Cut From My Womb

This is your story. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say this is how your story began. It is a story with a happy ending because it gave me you.

It was an unseasonably warm day in April in the Wyoming mountains. Your father planned a weekend camping trip, but I chose to stay behind at the last minute. I was only twelve weeks pregnant. Not uncomfortable yet. In fact, I felt great. The morning sickness had passed and I was entering the second trimester bliss. We were so relieved to reach this milestone. Our minds eased knowing the risk of miscarriage decreases exponentially after this point.

I tucked myself in on the couch for a movie and pulled out a shawl I had spent all winter knitting. The complicated lace pattern required all of my attention, so it was easiest to work on when I was alone. Right after getting settled in I realized I forgot the hot chocolate I had prepared. But, as I stood up to retrieve it, I knew instantly something was terribly wrong.

I looked down, and all I saw was red.

I called your father immediately. Thankfully, he hadn’t lost cell service yet. It took a few minutes for him to understand what was happening between my sobs. He spun the truck around and rushed back to where I huddled protectively around my small belly on the bathroom floor, my hands red with our blood.

Our baby doctor was an old, stoic Wyoming man. Near the end of his career, he had delivered over eight thousand babies by his count, and he had seen it all. Like many Wyomingites, he was not one to mince words. He told us that I would probably miscarry by the end of the week. Just in case, I was told to stay on bedrest. There had been some rare instances where the womb had knit itself back together.

Knit. His words.

Bedrest is torture for a troubled mind. It is impossible to not dwell on the situation that has put you there as you sit unable to go about your normal life. I moved from bed to the bathroom to the couch and back, over and over, only interrupted by bursts of sobbing over the inevitable loss. The signs pointed to one likely outcome.

A loss.

We. Were. Devastated.

And waiting… and waiting.

The constant waiting and idleness became overwhelming. I had failed. I was young and healthy and my body wasn’t capable of doing this one thing that everyone said it was made to do. I wanted to feel productive, but my options were physically limited and my mind was far too distraught to focus on anything for long.

I tried to work on the lace shawl, but this was too complex. How was I supposed to carefully follow an intricate lace pattern when my vision was blurred by the tears I couldn’t hold back? I had a couple of skeins of random yarn left over from an old project. They were brightly colored: magenta, gold, and royal purple. I’ve always been drawn to vibrant colors. The colors you surround yourself with can change your mood or reinforce it. I wanted to be surrounded by happy, uplifting colors.

Colors that were full of life.

So, I grabbed those three skeins and a crochet hook, and began to create. I chose a random triangle motif and made one after another. They were small, quick, and simple. Over the course of the week they piled up. With each stitch I imagined my body knitting back together, healing itself, creating a healthy place for you. With every repetitive motion of the hook I willed my body to mend the same way I was seaming the motifs together.

Each motif was an opportunity for a new wish for healing. Each new beginning started with a secure knot followed by stitches that wound the yarn around itself to create the final shape that ended with an abrupt snip of the scissors, thus starting the process over again. Over and over.

Knot, stitch, cut. Knot, stitch, cut.

Although I started this project in an attempt to heal my body, my mind began to heal through the creative process. By the end of the week I was crying less. Your father and I discussed two possible futures, one with you and one without you. Whatever fate had in store for us, we were as ready as we could be.

Knot, stitch, cut. Knot, stitch, cut.

My fascination with the Fates in Greek Mythology began years ago. Also known as the three sisters of fate, these goddesses were responsible for determining the destiny of all humans. Clothos spins the thread of life, Lachesis measures out the length, and Atropos cuts the thread. The Fates are often depicted as haggard old women who callously shape destiny. As a spinner and weaver, I always felt this representation was unfair to the goddesses of my craft.

However, I now understood the anger that inspired people to portray these goddesses so hideously. Had Clothos even started spinning your thread yet? Or had Atropos cut the thread of your life before it even began? Who were they to decide how long or short to make your life? These thoughts passed through my mind as I crocheted stitch after stitch.

Knot, stitch, cut. Knot, stitch, cut.

Knot, stitch, cut. Knot, stitch, cut.

Twenty-eight weeks and two blankets later you were ready to meet us. I’ve never been interested in making blankets before but the need to feel protected and to protect you inspired that choice. Blankets are a shield that can guard you from things as mundane as the weather, to the monsters in the dark corners of your room. I wanted to protect both you and me by hiding under the covers and feeling sheltered. I surrounded us in bright colors and warmth to combat all the negativity. I bathed us in light to heal our bodies and our precious connection.

After months of creating you and creating for you, our doctor cut you from my body in the early morning of another unseasonably warm day. His skilled hands gently lifted you from my womb and I wrapped you in the blanket that I imbued with all that healing energy.

I created you, and you are my happiness.

I created for you, and found happiness in a hopeless situation.

I created you. I create for you. I create for healing. And I create for me.

Knot, stitch, cut. Knot, stitch, cut.