“We’ll get you some pictures on your way out, and you’ll hear from your doctor in the next few days if anything needs going over, but”—she tilts her head, attempting to catch my eye—“the baby is growing well,” she says, nodding as she looks between Bo and me. “There’s no reason for concern.”
“Thank you,” Bo says from beside me.
I watch as she walks over to the wall, presses the dispenser for hand sanitizer, and then turns to face me, rubbing her hands together. “Best of luck,” she says before stepping around the curtain and leaving the room.
I shut my eyes tight, attempting to strengthen my shaking breaths.
I thought, before today, that I knew what the phrasebittersweetmeant. So much of these past few months has been just that. Wonderful with a painful layer hidden underneath.
But this…thisis what bittersweet means.
All ten fingers and toes.
Every sense of relief is sharply followed by shame.
Every wave of shame is met with confusion.
Confusion gives way to guilt.
I immediately want to reassure myself that I wouldn’t have loved the baby less if they’d had my hand. That I don’t lovemyselfany less than I would have if I had two fully formed hands. Even if I already know those things to be true, I still feel the need to repeat it, over and over.
But my initial reactionwasrelief.
I’m glad that the baby won’t struggle in the ways I have.
I feel happy for them. Then consider if I shouldn’t.
Afterward, I’m sad for the life experience they’ll miss out on.
That they’ll never know how existing in a body that the world is not designed to accommodate can create so many avenues of empathy for others, experiencing the same thing for a variety of reasons. The determination and the resilience that come from that. The community it cultivates.
The unique bond we could have shared.
With that thought comes another pang of guilt. For mourning, even for a split second, the loss of similarity. The inherent narcissism of wanting my kid to belikeme. Because that’s what parents should do, right? Separate their kids from themselves and their own experiences so that they have room to grow into their own people. Accept them and offer unconditional love along the way.
I now realise it’s up to Bo and me to do the rest. Without a crash course from first-hand experience, we’ll need to be the ones to teach our kid how to navigate the world with that empathy. To see their privilege as a tool to use on behalf of others.
But also, to not let our burdens overtake them.
A delicate balance.
And once the thoughts and the confusion and the guilt settle alongside my breaths, I decide to trust that we’re up for the challenge.
Opening my eyes, I reach for the towel left beside me and wipe my stomach clean from the ultrasound gel. Then I turn to face Bo, offering him a timid, bashful smile.
“Well…” Bo sighs out, his tone deceptively serious, in juxtaposition with the twitch of his lips. “We’ll still love them, of course. Even if they’re, you know”—he grimaces—“four-limbed.”
I huff out a long breath, grateful for his deflection. “Disappointed?” I ask, slowly lowering my shirt and sitting up on the bed.
Bo’s lips shift into a wistful smile as he picks up my right hand from the mattress and squeezes it once. “No… but I’m not relieved either.”
“That’s how I feel too,” I say, blinking back the threat of tears.
“It wouldn’t have made a difference to me,” he says, rubbing a thumb against my wrist. “You know that, right?”
I nod, sniffling as a sob breaks free. “I feel stupid for asking.”
Bo stands and lowers himself onto the edge of the hospital bed, facing me. “Hey…” he says softly. “It’s okay that you wanted to know. You’re just trying to be prepared.” Bo holds my little hand by the wrist and stares at it. He brushes his thumb across my palm, his eyes held in concentration. “I lied,” he says, breathing out a bitter laugh. His face softens as his eyes trace the pattern of his thumb as he swipes it again. “I think I might be abitdisappointed.”
