A year ago, I was five months pregnant with our daughter, and I was, frankly, miserable. My first pregnancy wasn't easy, but this one...it was horrendous. I figured because the nine months of hell - I mean, pregnancy - was terrible, the birth would be easy. So, nope, it was awful as well. Part of it was my fault - I panicked and asked for the epidural to be turned off (I was not in my right mind!). Then, once Baby was born, I began hemorrhaging. I thought to myself, "Well, if I die, it's all right. I gave two girls life." (Side note: although it was a pretty scary situation, I was never in mortal danger.)
Of course, when I was healing and off the morphine, I decided I didn't really think it was okay to die. I wanted to see these girls grow up. I also wasn't quite ready to leave behind my dream of being a full-time writer, or to leave my husband with only fourteen years of time together. I did want to leave more of a legacy than giving birth to two beautiful girls, even if they are the best thing I have ever done. There is a little bit more to me, just me, that I'd like to do and be.
When I was struggling to get pregnant, I thought that being a mother was the most important thing in the world, and I was devastated, month after month, of seeing the negative sign on the pregnancy tests. As I look back, I wonder why I should have ever thought that way. Was it because of the importance of motherhood my religion teaches? Was it the culture in which I live? Was it because I was tired, so tired, of hearing about this friend's pregnancy and that family member's child?
Or was it because I was unsure of who I was? And when do we ever truly know ourselves? I tend to surprise myself on a daily basis, and not always in a good way, with discovering things about myself. But I do know this: I'll keep searching for her, with my daughters holding my hands, until the day does come that I do die. On that day, I hope to have picked up plenty of pieces of me to leave behind to those girls.