You’ll remember the ache of wanting him, so different from the ache of these new complications.

For now, you see him as the cause. He is the pain in your side. The persistent but inexplicable hurt, the repeated I’ll be fine in a bit, the chanted I’m OK I’m OK I’m OK. 6