seeing him again—we both do. He gently pats the coldness of my arm.
“Pat, pat, rub, rub. God loves you, Daddy loves you.”
The strength we need comes to us through him.
We keep wandering.
The resident is trying to insert the spinal tap. The room is all stainless-steel instruments and nurses in flimsy light-blue uniforms holding me down. My family isn’t here with me, it’s just the medical staff, they’re talking at me and touching me but not listening. They insist that everything’s okay, but it isn’t. My screams hit the ceiling but nobody seems to notice. The resident keeps stabbing into me again and again.
Her voice is low but demanding.
“Take your hands off my Ruthie. Do not touch her again.”
She comes to me, shows up for me when nobody else can.
The doctor takes his hands off me, the nurses back away, scrubs swishing softly together, and they make space for her. She walks toward me as the gang dissolves, lifts me from the bed into her arms. My neck brace groans as I bury my head into the safety and protection of her shoulder and she carries me away.
We travel to the bathroom floor in the pretty yellow house. I’m curled into a ball staring into the white, empty window of a negative pregnancy test through tears that rise in my eyes faster than they can fall. The familiar cramps have already begun, the monthly hunger pangs of an empty womb. She brings my body into hers and holds me while I weep.
“Oh, beautiful soul! I know this is so hard, I’m so sorry, but dear Ruthie, you are a mother and you will get to mother so many in this life,” she whispers.
She takes my hand again. “This will hurt, but you’re ready.”
My mind and body are coming undone: I’m in Little Lile’s room wide awake at 3 a.m., staring at the Tiger clock as it stares back at me, begging myself to fall asleep and forget to wake up. She appears again. She lies down next to me and sings me to sleep with the sweetest songs; she holds my shaking body still and reminds me, “You’re not alone. I’m here for you—I’m inside you and around you and I always will be. You are never alone.”
I blink at her with my wide, exhausted eyes.
“You’re not broken, you are whole. Healing and hope are for you; a full and joyful life is for you.”
We return to so many moments, so many traumas and hurts I’ve tried to erase. We handle each one with tenderness, covering it in love and mercy, leaving the most sacred scars. We unravel my traumatic stories and write new ones; we retell them with kindness and grace.
Before she leaves, we travel one last time. We go back to the big blue house. My marriage is ending. Jack is sitting across from me on the couch, eyes dry and distant. She sits next to him. His face warms when he feels her there and he smiles. She begins to speak to him for me.
“Jack, I wanted a baby more than I wanted you. I’m so sorry. You are a good man. You will be a husband and a father and you are worthy of the truest, most abundant, profound love. Don’t carry this ending as shame; let it instead be a peace that lifts you.”
They walk to the front door and stand in an embrace for a long time, staring and smiling and holding lovingly on to each other. She squeezes him tight and releases him. He walks outside.
I watch the door shut slowly behind him and walk into her open arms. We sway together under the sky-high ceilings.
“I know it hurts, but this pain will be what releases you, what cracks you open and makes space for joy and healing and purpose. You’re going to help people, my sweet girl. Remember, you are love.”
Her warm skin brushes up to mine as she cradles my face in her hands and looks at me with the most tender, compassionate eyes. We say it together as an affirmation:
“I am not broken, I am whole, I am loved, I am love.”
Then she leaves me, but I don’t feel alone at all.
A future I’ve been afraid to imagine unfolds in the strange, dreamy space. The ability to heal and comfort and love myself becomes clear, and I can see the joyful life it will bring:
I’m going to heal.
I will have a partner one day.
I’m worthy.
I can feel the Divine with me.