There is nothing as beautiful as a young child. Full of innocence, goodness, pure and as Professor Utonium of Power-Puff Girls may say, “Made of sugar, spice and everything nice”. They are a symbol of goodness and everything good about this world. That’s why the news of a pregnancy brings much joy to all the parties concerned and calls for a celebration and merriment. This is especially so when the thought of having a child of one’s own had been washed away by twenty-first century medicine, led by aYaleUniversity educated man with a white labcoat, and all the modern hospital equipment that portended that a bundle of joy was an impossibility, a cul-de-sac.
This paper is about this miracle. I call it a miracle because it was a miracle, a marvel that cannot be explained or described by any other name other than a big miracle. This essay is about the journey, but I cannot narrate the journey without mentioning the rocking chair that made it all possible. This essay will be about the rocking chair that made me possible despite the many forces that had prognosticatedthe opposite.
The Rocking Chair
If the number of times my mother was told she could not get pregnant were to be counted and converted to money, then my mother would have been a rich but childlesswoman. Add to it, the number of times that she was told she could not maintain a pregnancy past the first trimester, let alone nine months and my mother would still be childless but a very rich woman. However, this is, but far from the life-script of my mother that was crafted by, I don’t know who, but it was definitely not the doctors who always gave her that disheartening message.
Far from what the doctors had aforesaid, my mother became pregnant. The joy was abounding, so am told, and the news was meet with much elation and glee, again so am told. However, it seemed the doctors were not done with bad news for my mother. They were there to as always, pour cold water to the big dream that was me. The diagnosis was that my mother could not maintain a pregnancy to full term; at most it would be three months. Nevertheless, my mother was obstinate; my dream would be realized. The doctorswere not remotely aware that my mother was not only pregnant with baby, but was expectant and heavy with hope, positivity and determination. After all, that would not be the first diagnosis from twenty-first century medicine to be invalidated by something as simple as hope and determination.
The rocking chair came conveniently and expediently during this time. The pregnancy being uncomfortable for my mother, the rocking chair offered her a welcomed rest for her to unwind, lighten up and feel assured that all will be well. The rocking chair provided her the much needed breather that seemed to slurpaway the stress from her body and the little impossibility that was growing in her womb. For six months, the rocking chair provided a sanctuary for my mother, being her companion and faithful friend in the journey to disapprove modern medicine and several years of Yale University education. It seemed to understand her fears and worries, and like a mother it took the fears and worries away and instead provided assurances that everything would be okay. And it never disappointed, nine months later the impossibility was made possible, and several years later, the dream that the rocking chair made possible, sits infront of another twenty-one century invention typing down this personal essay.
To me and my mother the rocking chair was not simply a chair to sit and have rest. It stood for something more. It stood for hope, optimism, expectation and chance. It made the impossible look possible, the ridiculous seem sensible, and the preposterous, workable. It was the face of unbounded possibilities. It represents me, the miracle that happened to my parents.
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