My Impossible Girl

This is a true story, and it was something I entered for a Writing Contest.

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places. Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms, 1929

I don’t remember much of that time in ’97, but I do remember when my doctor told me I couldn’t have children. The pins holding the bones of my shattered pelvis together would puncture my uterus as a child grew.

I said, “That’s fine; I don’t want kids.” I was angry they didn’t jut tie my tubes while they were in there. Children were not going to happen for  me, were not even possible for me.

After 17 years, things changed a bit. I recovered, and I carried on with my life, and I married your father. You were at least more wanted than before, and another doctor visit showed that you might be possible.

Once you’re outside of me, you’ll see the scars, the surgery tracks on either side of my pelvis that make my leg look like it was sewn on by hand. When you’re old enough I’ll tell you the story of waking up after two comatose months on a late September, 92 pounds, half my head shaved, no voice and no memory of the accident. You were not possible. Nothing about this should have been possible. I should have died in the accident. I should not have recovered. I shouldn’t be pregnant now, and for 17 years, I couldn’t have been.

For right now, my Impossible Girl, you’re growing on my brokenest place. Maybe you can feel the scar tissue and bone regrowth that protect you from the pins. Maybe as you rest on my brokenest place, my strongest place, you can absorb some of the strength and chutzpah you’ll need in the lifetime to come. You’ve already had an amazing story, Impossible Girl.