My sister and her two sons
When I was sixteen years old my mother and father announced
to my three brothers and me that we were going to have an addition to our
family. My mom was now pregnant at 43 years
old. My parents hadn’t had any
additional children for about a decade. Everyone was truly surprised—really a bit stunned—by this latest
news!
My mother went to an ob-gyn
for an initial visit. When she returned
I could see that she was visibly shaken. My mother and father were debating whether or
not they should continue using the doctor that she had just seen. My mom’s former
doctor—the one who had delivered some of my siblings—had retired some years ago
and she had to choose someone else
for the care and delivery of her next baby.
I later learned the reason for their immediate concern. It was the doctor’s troubling statement
during my mom’s office visit: “Oh,
you’re going to keep it!?” I
guess that he thought that she had come to him to abort the child. This was
the furthest thing from my parents’ intentions—no matter how old my mother was.
This “it”, my sister Cathy—the only sister that I have—now
has two children of her own. She and my
mom are extremely close. The two little
grandchildren, the youngest of the ten, are just so adorable (objectively speaking, of course!) and truly
keep my mom going day after day.
I often think of what life would be like without my
sister and, consequently, without her two children. What if another tragic decision had been made so that “it”
would be all that she was known as, or referred to, by those trying to deny that
she ever existed in the first place?
I once wrote a poem trying to express my feelings over this
loss of potential—a human life, a human person never given the opportunity to live. I have thought about “it” over and over again since
the horrific trial of Dr. Kermit Gosnell
hit the Philadelphia news.
I have already put
this poem to a basic tune and hope to have it as a completed song someday.
I Cried
I cried—no one heard me
Yet I cried—
For I was inside
Of my mother’s womb.
I longed to be held in her arms,
To be fondled and caressed,
To take milk from my mother’s breast
And to laugh.
Such beauty and warmth of life
I could enjoy,
Play with my first toy
And begin to love.
I could leave my print on the world:
Wisdom to span the ages,
As the knowledge of sages
Of years past.
Still, more than this all, I long for
life
--That gift God-given—
And the chance to live in
His created world.
I cried—and no one heard me
For I was inside of my mother’s womb.
Little did I know it would be my
tomb.
I cried.
© 1982
Edward F. Namiotka
