Hysterectomy was such a frightening word. But that word had became Mary's world as she became one with it once more. On the morning of John's birth, her brother James had found her on the floor, around an hour after she collapsed. He had cried into her body and sobbed into the phone. They had been airlifted to a hospital in western France from her and Francis' matrimonial home in the east. And neither had left for a month.
Miscarriage couldn't be stopped. But hemorrhage and septicaemia could be. With the baby gone, his mother was put in a coma for three weeks, stubbornly clinging to life when her body just wanted to slip away and be with her child.
Two days after, Francis appeared in the hospital. He was disheveled and running on adrenaline alone. He had begged his half brother in law to tell him what happened to his wife, but all James did was throw hands until security pulled him away from the blonde haired vixen and over to the chair beside Mary's bed. Francis sat on the other side, holding his wife's hand and begging her awake. But Mary did nothing. She could do nothing. She was basically dead.
Slowly, Mary was weaned off the machines one by one. Her eyes opened two weeks later, two blue orbs being the first thing the blackened eyes saw after so long of being asleep. She made choked noises of recognition, her body so limp and weak she could barely get it to move. But she held his hand and blinked her consciousness. And that was enough.
Enough until the young woman was finally coherent enough to understand what happened, of course. Miscarriage and infection being the least of their worries. Hysterectomy being the word that frightened her almost back to where she was.
For the rest of her life, she'd have to watch her husband and her friend with their baby, with it being physically impossible to have one of her own. And the only one she had, she lost. She was destined to be forever alone, always on the outside looking in.
How she had screamed and cried when they told her the news. Francis had tried to comfort her, holding her close and saying that there were other options available to them to have a child of their own, but it was fruitless. She had thrown such a fit that stitches had been burst and ripped open, sedation being stabbed into her body, her limbs restrained and bound to the rails. It was heartbreaking and devastating, but the final blow came nine days later.
Waking up from the sedation of another small procedure, the happy family sat by her bedside. Francis held her hand, Lola sat by her feet, baby John in her arms.
They had spoken to her in serious tones, but she numbly tuned them out. She stared out the window as their words blurred into a drone. Grief and pain and numbness threatened to break her. But there was nothing left to break. She was dry and hollow, empty and just broken.
Lola had spoke of how she wanted to be her son's mother, but she was young and vulnerable and afraid. Francis wanted to be a father to his little boy, and she accepted that, but she couldn't be the best mother to her boy at that time. But she, Mary on the other hand, could be that mother. Married and stable, desperately wanting a child of her own, and Lola was willing to give up her baby to make her happy.
Mary said one word.
"No."
She was released some weeks later. Francis drove her home in silence, gently holding her hand and they crossed the country to make it to their home. Mary stared out the window longingly, her heart sore and her mind numb and empty. The other hand lay upon the stitches and bandages all around her abdomen, covered by the largest pair of sweatpants and one of Francis' hoodies. Their relationship had taken a turn for the worst when Mary refused to adopt John, saying no more on the matter. When Francis brought it up, Mary shot it down. She simply didn't have the strength to raise her husband's illegitimate child and love it as if it were her own, when her own and only chance to be a mother was ripped away from her, dead in the cold earth. He wanted her to, Lola wanted her to. But Mary simply couldn't.
They got home that night. Francis helped her slowly situate herself upstairs, being gentle of her pain and slowly carrying her up to their bed. He lay her down and kissed her head, giving her some painkillers before leaving to get her bags and medication.
They settled into their new routine of silence and grief. He took care of her as much as she would let him, but on the days when he was with Lola and the baby, Mary was left alone.
Francis made his choice.
And so, Mary made hers.
She sat down comfortably in the place where her son died, a blade in her hands. She looked upon that silver thing for what felt like hours, simply staring at it in silence. And when she smiled, she looked up to the sky, bringing blade to wrist.
A child needed his mother, after all.
