How many mothers out there suffer on Mother’s Day or on anniversaries of abortions?
In 2012, on Mother’s Day I fell on the path to the front door in broad view, slamming my left wrist down on a glass bottle as it was simultaneously breaking on the concrete walk. My son, who was inside the house, immediately presented himself to the scene with his self and the car keys and drove me to the ER where I got several stitches and a wrist brace to guard the wound. It was the visible wound of my life until recently, when everything started to break or tear from ill use.
Embarrassingly, the bottle I fell on was a laxative product, God seemed to be telling me something. I got a tetanus shot on a date I could remember so it wasn’t all bad. I nursed my wound while driving my son around to graduation parties. Let’s not go here.
Now, he’s in rehab and I’m in long term acute care at a unique program for this back up North in Pennsylvania where I don’t fit but I have to make things work. I just do, that’s all. My son is in the same boat with rehab and life at my mother and father’s bizarre little country place, a rehabilitative ancient cottage that was the heart of a farming complex some three hundred year’s old. They sold the larger, more modern home a while back and moved into the smaller home after spending years piecing back together two smaller buildings with putty and hammer and nails. It took ten years or so. It was a labor of love.
Today is Mother’s Day and I am reflecting on the two abortions and the child I unconsciously carved out a place for in my world of psych meds, cigarettes, and coffee, but never had. Dorothy Day, who was being considered for sainthood last time I looked at it, had an abortion. Last night I was praying to her at last in horrible desperation, she said that she always regretted the abortion through her dying day, and that discouraged me but when I went to her in my need and in trust that day , yesterday I did find relief and I left myself open to the feelings, I was ravished by them but in it I at last found rest. Peace.