To My Daughter (and other letters.)
One very early miscarriage and many sleepless nights. Many sighs of relief and many imagined lives. A thousand different futures lost to time. Sand in the desert, tears in the rain, etcetera, etcetera.
The first time I met with a doctor to start my transition process they were quite insistent that I freeze some sperm in case I decided that one day I’d want to have kids. I laughed at her. As sure as I was that the sun was shining in the sky that summer day, I was sure I would never want or even be slightly curious about having children. I knew I was correct because of all the million reasons. The economy, the climate, my illness, the family I was coming from, my genetics. So on and so forth.
A few years later, my partner and I shared a wistful laugh of relief when their pregnancy test came back negative. I’d say “it was crazy when we both said, “I’m kinda disappointed!”” But it wasn’t crazy at all, we were a dyad in our time.
My maternal grandfather only ever had daughters, 7 of them if I recall correctly. My paternal grandfather only had sons, I don’t remember the exact number but it was something similar. My parents had a boy and a girl and whoever else may be roaming out there so it could have gone either way for me, but I’ve only ever ever ever imagined myself having a daughter. Just something I was always sure of. I’d have a daughter and I’d name her Clementine. Or Zelda, or Margot, or Holly, or Charlotte. I liked Charlotte especially.
It sounds like a nightmare, to never again have a night of restful sleep as part of my mind would forever be scanning for confirmation of my child’s safety, even when she turned 40 years old. To accidentally do or say something to make her silently resent me forever the way I did my parents, to hear she got hurt or wasn’t healthy, to hear she was sad. Any of it, no matter how pedestrian would simply murder me. After the life I’ve lived, the weight I carry, the things I’ve endured - open myself up to the risk of finding out one day that my child had died?!
Impossible. Perish the notion.
and yet, when he told me his period had been late for far longer than usual, I suddenly had all the purpose and strength I could ever need for anything. I imagined every single thing down to how we’d spend our days.
She’d stumble from her room and into my garden, I’d squeeze some orange juice for us because I’m sure shed love it as much as I do. We’d practice some stretching and soft Kata of our martial arts. We’d just talk! I’d listen to every thing she had to say and answer every question she had. Often I wouldn’t know the answer so we’d set out on a quest to find it. Maybe we’d go to the library, or meet my friends at the fire station, maybe wed go to the zoo to ask Ms. Lion herself.
Everything till then would have been beautiful, and everything would have been worth it. I would be glad to be alive.
She’d absolutely be spoiled! I’d be absolutely hopeless when it comes to that.
I know it likely wouldn’t be that idyllic at all but, it was nice to imagine.
Maybe that in itself is worth something, like in the alchemist, that shop keeper that always dreamed of going to Mecca but knew he would never go, because it was the dream itself that sustained him.
Do you guys ever imagine how you’ll truly react in the face of a massive tragedy or terrifying situation? Do you think you’d freak out or zone in and become the hero.
I always imagined I’d be wonderful under pressure, that I’d be barking out orders and ensuring everything operates in as optimal a fashion during the aftermath.
I learned that night in Pennsylvania, when she was doubled over in pain for hours until finally bleeding out quite abnormal amounts of blood and tissue that in fact, I do not bark orders and do not ensure everything operates smoothly.
I just lose the ability to speak.
