Random Thoughts to Get Me Through the Day

A young girl was lying in her bed. As she woke up and saw the tear-stained pillow, she remembered once again that her nightmare was, in fact, a reality. Her precious baby boy was dead. It was her fault.

            She had tried to convince herself that she was doing the right thing. She knew she couldn’t take care of a baby. She was young, and she was alone. Her parents had told her to leave. They said they’d already raised a child, and they weren’t going to start over. Her boyfriend had left her. He said it was her fault, and he wasn’t going to be a teenage father. No one wanted this baby, and as long as she was carrying it, no one wanted her.     

            Her friends tried to help. They all told her to kill it, a few even offered to drive her there. No one used the word “kill”, of course. They all used phrases like “terminate the pregnancy” or “abort the fetus”. They tried to assure her that it was just a medical procedure, and it was by no means murder. And although she felt uneasy about it, she believed them.

            Things started out well. She let a friend take her and her friend tried to assure her she would be fine. They arrived at the clinic and were greeted by a friendly receptionist. She was finally beginning that everything would be okay.

            Everything wasn’t okay. The procedure sparked an unexpected response. She went into premature labor. They tried to tell her that everything was fine, but everything wasn’t fine. The pain increased as time passed. For a brief moment she wondered if she was dying. Then suddenly the pain decreased.

            They told her that they had removed and were now disposing of the fetus. Despite all the chaos, she caught a brief glimpse of her tiny little boy. Stillborn.

            At that moment she forgot about all of the pain she had just gone through. She could no longer think of all her troubles with her parents and boyfriend. She was now full of guilt as she realized what she had done.

            When she woke up that morning, she had a healthy, innocent, beautiful baby boy growing inside her. Although he was small, he was still a person. He had ten fingers and ten toes, just like everyone else. He was a little miracle.

            Now, because of her actions, this little boy was dead. The doctors told her it wasn’t a baby, but anyone with eyes could see that that was not true. “It” wasn’t an it, it was a he. An innocent little life that had been snuffed out because of his mother’s fear and selfishness.

            She instantly felt numb. She couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, and couldn’t move. The guilt was too strong. Her friend took her home and explained to her parents what had happened. They were more than happy to take her back in. They told her that they loved her, and that they were proud of her for “doing the right thing.” She tried to tell them that they were wrong – that their grandson was dead and it was her fault – but they wouldn’t listen. They told her to go to bed. They said she would sleep it off and it would all be better in the morning.

            Only she knew that it would never be better. She had killed her little boy, and she couldn’t bring him back. From her mistake came someone innocent, but someone innocent became another mistake.

She sighed as she ran her hairbrush through her thick brown hair one last time before returning it to her purse. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the bathroom door and prepared herself for the crowds of people who were sure to begin arriving soon. For once in her life, she wished she could be invisible. Normally she loved being the center of attention. Normally she hated it when her sister would steal her spotlight. But today, she would have been glad to give up all of the attention in the world if only her sister could be there to steal it.

            She tried to plaster on a fake smile as the people began to arrive. They were all people she knew – family, friends, teachers from her sister’s school – everyone she expected to be there was arriving. She wasn’t completely sure if she was ready to face them, but she didn’t have a choice.

She wanted to hide. She wanted to run back to the bathroom, lock herself in the stall, and be left alone to cry. She even wished she could cry. She wanted to be sad. But sorrow was an emotion that had escaped her. In its place were shame, guilt, and fear.

As she shook hands with each person who arrived, she avoided their gazes. She couldn’t bear to look them in the eye. She knew what she would see. They all felt sorry for her. They spoke of how much they cared for her, and how they were always there if she needed to talk. But she couldn’t talk. She could only choke out “Thank you” and hope that they didn’t ask her any questions.

She blamed herself. Her parents tried to convince her it wasn’t her fault. She knew it was. They said that they knew had no way of knowing that the car coming towards her held a drunk driver. They tried to tell her that she couldn’t control other people, and that they knew she did everything she could. But she didn’t. She was the older sister. She was the driver. She was supposed to be in control. Yet she wasn’t, and her sister was the one who had to pay for her mistakes.

She was sure that someone would blame her. She wished that someone would look her straight in the eye and tell her that she alone would be held responsible. Those were the words that she longed for, as well as the words she feared. If someone would only tell her that it was her fault, she could begin to deal with her guilt.

Her tears continued to hide as she glanced over at the little girl lying next to her. She looked so peaceful; so perfect. She half expected her to get up and start dancing at any moment. If only she would jump up, whine because she was wearing a fancy dress, kick off her shoes, and start putting on a show for all of the people who had come to see her. After all, her sister had amazed her before.

As the time slowly passed, each face blurred with the next. Each person passed by with his or her own version of the sympathetic look she had quickly come to hate. She was no longer paying any attention to them. She felt almost numb.

Finally the hour had passed, and it was time to begin. She slowly walked to her seat, ignoring all of the eyes she was sure were on her. The preacher began to speak – “We are here today to celebrate the life of one of God’s precious children…” – and the tears finally fell.

Most people complain about rainy days. They say that rainy days are wet, dreary, and just awful altogether.

I guess I’m the oddball. I like rainy days. I like the sound of rain hitting my window and the ground. I like watching the rain fall. I like how rain makes plants grow, and at the same time it makes my car clean. I like standing in the rain, feeling the small drops of water as they land on my skin.

Maybe I’m just an optimist. I find so much beauty in something that most people hate. But then again, what’s wrong with optimism? It’s an art that makes life so much better, but is lost on so many people. Rain is something that is going to happen, like it or not. So why get upset about it?

“Into each life some rain must fall.” -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I love cities. I love watching all the people walking by. I don’t know anything about them; I have no idea where they are going, why they are in the city, or what their lives are like. They could say the same from me. Cities remind me of how small I really am, because my life is no more important to the people passing by than their life is to me. It reminds me that in the grand scheme of things, problems and mistakes that seem monumental to me aren’t actually all that significant. It’s a humbling feeling. I would love to one day live in a city.