Fragments, 4

Kuv Niam

You say my name. You call me but you only want to hear my voice. You only want me to say hello. You cannot hold the phone very long. You do not tell me your stories anymore. You only want to hear my voice. You do not know what happened. You cannot see me. You cannot be here. You cannot say any more than hello to me either.

Kuv niam, you heard my voice when I said hello. Did you not hear the sadness in my voice? It is the sadness that you are not you anymore. It is the realization that you are a plastic egg filled with sweet memories, a shell waiting to be cracked open so that we can see what you are carrying.

Kuv niam, she disappeared without even getting to live. Like you, there was so much potential. She would have been like me and you but better. But she did not make it past 7 weeks.

The first time I miscarried, Kuv niam, you said that at my age at that time, you already had x number of children. Many of them died. You said that I should not cry because I did not

even see my child’s eyes like you had seen yours, those that died in your arms, not in your body. They went to sleep and never woke up, like just peacefully sleeping and not talking or singing or laughing. What hurt was that they were not breathing and colorful. Kuv niam, you were right, but there is something else, I am not you and I live in a time and country where technology and medical advances take place. Yet, I just miscarried again for the 4th confirmed time, an ectopic pregnancy. I lost the baby and my remaining fallopian tube.

Kuv niam, what would you have done and how far could you have gone if your mother did not commit suicide when you were a child, if you were able to get an education, or if you had married the one that you loved? What would you have done if you were taught that it is okay to speak your mind and that you have choices? What would you ask for, instead of money, if money is not an issue to you and dad? How many children would you have really had if none of them died and your perceived value is not placed on how many children you have? According to your stories, I gather things would be different. This is a conversation that cannot happen because of how you grew up, how you were treated, and because of how much tolerance you had to sustain to make others happy. Even when you were still strong and able to do things for yourself, you couldn’t hear what I was trying to say. Money is not happiness. Children do not define us or our success. Men do not complete women nor vice versa. 

There is some comfort in knowing that even if you could be here, even if in your most sane and young self, you would not be able to help me much. I somehow already know what you would

say if you could. I can hear you comparing me to you. I could hear you telling me about some other female who is doing well because they are expecting their number x child. My one boy is not enough. Would you feel sad for me, for me, or would you feel sad for me, for you? Why do you and dad place your sole happiness, or worth, in the success of your children. And if our success makes your worth then why were we not invested in better? Food and shelter is not all it takes. What about emotional regulation, values, critical thinking, ethics, etc..

I like your stories, they are intriguing, but your stories are a different kind of dialogue. My fond memories of you are of your kind wide-gummed-smile, the way you watch me with proud eyes when I do something you are proud of, and when you sit next to me in comfort knowing that I will listen to whatever is on your mind. 

What did brother do that made you want to hear my voice to calm and soothe you? I have always done my best for you, that feeling of comfort that I had always provided for you is what you miss, right? What did brother do or not do for you? Brother has always been privileged. You both fostered his hindrance for being independent. Whatever he did, you did not deserve it. Parenting is hard, especially when you have absent parents.

Kuv niam, you are not dead, but you are no longer living. My daughter is not alive, but she is with me. I imagine her often. I think about what I could say to her, how I would teach her, and what we could do together. I imagine that she would be her own hero.

~~~

Some say I look like my mom. According to my calculations, her age in this photo is around the same age as me now, 46.

*This was written a few days after “Eulalia Lus Zoo,” a previous entry/post from years ago.