The last couple of weeks have piled up and spilled over. I had gotten sick, had some rough patches at work, with a freelance project, my roommate got sick, my car engine died and I'm going to be out 2500 bucks, and various other minor calamities. But, then my best friend and his wife lost their unborn baby, trumping all the other bullshit.
Now, I want to say, that normally I don't like it when people use the word baby to refer to a fetus. Though I'm pro-choice, my personal cut-off line is whether the fetus would be viable outside the womb. Then it becomes baby.
This isn't an abortion story, by the way.
I understand that viability is a tricky issue. I'd rather deal with that issue, though, than trying to cloud things up with a religious argument that can't be proven either way. Maybe it would be viable with reasonable care, then we could argue about reasonable. Maybe it's no significant care and we could argue about significant.
This isn't an abortion story, I swear. What this is, is a feeble attempt at terminology, in this case baby.
My best friend's wife went into the doctor for a routine check-up and to meet the last of her mid-wives. I guess she had six total, something to do with the hospital. She had felt kicking in the morning, but the mid-wife couldn't find a heart-beat and they did some tests and the baby was dead.
When things are viable, baby is okay. When babies die, in womb, you get to carry them a day or two more, then give birth. To a dead baby. Yes, it's horrible. It's in fact, more horrible than you can imagine. Or, I, for that matter. Cleaning out baby clothes from the nursery, horrible. Arranging for cremation, holding a service, having pictures taken, discovering cause of death. All horrible. Out of each horrible thing, a tiny little perverse glimmer of optimism. Cause of death, cord tied in knot. Easily seen, mystery solved. No harm to the mother, physically, a trade-off for having to give birth to a dead baby instead of having a surgical removal. Over 40 friends and family showing up for the service. Morbid portraits that seem completely unimaginable for you and I, yet facilitate healing. The couple, against all statistical odds, have rallied around their only living child, a 9 year old son, and grown stronger as a family.
Little things.
Some might say it's been g*d's love that brought them together, but that same g*d must have killed that baby, and there is no sane person on this earth that would think there is anything on this retched, stupid planet that would be worth the life of an unborn baby.
Terminology again.
There is no lesson learned or greater good served by making someone who worships you with the ignorant love of the uneducated, carry her dead daughter in what would be considered your holy womb, and give birth to a dead pile of flesh, shaped like a baby.
I am Jack's Wrath at an unfeeling g*d.
We find good in this the same way we vote, the same way we date, fuck, eat, and shop; with the stupid, stubborn, moronic belief that things that are bad, are balanced with things that are good. That it will all work out in the long run. That this moment of despair will lead to something learned and something better. That we can turn lemons into lemonade.
Good for us.
When things are viable, when things could breathe, could see, make noises, clench with tiny little fingers; when things could learn to find the good, worship g*d, grow up and fight the good fight... when things are 8 1/2 months from conception... when each birthday would have been an Easter egg hunt and a chocolate bunny if only your stupid, made-up, g*d would have let you live 2 more stupid fucking weeks... then you get to be baby, baby. Then you get to have a name, Morgan, and a gravestone and a tiny little morbid portrait and all the things we see fit to assign to people who have "contributed" to this shitty, made-up world.
Because we are selfish and because you are dead, I am sorry, little Morgan Lee, that all I can think about is my best friend's voice when he called me on the phone and my best friend's wife pushing out your gray little shape, and how they will never be the same way they were, because of you. And I know it's not your fault and I know it's not anyone's fault, and I know that the same people that think g*d took you to heaven, think my roommate's wheelchair is a blessing.
It's just life and sometimes it's fucking horrible.
Rest in peace, dead baby Lee.
Now, I want to say, that normally I don't like it when people use the word baby to refer to a fetus. Though I'm pro-choice, my personal cut-off line is whether the fetus would be viable outside the womb. Then it becomes baby.
This isn't an abortion story, by the way.
I understand that viability is a tricky issue. I'd rather deal with that issue, though, than trying to cloud things up with a religious argument that can't be proven either way. Maybe it would be viable with reasonable care, then we could argue about reasonable. Maybe it's no significant care and we could argue about significant.
This isn't an abortion story, I swear. What this is, is a feeble attempt at terminology, in this case baby.
My best friend's wife went into the doctor for a routine check-up and to meet the last of her mid-wives. I guess she had six total, something to do with the hospital. She had felt kicking in the morning, but the mid-wife couldn't find a heart-beat and they did some tests and the baby was dead.
When things are viable, baby is okay. When babies die, in womb, you get to carry them a day or two more, then give birth. To a dead baby. Yes, it's horrible. It's in fact, more horrible than you can imagine. Or, I, for that matter. Cleaning out baby clothes from the nursery, horrible. Arranging for cremation, holding a service, having pictures taken, discovering cause of death. All horrible. Out of each horrible thing, a tiny little perverse glimmer of optimism. Cause of death, cord tied in knot. Easily seen, mystery solved. No harm to the mother, physically, a trade-off for having to give birth to a dead baby instead of having a surgical removal. Over 40 friends and family showing up for the service. Morbid portraits that seem completely unimaginable for you and I, yet facilitate healing. The couple, against all statistical odds, have rallied around their only living child, a 9 year old son, and grown stronger as a family.
Little things.
Some might say it's been g*d's love that brought them together, but that same g*d must have killed that baby, and there is no sane person on this earth that would think there is anything on this retched, stupid planet that would be worth the life of an unborn baby.
Terminology again.
There is no lesson learned or greater good served by making someone who worships you with the ignorant love of the uneducated, carry her dead daughter in what would be considered your holy womb, and give birth to a dead pile of flesh, shaped like a baby.
I am Jack's Wrath at an unfeeling g*d.
We find good in this the same way we vote, the same way we date, fuck, eat, and shop; with the stupid, stubborn, moronic belief that things that are bad, are balanced with things that are good. That it will all work out in the long run. That this moment of despair will lead to something learned and something better. That we can turn lemons into lemonade.
Good for us.
When things are viable, when things could breathe, could see, make noises, clench with tiny little fingers; when things could learn to find the good, worship g*d, grow up and fight the good fight... when things are 8 1/2 months from conception... when each birthday would have been an Easter egg hunt and a chocolate bunny if only your stupid, made-up, g*d would have let you live 2 more stupid fucking weeks... then you get to be baby, baby. Then you get to have a name, Morgan, and a gravestone and a tiny little morbid portrait and all the things we see fit to assign to people who have "contributed" to this shitty, made-up world.
Because we are selfish and because you are dead, I am sorry, little Morgan Lee, that all I can think about is my best friend's voice when he called me on the phone and my best friend's wife pushing out your gray little shape, and how they will never be the same way they were, because of you. And I know it's not your fault and I know it's not anyone's fault, and I know that the same people that think g*d took you to heaven, think my roommate's wheelchair is a blessing.
It's just life and sometimes it's fucking horrible.
Rest in peace, dead baby Lee.
Couple of weeks ago she had to reduce the pregnancy to one. A difficult and horrible decision no matter what -- but given what they'd discovered through testing, it seemed unlikely baby B would have survived after birth anyhow. And carrying it would have caused further undue risk to her and baby A, I guess.
I'm not really sure where I come down on all of these issues. I've long felt that since it wasn't really my business, it certainly wasn't my place to tell anybody else what they ought to be doing. I'm just glad, however selfishly, that the decision wasn't mine to make.