Rachel Hewitt-Hall
My womb, a room to house a priceless gift —
a safe place, a happy space,
full of hope and dreams to come.
A home for the small ones I could not keep, or meet.
The names I never got to use out loud.
No one to ever call me Mummy.
No body, no grave to grieve.
My body was supposed to know how to hold on.
Now it's an expert in letting go.
Now there's not even an empty room —
just a room that's empty.
I finally gave birth, but not to a baby.
Instead, to a gnarly, bulky uterus,
cyst-ridden ovaries, twisted fallopian tubes.
Fibroids hitched a ride too —
Spider-Man had spun his sticky webs
all over my insides.
Certainly no superhero in this story.
Blown up inside, left to look like a mother
in her third trimester.
How ironic. How cruel.
And now I'm left with relief
and grief,
and nowhere for it to go.
My hollow insides healing —
not just from surgery,
but from years of physical and mental pain.
And so a new door opens
where many have closed before.
Another room. Unfamiliar territory.
This one looks kinder, gentler,
more welcoming —
a room for grief,
and hope,
and freedom.
