Yesterday, I remembered something my Urdu professor - whom I believe to be a bona fide philosopher - told us: a person has 70,000 thoughts that go through his mind in one day. What if I could chart my thoughts for a day, just to see what I spend the bulk of my waking hours thinking about - lately it's been about the baby, babymaking, other people's babies, the mold in the bathroom tiles, clothes to clean, food to cook, my coding class, my career, my family, my siblings, my nephew, going to Pakistan, people I'm mad at, people I love ... and so much more, which all feels so trivial. And this is not even 20 of the things I think about! I downloaded some addictive game on my phone that I can't stop playing. Add that to list of how I spend my time, which is only more depressing.
When I start to get really frustrated with myself, I think about the direction my life is headed in. It is so short. How can I let myself waste it like this? Somewhere in the 26 hours I spent in labor and delivery, I resolved that I had to do something great in my life. I decided that I needed to live a great life because it was currently flashing in front of me before my eyes. Six months later, I avoid crippling agony by existing in purgatory numbness, trying to minimize the stillbirth to an event that happened to me, but not make it THE THING that defines me. Every now and then, however, I realize with anvil-heavy acceptance that it really is a big deal. It is a fact that I try not to dwell on but sometimes reluctantly accept. I feel it most I see a young mom with an infant at the airport or on a sidewalk, and I miss having a child to love and receive love from. As if watching myself in third person, I see myself planted on the hospital bed, breathing and heaving like a marathon runner, pushing with every fiber of my being, a small person out of me. However, he's lifeless. But my body proceeds forward, working on God's preprogrammed biological algorithm: organs work to push out a fully developed baby, make milk, get post-delivery fever, etc etc. But -- nothing. There is an interruption, and interception, a line cut off. My first experience with labor and delivery, but there is no celebration of life, rather the bewilderedness at what to do at the loss of it. And then there's the moving forward part, which involves tears, love, contemplation, anger, and acceptance.
Six months later, I don't know what to make of it or what to do with myself. According to my friends, I am a warrior, an inspiration, a beautiful mother. Right now, they feel like empty titles. I had no control over what happened, and I realize I still have no control over what happens. And, in my high of an absence of emptiness (hormones? The high before the crash? Ugh, don't ask), I contemplate all the possibilities I can now explore. Because I survived, which by default, means the world is now at my fingertips. Life is officially a blank paper. Which means... what? I can master coding, spend countless more hours at it, write a book, try to meet Sheryl Sandberg or Elizabeth Gilbert, get through all the books in my room, travel, make more money... the possibilities are endless. My brain, hands, and eyes are the same as Einstein's or Steve Jobs's or Jerry Seinfeld's. All humans are capable of anything. It's how each of us chooses to spend our very limited time here on this earth that makes a difference.
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