Dear Readers,
My husband hates summer. There is a loss in routine and it feels like the world stops. People leave town for vacations, people move away, and the mindset is to put real tasks off until September. I have to admit, I have been very distracted this past month.
If you want to write for Broken Grains, I would love to see your work. Please email brokengrains@gmail.com. I am looking for Christian personal essays and pastors to write sermon or devotional style pieces. If you like the content, please share.
Khudija
The State of a Uterus by Khudija Isherwood
Trigger warnings: Sexual abuse
It’s five AM. I’m a few days away from the end of my sophomore year of college, but instead of that accomplishment, my palms feel weak at the steering wheel of my Ford Tempo.
The red light is one of the few things that reminds I’m not dreaming. If I don’t stop. If I drive through it and a car hits me, I could die. Then nobody would have to know.
It isn’t until I sit down on my bed, that I thought if I were pregnant, I wouldn’t want his kid.
In June of 1982, I imagined a frail, pregnant Bangladeshi teen walking into a birth home for women in need. Maybe her stomach barely showed the outline of a bump. Maybe the baby was born early. I didn’t know the details.
The exact roots of fear weren’t passed to the baby consciously, but the sensations stuck into the onset of labor. Hours of one painful contraction after another. Each one brought her closer to a child she could not keep. Every moment closer to knowing she was always going to be missing a piece of herself.
The guy isn’t even regretful when he says, “If you are pregnant, we won’t get married or anything.” In other words, I didn’t love you when I pushed past a line without your consent.
I guess he won’t care if I wanted an abortion. He tells me, “She had an abortion” after mentioning he got another girl pregnant.
The sensation of my tongue in between my teeth and the roof of my mouth is the only part of me that isn’t numb. I replay images of the dark room. He kisses me. I feel nothing. This is when I need to leave. I don’t.
There was now a baby. The teen, a girl herself, was in shock. The baby cried. She was real. Somebody needed to care for her. She was supposed to be the mother, but she had to go. There was no life or future for both of them. Perhaps if she left, one of them could have better. She returned to the home where she’d hidden her condition for months. She hoped the guy whose child she carried couldn’t tell. She hoped they’d never be left alone, again.
If anyone asked where she had been, she would say she had to take care of something for her family.
I’m not pregnant. He’s moving three hours away. I’m safe. I opt to never drive past his house. The sound of his voice becomes harder to remember. I feel my cheeks, my forehead, and my shoulders to my toes.
I enjoy new memories. My roommates and I bake chicken and boil green beans for our first meal in our first apartment. The warm air in late summer wafts through the window.
A home for the baby girl wasn’t too hard to find. There was a family. Both possible new parents were from Britain. The husband did charitable work for mothers and babies. They were a good match, but there was one problem. The adoption laws had just changed. Babies weren’t supposed to be adopted by foreigners.
She was happy in their arms. They were committed to waking up with the five-pound child to feed her every two hours around the clock. She had a home. There were ways to make this happen.
Before her new parents have to make a plan to keep their baby, a passport arrived in the mail.