Content Warning: The events described in this piece may disturb some readers.
I woke up to the bright rays of light peaking through the antique wooden, window and the waves vigorously smashing against the ocean rocks. It felt like a typical Sunday morning. I did the same old routine; I took a brief, warm shower, cooked a delicious breakfast for my husband and got started with my chores. As I stood over the blazing fire roasting the breadfruit and boiling the banana, full with my pregnant stomach, my husband sang a soothing lullaby to his soon to be princess. Every word my husband sang the baby would kick.
It was the longest night ever. It was the biggest storm I had ever experienced.
I woke up to nothing but an open space of dark, blue ocean; I was all alone with nothing and no one to hold. My husband and my 1-year-old child were nowhere to be found. What was I to do? There was no land in sight. Just the still, blue waters going on mile after mile. Would I survive? Would this be my last few seconds on earth?
“Honey,” I called out from the bedroom. “I feel it. The baby is on its way.” He sprinted up the marble staircase, leaping over every other step. As he helped me off the bed a rush of dark, red, creamy blood made its way down to my swollen ankles. We looked at each other with the same terrified look. He carried me to the car and drove his way down the freeway faster than a lightning bolt, running every streetlight. Bursting open the swinging hospital doors, screaming in agonizing pain “Help my wife is going into labor.” The hospital went into a split second of silence. The nurse rushed towards me. I felt a sharp pain every 5 seconds. I had a strong feeling that something was definitely wrong. Holding my husband’s hand, we entered the delivery room and the doors swung closed behind us.
A few hours had passed. Holding on to the piece of wood from the wrecked boat, waiting for someone to spot me. I could feel my body slowly freezing in the ice-cold water. I was terrified. Hour after hour went by, fish after fish swam by, wave after wave pushed me closer to the shore. I looked up into the dark gloomy sky and saw an object far across the distance. Was it an image of my desperate need to stay alive? As it came closer the image became less of a blur. It was a helicopter. I screamed and waved hoping that I would be seen.
As I pushed with all my strength, screaming in agonizing pain, I could hear the doctors whispering words of concern. I knew something was wrong when the pain had eased and the room was still silent. I could not hear my child cry. The doctors looked at each other with fear and huddled around my baby. I knew something was wrong when my husband looked at me with watery eyes. As I made eye contact with the doctors, I could feel my heart sink into my chest, It as a stillbirth; as I held my dead child, looking at her vibrant green eyes, tears ran slowly down my cheeks
Screaming at the top of my lungs the helicopter lights focused on me. The rope ladder was lowered down I began to cry tears of joy. I was beyond overjoyed. The rescue team clapped and cheered as I climbed up the ladder. They searched my body for any injuries, gave me water to make sure I wasn’t dehydrated, and interrogated me. I was so overwhelmed by all the questions. I was just worried about my child and my husband. I wondered if they were still alive or if they were even together. The thought of losing them was indescribable. I could feel my heart pounding against my chest with great force.
During the drive home, I was devastated, I could not believe that I had a miscarriage. I sat in the passenger’s seat crying, questioning why this had to happen to me. I got home at about 12 o’clock in the morning. I remember looking up at the moon feeling like I had lost everything. My husband tried everything to make me feel better. He took me to the shore for a walk to clear our minds. The lighthouse light guided us along the path. “What is that?” My husband pointed. “Do you see that?” He said again. From a distance it just looked like a log on the seashore. As we walked closer I began to tremble. We looked down to see a six-foot tall, chubby, pale skinned man, beside him lay a baby. The baby cried, as the man lay there dead. My husband and I could not believe our eyes. The child looked no more than a day old. I took the baby up and held it close to my chest. The baby immediately stopped crying. Holding the baby in my arms just felt right. I felt as if this was a gift from God. If we took the child who would know? We had told no one about the miscarriage. This was perfect. My husband was the lookout while I used a rock to smash the man’s bones into pieces and buried them into the sand. We took the child and walked away, never looking back, and raised the child as our own.
A year had gone by, still no luck finding my husband and my precious child. I was depressed and alone. As I was on my way to my daily therapy appointment, I walked along the busy streets glimpsing at all the happy faces surrounding me. I came across a young girl. She was about a year old. She stood out in the crowd. Her eyes, her green, vibrant eyes, looked me in the face. I knew those eyes. A mother never forgets. I knew that was my baby.