Two years ago, I observed Yom Kippur in protest. After almost one year of fertility treatments, I suffered a major miscarriage three days before the significant fast day. For three days I vomited and bled, knowing that I had not achieved the pregnancy I so desperately desired. When Yom Kippur itself arrived, I spent approximately five seconds address the heavens and said, "You know what I want," and then refused to enter a synagogue or open a prayer book. I did fast, because that superstitious part of my upbringing would not consider any other action, no matter how angry I might have been at the Greater Universe.
Last year, I fasted on Yom Kippur to try to convince my daughter that conditions outside the womb might be better than inside. The baby was pushing on my hips and coccyx, and the OB-GYN was threatening to induce labour, and so I abstained from eating and drinking. I spent the day alternatively talking to my stomach and talking to G-d, asking for the gift of love and kindness for this life I carried, for this soul I could not wait to meet in person.
Of course my strong-willed daughter ignored the obvious withholding of nutrients and arrived four days later, when she was ready, exactly nine months to the day she was conceived.
This year on Yom Kippur, I will be nursing Raphaela, in between negotiations for a solid and fruitful year for myself and my child. And I will be planning Raphaela's first birthday party.
May we all be inscribed onto G-d's "nice" list this year.
1 comment:
So G-d has a nice list like Santa? That's so cool to know. I love your blog, you inspired me to write one too. Give the baby a kiss for me!
Post a Comment