The story is pretty much a dialogue which has occurred several times in my own head when I think of the impact MS has and may have on my life, and I final forced myself to put it on paper in an attempt to quell the inner dialogue and come to terms with or at least try to deal with it. It hasn't solved anything, but I feel it has helped. I hope this will help others one day, once it's primed and polished.
I feel my judgement is clouded when I review this story and I cannot see its flaws, specially since it has been such a long time since I have tried to write from the first person in a story. I would love some constructive criticism to help me shape it up.
I would be willing to hear any advice you can give me.
A Mothers' Instinct
As the door swings open I call out
a soft “Good morning, Helen” and stand in the doorway waiting for an invitation
inside. Helen answers with her usual dry cheerfulness.
“Good morning, come
on in. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?”
“No thanks. I
had one on my way.” I lie. I hate coffee, there’s something about the smell
that makes my stomach churn. I bow my head in appreciation of the offer anyway
and take a seat in my favourite chair; a worn out leather recliner. The
chair isn’t very old, but the soft leather has cracked from consistent use. I
don’t mind, even damaged, it’s still the best chair in the room.
“How do you feel
today?” Helen asks as she takes a seat in a fancy white, spindle legged chair.
“Fine.” I reply.
“What do you
feel today?” She asks. I hate when she asks me this. I shrug my shoulders
non-committedly. “Brooke?” I can tell by her tone of voice as she says my name
that she’s starting to get annoyed with me. I take momentary satisfaction in
her frustration before replying.
“I’m confused.” I
mumble.
“Alright. What’s
confusing you?”
“Selfishness is
bad right?” I ask.
Helen removes
her thick rimmed glasses and looks at me trying to analyze whether or not that
was a serious question. Her thin, perfectly tweezed eyebrows arch up in a
silent question asking me, What do you
think?
Another sigh
escapes me. “Yeah, alright, being selfish is bad. I get it, but what if every
fibre of your being is telling you otherwise?”
“Then you wouldn’t
feel confused would you?” Helen teases as she replaces her glasses and leans
forward in her chair, resting her chin on one hand. “What’s bothering you?” She
probes. I sigh again. I like Helen quite a lot, but she is rather nosey.
“I’m 27 years
old. I’ve been married to my husband for 3 years; we’ve been together for 8. We
have a lovely house, a truck, two amazing dogs and one very old goldfish. I
have a full time job during the week and I volunteer with the hospital on
weekends.”
“And this is
bothersome?”
I shake my head.
“Of course not. I have a great life, but I know something’s missing and if I
want to try to fill the gap..” I pause while I search my brain for the right
words, “Well, I’m afraid I might do it for the wrong reasons.”
Helen smirks.
Damn, I think. I know that look. When
Helen opens her mouth I know the words she is going to say before she speaks
them. “Brooke, you’re dancing around the subject. What’s missing? What do you
want?”
I sink deeper into
my chair and look out the window seeking comfort away from Helen and her small
room. I watch out the window as a beautiful Irish Setter bolts by, its leash bounces
along behind it dragging on the sidewalk. A moment later a young man in sweat
stained clothes runs by following in the dogs’ wake. He yells back to a woman;
I assume she is his wife, as she pushes a stroller running after him calling
frantically for the man to catch their beloved pet.
I would have
laughed, had I not been jealous of the scene outside. I have the athletic husband,
I have the renegade furry companions, and I can keep up with them all but it
was the stroller in the running scene that caught my eye. Helen had noticed,
and I blushed as I sink further back into my cracked leather chair.
“Well?” Helen inquires, taking a sip from her cup of tea. Her burgundy lacquered pinkie finger
sticks out as she lifts the cup to her lips. “What do you want?” She repeats.
“I want a baby! Alright?
I want children.” I snap back. I practically jump from my seat at her, like a caged
jungle cat. I was harsher than I had intended to be. I apologise immediately.
“It’s alright.”
She assures me, while continuing putting her tea cup back down on the table
between us. “Do you think having a baby would be selfish?”
As I nod my gaze
returns to the window. I can’t look at her. I’m afraid I might lash out at her
again, and none of it is her fault; I know that.
“Why?”
Why, should be an easy question to answer,
and perhaps it is, but the answer still seems complicated. “Why?” I ask in
return, “Why not?”
“Does your
husband want children?”
“He would love
children.” I admit sadly.
“Then what’s the
problem?”
She’s prying now, I think dully and sit
back in my chair silently, unwilling to share anymore. Helen sits quietly and
waits sipping her tea again, watching me, waiting for me to speak. I don’t.
Helen realises I
am not about to speak up, so she breaks the silence with a touchy question; one
she knows I don’t like. Her voice is light as a feather as she speaks. The forbidden
question is delivered very delicately. “Do you think having a child is selfish because
of your disease?”
Unable to
control myself I stand up and start pacing the small room in an attempt to
control my frustration. I walked circles around the chairs, the desk and past
the filing cabinets that line the walls, the whole time making sure to keep my
eyes away from meeting hers. Completing my second circuit of the room the
reality of Helen’s question hits me and my eyes automatically fill with tears. Overcome
and unable to respond, I sit back into my chair. My hands involuntarily curl
into fists as I try to keep the tears from pouring down my face uncontrollably.
I notice that while
I had been pacing Helen had placed a small square box of tissues on the table
between us. It was light blue, like the walls of the office. I notice it was a
nice gesture and I grab a couple tissues as a precaution, waiting for Helen to
speak again.
I wait a few
minutes for her to speak but Helen remains silent, waiting for me. I looked up
at her pleading for her to continue. My eyes must have been huge; swollen with
tears and round with desire and pain, she must see all my pain for her to look
at me with such pity.
“Brooke, you
have Multiple Sclerosis, from what you’ve told me the disease affects your
brain and your nerves; it has nothing to do with your reproductive system. It
doesn’t mean that you cannot have children.”
“It does. I want
a baby, but what if I pass the disease onto my child? My child did not ask for
that! They will be suffering for my desire to have a child for their entire life!”
“The odds are,”
Helen starts, but I cut her off before she can tell me the odds of passing my
disease onto my children.
“If my child got
sick it would be my fault!”
“What if your
baby was healthy? You and your husband could have happy, healthy children.”
Helen explains. She’s right, there is a chance, but the chance seems far too
small for me to pin all my hopes on.
“And what if my
children are healthy?” I repeat. “If my children are healthy, they will
grow up with a mother with failing health and who will not be able to do all
the things she wants to do with them. If my health fails and they have to take
care of me, what kind of life would I have brought them into?”
“You could adopt
a child.” She suggests.
“Even if I adopt
a child, do they deserve a mother that they might have to take care of? Do I
subject my potential children, blood or not, to a broken mother?” Even I hear
the venom in my voice as I say it, but it makes my statement that much more
true.
“Brooke, you are
not broken, you have Multiple Sclerosis, and with every disease comes certain
challenges. Obviously, you are a passionate woman. You are a caring and loving
person, with your head firmly planted on your shoulders. You know more about
the world than a lot of other people; its dark sides, and the light ones.” She
pauses, and waits for me to digest what she has said before she continues.
“You are also a
very smart woman. You are weighing all of your options, and I can see you care
a great deal about your children’s’ future, but there are things in this world
that are out of our control. If you have a child, and it does not inherit your
disease, it still may have another issue; whether it has a heart condition,
allergies, Asthma, or struggles with depression or eating disorders as it grows
up. You cannot control everything. If your child is sick, whether from MS or
something completely different, you will love that child with every single
piece of your heart anyway, because they will be yours, and they will be the
most precious thing in the world to you.”
“Then what do I
do?” I whisper.
“Do the things you
can control. Take your vitamins, eat healthy, stay on your medications, start
saving for your kids’ college fund, child proof your house! Talk to your
husband Brooke, he’ll be able to help. If you both want kids you will have to
be a team, you will not be raising the child alone.”
“What if I get
worse?” I spin the white gold wedding band on my ring finger nervously.
“You have your
husband, your friends and your family. If your symptoms flare up again and you
have another MS attack you will not be by yourself, and your children will not
be alone and burdened to take care of you. If you have to be taken care of
there are many people in your life who love you and will want to take care of you.”
Her last words
ring in my ears: There are many people in
your life who love you and will want to
take care of you. I look up at her, the corners of my mouth twitching,
wanting to smile but I fight the urge after years of trying not to get my hopes
up.
“So it’s not
selfish for me to want children?” I ask. As I say it, I feel the warmth of hope
starting to creep out from my core, trying to reach my extremities. I try to
push it back, but somehow my iron grip on the fantasy dream of having a healthy
family has slipped, and the hopeful smile I had been denying for years is
starting to grow.
Helen’s bright
green eyes squint with the force of her smile as she replies, “As your
therapist Brooke, I cannot answer that question for you. You have to tell me.”
At that, I smile.
What did you think? Leave me a comment or personal message. All help is greatly appreciated :)
