Mothers are born first


This post is a break in the narration of my story. It is for a friend’s anguish, for the blurry little face of her dreams. For the baby-shaped hole in her universe.

B, my friend, was seven months pregnant when her baby’s heart stopped beating. Just like that. After carrying the little dream within her body for 7 whole months, after nurturing it with her blood and her flesh, after pouring her life force into that little heart, it just stopped beating.

And now, instead of the bump that she gave all her energy to—every living moment—there is a little baby-shaped hole in her heart.

“It seems all like a dream now, Zehra,” I can hear the anguish in her voice. Like a cloud, she means to say, a cool shadow that passed slowly by. “My baby was here… and now…”

I cannot tell her I understand. I do not know how it feels, because grief is like pain, you cannot know it until you’ve felt it yourself. And like pain, every sorrow—big or small—is different from the other. But I can hear her, and I know how that feels. I feel anguished just hearing her wounded voice. She doesn’t cry. It’s a tattered, distressed sound, like a silent wail. It’s the words. The tone of her voice.

“And it was a girl, Zehra. It was a girl!” she kept repeating. “Girls are supposed to be genetically stronger… they always have a better chance of making it out into the world…my little girl…”

Yes, I’ve studied that in my ‘abnormal psychology’ classes. And heard that in news reports. Female foetuses have a higher survival percentage than males. They have less chance of developing defects before birth. Less chance of the foetus getting aborted. There are numerous explanations for this, and many researches indicating this. We’ve known that for a long time; we read that and we gloated over how we girls were tougher.

But I never imagined this question to hang so in a broken heart.

It is a strange kind of loss… because you haven’t “known” the baby. You’ve not held her in your arms. You’ve not fed her, you’ve not bathed her, not crooned her to sleep. She never smiled or gurgled at you. And you still loved her with all your heart. Perhaps I can’t fathom the grief of losing one loved like that, but I know how it feels to love like that. To carry a heavy bag of dreams with you.

A child, as they say, gives birth to a mother… And yet, the child is only born when she takes her first breath. But a mother is born the moment a little speck begins pulsating in her body—a speck surrounded by her vital organs, a speck she protects where no one could. She is born the moment there is a swell of love inside her heart: a bulge that takes shape much before the outer one.

Mothers are born first.

And B, my dear, you will receive in much greater measure. That is our faith, and our prayer.

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