“Just sign on the dotted line and we’ll make a start”
The doctor’s voice is confident. He’s done this a thousand times before, extracting cells to make life-completing miracles. He probably doesn’t give it a thought any more; just sees his bank account getting fatter with each growing belly – and the potential profit sketched across those stark, barren ones.
I falter, mind whirling…is this *really* what I want? Of course it is – it’s the thing we both want – the thing we’ve always wanted and talked about and been heartbroken over when it turned out to be impossible for us. The thing we’ve scrimped and saved for. The thing which will finally make us into the family we always dreamed of being. We even have names picked out.
The preparatory injections have sucked. They hurt, but in a good way – a way I can cherish in my heart as one step closer to motherhood. We’ve laughed about it as my husband did the deed, each morning in the bathroom, with aseptic conditions and gloves and alcohol wipes; not the most romantic, and certainly the only way a prick in the butt could result in pregnancy…
And now we’re here, I’m hesitant. The room spins and seems to dissolve into a series of movie clips rushing past my mind’s eye, faster and faster:
-A woman with her profoundly disabled daughter, caring for her cheerfully amongst all the paraphernalia which goes with her 24 hour medical regime. What if I have a disabled baby and it hates me for creating it?
– A father brokenhearted each time his children leave to return to their mother. Is our relationship strong enough to survive the test of children?
– A mother, broken, in hospital, watching as her son shifts in agony, wishing there were anything she could do to help him or heal him or take his pain away. What if our child got sick?
– Two parents holding down their small, screaming toddler as they check its blood sugar with a needle-prick test, and inject it with life-saving insulin. What if it *is* hereditary – what if it gets passed along?
– A mother watching through scared eyes as her daughter begins to exhibit such terrifyingly familiar symptoms of low self-esteem and negative body image. How could I ever be a good enough role model?
– A woman simmering over with anger, screaming obscenities at her young son, tearing him down and repeating the cycle which she was taught in her own, downtrodden childhood. Those bad habits go deep – I’m not loose from those trappings yet – would I be able to stop the cycle from turning again? Would I become the same monster I knew as a kid?
My mind boils over, and one question comes floating to the top – if we force nature, and things go horribly wrong, will we blame ourselves forever? Would we be responsible?
And should I sign…?
Thanks to Tipsy Lit for the prompt ‘Powerful Magic’ – a character’s decision whether or not to use a forbidden magic to answer a need.
And yes, I think it’s quite alright to use my blog as an arena to air some worries and concerns via a fiction piece. We’re not anywhere close to this. Yet. But one day we might be, and I have all these thoughts with no other place to go…