As they cut you out of me, I said goodbye to what could have been.
I’ve always loved children. I would have liked the option to have them come from my own body. But as they sewed me up and bandaged the wounds of my past, I began to see something unexpected — restoration and redemption for my unborn children.
I saw possibilities. I saw adventure. I saw the Lord whisper to me, “You’ve done well, my daughter.” And I saw His angels wrapping my dreams of children in gold-woven pouches, ascending to heaven.
Today I mourn the possibility of raising tiny humans from my own flesh and blood, as my cat curls herself into my lap. I’ve always called her my cat child — and now she truly is. Once again, I’m reminded that our words carry power.
The truth is, this surgery was inevitable. My womb — my “oven” for growing life — no longer belonged to me. It had been invaded by growths, fibroid’s that were stealing my joy, my peace, and my happiness. This alien baby had to be removed for my next season to begin.
Right now, I am in mourning.
Mourning the Invisible
Walking slowly through the mall after surgery, I barely noticed the families passing by. Can you imagine what Christmas feels like for the woman who can’t bear her own children? For the woman who once thought she’d found “the one,” only to be left because she couldn’t?
I can now imagine the first part of that. I can feel it.
It’s not for the faint-hearted. In my opinion, most men will never truly understand, and even those who do have children will only maybe get it. The mourning is real. The emptiness is real.
Yes, I know my ability to bear children does not determine my worth. But still… it’s a thing.
They will never look like me or carry my good and bad traits. There will never be a tiny version of me walking this earth again. I could adopt — and maybe I will — but adoption will not create a physical echo of my own smile, wit, fingers, and toes.
That’s the part that hits the hardest.
Giving It to Jesus
Every time grief lifts its head, I remember: this is what I give to Jesus. He allowed it to happen for a reason. And if I ask, I know He will walk me through this challenging, necessary season.
Physically, it had to happen. My fibroid’s and womb weighed 3.5 kg — heavier than the average newborn. That’s why I called it my “alien baby.” My subtotal abdominal surgery was larger than expected. My doctor even called it his once-in-a-lifetime surgery.
So now I wait. I look to the hills from where my help comes. I wait to see what’s next — and why it had to be so necessary.
This is my grief.
This is my surrender.
And this is my beginning.
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