Mother's Day

Today is Mother’s Day. The 18-week size fibroid that I birthed by C-section, is what we think about today in our house.

At least, I think about it. Last week my husband asked me rather innocently, “Honey, what day is Mother’s Day this year?” For whatever reason, the only response I could muster was a flood of tears. It is a special day for other women, not me.

The year before I met my husband I had begun to consider adopting a child from another country. Motherhood was not feasible for me any other way. But I never sent off my adoption applications because of a new job that absorbed every waking moment. Then I met Sam.

Two days later I found a huge, hard mass in my belly and knew that something was about to change. I had already begun to entertain the idea that I’d probably never have children of my own, but to be told that the only treatment was an everything-has-to-go type of surgery, left me strangely numb. I took in the news, relieved that I wouldn’t have the possibility of developing uterine or ovarian cancer. I was more concerned about having major surgery than any other consideration at that point.


Surgery was a breeze, fortunately. Sam was there with me in the hospital, helping me up to the bathroom and back to bed. He walked me around the nurse’s station, as I shuffled along, all hunched over, pushing my IV pole jaggedly down the hall. As we rounded a corner, Sam told me I was beautiful.
“Oh please!” I laughed, thinking of my pasty complexion, IV-bloated body, and wild hair. “I look so gross.” He stood still and looked at me for a long minute. “You would have been a beautiful mommy.” His eyes were moist and his voice wobbled.

I’m a stepmother now.  But events in my life are not yet recognized by these children. I have been thrust into their lives and they do not know how to make meaning of me. I have only to look at the Polaroid shot of the tumor that looks like the glistening, veiny bald head of an alien, to grasp the limitations of my mothering experience.  

Sam looks regretful and tenderly at me over breakfast, feeling helpless in the face of these inconvenient tears that spring to my eyes when I least expect them. “Honey, when we get to heaven, there will be babies there without parents. We can have those babies then.” I blow my nose loudly, and Sam rushes around the table to envelop me in his arms. “I’m so sorry, baby,” he whispers into my hair.

There is a vast gulf between what we have on this earth and the life we will have in heaven one day. I have not suffered in ways that so many people have in this life. My pains are small but deep ones. My sadness is mixed with gratefulness. So I think of what is to come warmly, tearfully, every time I feel the light heaviness of a crumpled, sleepy little body near my heart, and smell the fragrant sweetness of baby cheeks. Someday I will get to be a mother. Sam, whose mother has died, will have his mother again. My mother won’t be forgetful anymore. And I will be happy to say, “It’s Mother’s Day today.”