Monday, January 12, 2009
A Form of Relief
Sometimes when I pick up Sherlock's poop, a part of me is relieved when it's the firm, relatively dry, well-constituted kind, even though it feels disturbingly warm through the plastic bag, and not the runny (and yet, not runny enough) mush that forces me to evaluate the boundary of my duties as a good citizen to clean up after him. So that's how it felt when I learned that our last baby had trisomy 21 and would have had Down's Syndrome had I carried him to term. (And yes, it was a boy.) A part of me was relieved that we weren't forced to make a decision that no couple would ever want to make, even as we demand the right to make the decision in the first place. Another part of me was relieved that the baby was inherently defective, that it wasn't my body that caused the demise, even though my body created his chromosomal defect in the first place.
These are funny forms of relief, when something so shitty comes with a discount tag and a reminder that it could have been so much worse.