Beloved Nothingness

L05 - eucalyptus

November 4, 1991

Dearest Chris,

Your poor mother is not doing well. I woke up today and my milk was completely dry. Quitting all at once was one of the most painful choices I've ever suffered through - I paid for it with mastitis, which is an expensive cost. Iskra told me to pump occasionally to avoid this, but nothing horrified me more than draining milk, your lifeblood, just to be poured down the drain. With no baby to suckle or need me, what's the point? I have no idea what they're feeding you, but Anya certainly isn't lactating. I always wanted my child to have breastmilk rather than formula. I know, I know as long as you are healthy and alive that it's fine, but I read a book about all the benefits that it has for an infant. I wanted that intimacy with you, Chris, to keep you alive with nothing but my body for a little bit longer. You can understand why I wanted that, can't you?

I miss you so much, sweetheart. I can't sleep at night. I can't focus in class, all of the girls on the team gave up on me weeks ago. I'm no fun at all. My body is sore and tired and foreign, my mind is a murky lake, and I never want to do anything with them. They could always count on me. While I am without Garald and craving you, I am nothing. It's starting to horrify me - am I even a person in my own right without others, my boys?

I officially moved out of my dorm and back in with dad because I can't do it. I can't deal with them asking why I never come out, I can't try to hide how I cry in the shower when I see my changed body with no baby to show for this labor, or when I try to sleep without you and I spend the whole night screaming, and I can't keep explaining myself to other people anymore. Dad and Iskra don't ask questions but I know that I worry them more than they would ever say.

I hope you're doing well. You're not even a month old and I'm sure you've already forgotten my face, and my voice, and scent - if I held you again you would think that I was a stranger. You would clamor for him, or for Anya, your lonely mother forgotten and foreign.

You will grow up with a Russian accent, maybe learning English when you're older and in school. That horrifies me. You are just as American as you are Russian and I hate that they're stripping you of half your identity. I grew up without a heritage and it can break a person.

Aurora is just about the only thing holding me together, my sister. She's around your age, and sometimes if it's especially bad, I'll pretend she's you. I dress her in blue and hold her close, eyes shut so I can only focus on the weight of her on my chest.

But she smells of talcum powder and lavender shampoo. Her hair and eyes are light. Her cries are different, mewling. You could wake a whole city with your roar, Chris.

I would kill for you, that soothing eucalyptus lotion and milk scent, your dark hair and dark blue eyes, your strong and desperate cries. You entered the world screaming like I'd never heard and I would slit my own throat if I could hear it again while I bled.

I'm growing morbid, and I wouldn't want to worry you. I'm sure you're wincing, embarrassed by your crazy mother who lost her mind when she lost you. You were a loss, Chris. It's not getting easier. I miss you more and more with each day and it's so hard to make myself continue. Please, I'm begging you, please remember that I didn't want this. You are my son, no matter what, and I am your mother forever and always. I hope you can forgive me.

Your Mama,

Annabel Edwards