Body betrayal deforms tissue structure under the guise of truth. The mission of this incarnation, knowing birth for Gaia. The cyst on Wanda’s ovary gives her pause. "Give Mother the offspring." Embracing the foreign growth that threatens to consume her ovary, Wanda curls her spine into her center. Twist and splinter the vertebrae, ignoring the prescribed form of body, she grows supple. During her meditation, the response drips through a sleepy haze of tranquility:
Denying the love available to you.
A thick silence allows the message to slowly sink in with a sadness resting at its core. The message continues:
Settling for manipulation, coercion, and disrespect.
Laying in pieces, the metallic blood arouses union. Rumbling flesh macerates, soaking into wet earth. No breath here. The rhythm of the in and the out crushed straight. Spreading the essence, cures the human into God. Eternity hums.
Excavating the lineage in a multiverse of pain and disgust are the expressions left to her. Reassembling the broken pieces, Wanda accidentally cuts herself on the pointy and sharp slivers of self-realization. She must unpack her choices. Remembering a movie about an amnesia victim, she compares herself to the main character who was staring at his wife in disbelief as repulsion threatens to ruin a family event. The whole process of putting herself back together became a puzzle. A puzzle that only she can decipher. Racked with confusion, unsure what just happened, she escapes in a deep sleep. Returning to her prehuman form, the energetics finish knitting the scar tissue together.
Waking in the morning, she decides to focus on a physical illness she can decipher, the cyst. Grateful for a mundane perspective, Wanda approaches her malady with severe dietary restrictions. She purges her body of all possible allergens by almost starving herself. During this extensive detox, she manages to work twelve hour days keeping her mind busy. With this fierce regiment, Wanda loses an enormous amount of weight and vitality.
Memory of the dismemberment plagues her. The raw force was too much for her mind. She packs it up. The stark clarity she cannot unknown but is unable to bring forward. Raw veggies and soaked nuts cake her intestines. Juice of life floods her senses. The smell of urine and garbage littering the streets, infiltrates her eyes. The air scratches, rakes, weighs her down. The invasion of a new life holds fast to her system.
Warm chamomile tea calms her response to the persistent aroma of bacon and eggs at the small café where she works. Waiting tables only stresses her system, placing loads of greasy meats and buttered bagels, she holds her head high, hoping gravity will keep the inside from erupting. The struggle reverberates, winding internal organs into knots.
Using only the fertility method for birth control, she religiously charted her temperature while checking for the stretchy mucus. With a miscalculation of only one day, those plucky sperm seized the opportunity to create a life that perforates inside her, burrowing and clawing itself into flesh. Hormonal changes create a ripple effect by playing with her perception and beliefs. The sum of her short life is hardly enough to add another. The terrifying prospect leaves her flip-flopping. Not at all near the power she knows resides within her.
Making the decision to terminate, her life changes in an instant. The unwitting sperm donor fears religious retribution, which plants her decision even more firmly. The decision grows roots and blossoms fully planting her resolve.
The clinics in New York City during the early 1990’s headline the pro-life movement, making it a public offense to even enter an abortion clinic. Fearing for her safety, Wanda contacts a covert women’s group to administer the procedure in the privacy of her apartment. The only parameter she must meet is to be less than six weeks pregnant. Wanda is five weeks. She qualifies. She arranges for the termination. Validating her choice, her body continues to show increased distress at the presence of the growing life.
The professionals are due tonight. Benjamin, her boyfriend and sperm donor, abandons her. Although he claims to respect her wishes, Wanda is alone when the intercom on the grimy, white apartment wall trumpets their arrival. She jumps. "Damn that buzzer," she mumbles.
Her apprehension grows as they climb the stairs, and she reassures herself. I will not let the child feel the rejection she, herself suffered. A flash of her mother’s face strewn with disappointment of her own life lost. Her mother created a mournful life stuck in the definition of mother as caregiver, sacrificing all personal growth and aspirations.
Wanda knows that she’s not ready to have a baby — to become a mother — or follow in her mother’s footsteps. There’s still college. There’s still a life out there for her. The pregnancy makes her realize who she aspires to be. Wanda wants respect from her peers. She needs the education to portray confidence in her parental decisions, never to be coerced by authority. Honoring her true feelings, Wanda calms down … a little. For now, her beliefs are all she has.
A loud knock pounds through her ears. Slowly opening the door, she stares into the fluorescent light of the hallway. Two stern-looking women — a nurse and a student — glare back at her, puffing a bit from the four flights of stairs. “We made it," they huff. The younger one continues, "May we come in?”
Some hesitation still lingers. Putting on a mask, one that has been worn by generations of women before her, cloaking the quaking pangs of her heart strings. Wanda steps back to allow the murderers access. Assessing her internal atmosphere, she senses an unexpected calm. There is no revolt from the Being inside.
Walking into the small apartment, they assure her the procedure will go without complication. That is, as long as she’s less than six weeks. No doubt in Wanda’s mind.
As they prepare their equipment, a bell jar with two tubes, Wanda removes her clothing. Wearing only a T-shirt, she imagines she’ll feel better once everything’s done and these people are out of her apartment. The mask secures firmly into her skull. Severing the heart break from seeding in her consciousness. Wanda is frozen in the decision to terminate this life trajectory. "It is her choice," she reminds herself once more.
The only oddity about sitting on the sofa partially nude is the memory of the last time she was nude here was to give herself over to pleasure. "Tough it out," she tells herself. The consequences of keeping the baby hold ramifications impossible to undo. Wanda is single and not sure about marrying Benjamin. How could this work out without her being on welfare? This is the only decision that makes sense. A brief childhood memory of the shame she had paying with food stamps at the market, making sure the purchases aligned with the parameters of the program, she barely had cash enough to pay for the toilet paper.
The professionals wanted to perform the procedure inside the bathroom. However, in New York that room barely accommodates one person let alone three. Laying back, she hangs her pelvis off the edge of the cushion. Unapologetically, they start. Protecting the worn, wooden tiles with a chuck, Wanda gasps as the nurse pours the cool Betadine in the folds of her vulva and inner thighs. One end of the tubing pops her mucus plug as it enters her uterus and Wanda swoons. Black and red eels eat her flesh. The pressure and pain slice into her all at once, and she stifles a scream.
"Why didn’t I insist Benjamin be here?" the question rises as soon as the answer. "To punish me." Throat swells, stuffed with eons of self-neglect, arresting the emotions accumulating there.
“Breathe deeply,” the nurse whispers. “This is going to hurt.”
"No breath," Wanda advises herself. "Breathing would make it real." She holds still, no waves of air to break the containment. She cannot know the death. Rivulets of molten rock tumble in her veins while shards of ice radiate through her pelvis. Releasing the air from her lungs allows the body tension to release. Her body deserts her. The torment hollows her out. Wanda’s tension climbs. She must breathe, inhale than exhale, barely clings to a blade of panic.
"Is this wrong? What have I done?" Wanda fears the agony will consume her, and her soul would forever be lost in disgust. Knowing full well, she had the choice to have the baby. The tugging and pressure are far away. The weighty struggle severs a conscious connection. She floats outside. Endurance is one of her defining characteristics.
As the professionals examine the contents, Wanda remains limp and exhausted on the sofa — the full impact of what is done is buried somewhere inside her swollen and throbbing belly. Trauma smolders in silence. In an effort to feel less, Wanda lies still.
“Would you like to see the contents?” the nurse asks, seated next to a stainless steel bowl.
Wanda is drawn back to her ears. Deliberating for only a moment, Wanda replies, “Okay.” The nurse unceremoniously holds the bowl up to her.
Bloody strings float in the water refusing to disperse. It looks like the strings are trying to come back together. Like the life that is gone doesn’t know it's in a bowl. The sight of the bloody mixture is not as disturbing as the foul odor. Still sensitive to various smells, Wanda gags. A defense mechanism of early pregnancy.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the nurse whispers.
“No,” Wanda replies, holding a hand over her nose and rubbing her stomach with the other one.
"It’s okay. I just didn’t expect it to smell so bad.” The nurse smiles and nods, taking the remains away.
Ignoring their actions from then on, Wanda numbs her feelings by relying on her practical nature to convince herself that this was the wisest decision. Picking up the phone, she calls Benjamin.
“It’s over,” Wanda whispers into the phone.
“Thanks for the call,” Benjamin replies before hanging up. "Why didn’t he ask if I was okay?" she muses then assumes he is still angry that she could offend God.
The professionals say some appropriately consoling words, but their comments are of no consequence. The terrible deed was done, complete. Climbing into her bed, Wanda falls through the dimensional realities for assimilation and a dreamless slumber.
The procedure went well enough. However, constipation became an issue. Cascara, an herb to help remove bowel congestion, might help — unfortunately, Cascara is contraindicated during pregnancy. Her body is unaware of its loss, and with her heightened hormonal state, the herb reacts badly within her system. The constipation does not abate. Bloating threatens to rupture through her skin. "Is this pay back? Am I really being punished?" Wanda's commitment wavers.
Wanda must visit a hospital. She breathes laboriously, the pressure in her stomach is excruciating. Tears promise to relieve a rage detonation. She feels betrayed by the option she stood by, defying the life hammering into her resolve. Streams of tears cut a path into her face. She's unable to stand, Benjamin swears this is her penalty for killing their baby.
“There’s no punishment for choosing when to become a parent,” she argues, although she had the same thought only moments ago. Speaking to0 loudly as if to convince herself as well.
Benjamin turns his face away. Wanda can see the tension in his jaw. He sighs and says, “You don’t want to have my baby. You don’t love me enough.”
Witnessing the swell and tremble of emotion distort his features, she reassures him, shouldering all the blame. “That’s not true,” Wanda rolls for his flaccid, unresponsive hand in hers. It's just the wrong time. I want to get my degree first.” He quivers, not a word passes his locked jaw. Seeing his strong reaction to losing the baby, Wanda feels the pressure to prove her love to him. “It’s not you, Benjamin. It’s me.”
A nurse pushes aside the curtain, disregarding their emotional scene. “Ms. Rosen, we have the results from your blood work.” Wanda sits up and ignores Benjamin. “Do you want me to discuss this in front of your friend?” the nurse asks, somehow implying he should leave.
Benjamin composes himself quickly, ashamed by his vulnerability in front of the white clad professional. He claims with urgency, “I'll come back later.” Wanda glances at Benjamin. “I have to return to work,” he says, leaning over and kissing Wanda’s forehead.
Once alone, the nurse explains through a frosty glare. “You have PID, pelvic inflammatory disease. That’s caused by engaging with multiple sex partners.” Her disdainful glare more than shows her disapproval.
Wanda can only stare at the woman. She hopes her expression is placid. Resenting the woman’s assumption, Wanda refutes, “That’s not possible! I haven’t been with anyone but Benjamin.” Not only is Wanda in pain and afraid, but now she’s been labeled a slut!
“The doctor has ordered more tests,” the woman states before marching away. Feeling as if the whole world has rejected her. She rolls to her side, pulling the rough sheet over her shoulders. Severely alone, her insecurity gets the best of her as the knot in her throat wells into a flood of silent tears.
A pregnancy test is administered. Wanda knows that pregnancy is not a possibility. However, to her dismay, the test is positive.
“I had a spontaneous miscarriage,” Wanda states again hoping her expression will declare sovereignty. If she doesn’t lie, she’ll expose the underground organization and herself.
The doctors doubt Wanda’s ability to discern whether she did, in fact, have a miscarriage. When they insist on a laparoscopy so they can ensure nothing remains that must be removed, Wanda panics. Fear grips her beyond any ability for rational thought, "Can I trust them not to remove my uterus while I’m under sedation?" She remembers the historical fact that hysterectomies were administered as a sterilization technique. Wanda shudders at their request for submission to their discretion.
The hospital floor is eerily quiet. Wanda resonates with the fear and control inside the sterile environment. A path to a calm mindset to access her guides alludes her. Alone in her decision, the burden straining every joint, as a creak pierces the spongy nerves between her ears. She could let them take the reins.. The blame of whatever happens would be off her shoulders. "Is she willing to give them the opportunity? What if their decisions ruin her chance to have a baby?" A perpetual exchange between guilt and reason ensues. Giving into them would definitely satisfy Benjamin. Is adoption as an option? Too many questions. Tossed and tumbling, Wanda calls her mother.
“Hello?” The scratchy voice answers. Years of smoking collects in her throat as the phone reaches her mouth.
“Hey, mom? I’m so sorry to wake you.” Wanda admits to herself that she still needs her mother. She criticizes her weakness. Choking down her pride, she continues, “It’s a bit of an emergency.”
“Yah,” her mother says. “I figured. It’s not even light out. What’s going on?”
Wanda recaps, succinctly, and adds, “I don’t want an operation. I don’t trust them.”
“Then don’t.”
“That’s it?”
“No one has ever been able to tell you what to do,” her mother refers to years of failed coersion.. “Why start now? You know who you are. You are the only one that can make this choice. It’s not up to Ben. He’ll sort things out for himself. This isn’t a life-or-death situation. Just take some time and rest. You’ll know what to do.”
“You’re right. There’s no rush.”
“You’ll feel better at home. The hospital is no place to make decisions.” They both laugh alike, which inspires more laughter. Sighing Wanda exclaims, “God, I feel better. Thanks, Mom.”
“You got this, Boo-Boo. Get some sleep and call me when you’re home.”
“I will. Love you.”
“Love you too. Big kiss.” Wanda blows a kiss into the phone. The simple wisdom of her mother never ceases to amaze her. Wanda feels emotionally lighter than she has felt for weeks. It’s still too early to do anything. Perhaps, in a few hours she would return home. Closing her eyes, she refuels for the ordeal ahead.
Her hand trembles as she signs the AMA form as she wishes to leave the hospital against
medical advice. For two days, she’s suffered humiliation and insults from the staff. It is time to return home.
“If you die, the hospital will not accept the liability,” a doctor states.
His words incense her and fuels her intention to live despite their warnings. Wanda turns away in complete defiance. Weak and unable to take a few steps without losing her breath, Wanda walks the five blocks back to her apartment alone. With no emotional support from Benjamin, she only has herself to rely on. Benjamin is ready to hand her over to the butchers to redeem her crime against God.
Several days pass and out of intense curiosity, Wanda requests her medical records from the hospital. She is curious as to why the doctors were so keen to get her on an operating table. Then she remembers the cyst. They found something to imply its existence and were never transparent about what they wanted to cut out.
She forgot all about the mass clinging to life on her ovary. If she cleanses her body, she can heal herself. Within three months of intense dietary restrictions and loads of sleep, the cyst is gone.
For years after that transitional day, Wanda thought about her unborn baby. How old he'd be. What he would look like. What to name him. A young boy would visit her in dreams always showing love and acceptance of her decision. However, Wanda remained guilt ridden.
Unconsciously needing more support to heal the guilt, Wanda conjured the perfect group of other wise women to help. They merged the collective compassion as the meditation ensued. A vision of her son, consumed all time, erasing connection with the bodies around her. There were no words spoken, but an absolute knowing steeped into every cellular particle. The constitution of eternal spirit anchored her conscious mind into a vast reality.
There is no guilt, only the perpetuation of the thought.
The reason for his conception was to show her that it was her right to choose her own path into mothering. No one else. His mission was a success — Wanda took steps to create the reality she needed in order to invite another being into her life. That meditation session ended with Wanda embracing her son within the Light and Love, free from that crushing guilt,