The Thin Blue Line

How can something so small have such impact? One line means no, two lines means yes. This mark would change my life forever. Two minutes had never passed by so slow in my life. Yet, even as the thin blue line appeared in one and then two windows, somehow, I already felt it, like I feel when my mother’s about to call or when I have the exact same thought as another person.

Another person. Oh God.

Surprise. Then panic. Then tears. Then peace. Life, within me. Excitement. Or was that morning sickness?

Somehow, I already knew everything that would transpire. Happy as I was, some apprehension lay dormant in the back of my mind, like the front door you’re positive you locked it tight, but it nags you throughout the day. And soon I would come home, and the door would in fact be unlocked, and somehow I knew it would be—because all day I had falsely convinced myself that I locked it properly.

Enough of analogies. Let’s get to the real stuff. The dirty, heart-wrenching, heart-breaking stuff that one can’t say unless one incises their mind, soul, and body to bleed the story out of themselves. Life grew within me and I was happy albeit a little scared. Apprehensive, that is, about whether I could do what a mother does and give up the things a mother has to. Yet, I kept looking at that thin blue line with wonder. And I felt peace. Then I saw death at my bedside, solemn, expectant. Then I bled after making love. And then, I bled again, even after such care. But I bled slowly. On and on.

The nurse said

Mom said

The doctor said

They all said not to worry.

These reassurances were postponements and I accepted them politely. But I was already letting go before I knew why I had to.

The day I ached was the day dormant apprehension awoke. After two physical examinations, hours of morphine, and an ultrasound, I bled like I have never bled before. And the promise—no—the life in that thin blue line faded away.