Happy Birthday

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

The lights of the theatre beamed down like a thousand suns. They left no shadows to hide in.

The life illuminated under the thousand suns was screaming silently in agony and anguish.

Heat permeated from the thousand suns. The heat was not warming. It felt cold and threatening.

White masked attendants stood as if accusers. They appeared to have little concern for the trauma-wracked mind and body of the girl they gazed upon.

They knew a new life would soon burst fiercely and angrily into this cold and sterile world.

There were no warm hands to hold, no loving, comforting touch of humankind, only accusing eyes hidden behind white sterile masks. These eyes had seen it many times before. They had watched numerous young girls, frightened and desperate, their young bodies unmercifully punishing them for their mistakes.

As she lay there, she could almost read their minds. “Yes, dear, it hurts, and it hurts twice as much if you are not married.”

She felt the need to somehow defend herself, to be allowed to tell her side of the story. Perhaps then she would discover a warm heart, a little empathy, or maybe a little love from the cold, accusing eyes.

For nine months, she had known it would come to pass. She had done her time alone and isolated as if locked within a prison cell.

She had passed her time, longing and dreaming for a miracle. A miracle that would alter the circumstances and allow her to awaken this nightmare she was so trapped within.

For her, there was no escape. This was solitary confinement. Unable to find anyone to understand, help, or care, she had made the journey alone.

She lay confined to the practical and uncomfortable bed for eight hours, her legs tied up in stirrups and her body writhing under the thousand suns.

Pain swept over her at unwelcome intervals. They were as regular as waves on a storm-ravaged beach-Grey and desolate.

When she thought she could endure the punishment no longer, the doors of her tiny, sterile world burst open. There, her Doctor stood resplendent in green. His eyes were not those of an accuser; they were the eyes of a savior. “It is going to be alright. I am with you now,” were the only words he spoke.

Tenderly, her Doctor guided her through the remaining steps of her torturous journey.

His skill softened the path of the angry little life that thrust its way into this strange, sterile world.

It was a boy, a beautiful, perfect baby boy- a tiny baby. His destiny was to be neither decided nor chosen by him.

With his first cry, she raised her weary head, tears streamed down her sweat-stained face, and she knew it was over.

Her young body ached with the knowledge that she had given birth to the only human being who could touch her heart and fulfill her desire for love.

Her arms reached for him. “Let me see him, please can I hold him?” she begged.

Her longing for him was overwhelming; after all, they were joined by blood, were they not?

For her, it would never be. The accusing eyes spirited the baby away to their cold, unloving anteroom.

They would keep him in isolation until the time came for his new parents to carry him to the strangeness of his new home.

As her sapped strength returned, her requests to see and hold him were denied.

This beautiful child was no longer hers; she had no claim upon him. With her hand on the bible, she had sworn to God that she would never attempt to make herself known to him.

His destiny was to be gift-wrapped in the clothes she had lovingly bought him and presented to the people whose need was so great.

She honored her promise to God.

For thirty-two years, she honored her promise to God.

The need to see him, to touch him, never ceased. She searched the caverns of her mind for a way of erasing the desire.

She had no way of expressing her desire for the son she could never know.

On his thirty-second birthday, she wrote him a letter. It could never be posted, for she knew no address. The message would never be read because its recipient was unknown to her.

****

My Dear Son,

You do not know me or may not even want to know me. However, my need to put pen to paper persists after all these years.

You have always been in my thoughts. At times, my heart aches with the need to have news of you.

Where does one begin? You don’t know who I am or what I stand for or believe in.

You know nothing of my successes or my failures. You have no idea what I look like or how old I am. You are oblivious to my thoughts and feelings.

Yet, I love you and hope you have everything in your life that I, as a young woman, believed I could never give you.

The only gift I had to offer at that time was the gift of life itself.

I long to hear it has served you well.

Thirty-two years ago, a beautiful baby boy was born. He was born through heartache and anguish. He was a special child whose destiny was to bring love to the hearts of those who chose him.

Suppose I live to be a hundred years old. In that case, I will always be content in the knowledge that at least once in my life, I could offer the experience of selfless giving.

Only once in my life have I been able to offer such a gift.

It was the gift of a part of me, a child much desired by me, a unique child, a gift to those whose need was so great. The son that they believed they could never have.

I do not want to intrude on your life. But if the day should ever come when you need to meet me or speak with me, I will willingly be here for you.

There is one last thing I have always wanted to say to you, and at last, I can say it,

Happy Birthday, Son.

© Kate Ronan 2023