The way the story ends...

 

We all know the way it begins, but do we know the way it ends? The story begins one random day, one normal day, one day like any other. Looking back you can mark that day, pencil it, circle it on a calendar.

 

"A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step." But what about that journey you did not know you were embarking on? The one you are thrown into, with no question, no consultation. The one that you are living now, with no way out, only through.

 

Yes, this could as well be your entire life. You came about the world the day your mom and dad decided to conceive you. You had no choice in the matter. You were born, and you were expected to make the most of it. To deal with it. To live it.

 

But within that story, the novel, lies a number of sub-stories, sub-plots. Some you bring upon yourself, like drinking and driving or choosing a major in college. Others just sneak up on you, take you by surprise and captivate you, like being caught in the war, in a hurricane, on bed rest.

 

You decide to get pregnant. You plan it. You draw the perfect scenario. Write your birth plan. Plan your meals. Chose an exercise routine. Set up your baby registry. Then just be. But one day, something happens and all your plans, get cast aside and you are faced with the present. And you sit, and you wait.

 

That, to me, is called bed rest. And this is what I am facing now. If I am lucky I will get 16 weeks of it, in addition to the 3 I have already been through. If I am less than lucky, I may get a few in before my story ends. My story will end.

 

One day, I will be back on my feet. But how will my life be at that point? I can speculate but not make accurate predictions. I will still have my husband, my daughter and my apartment. My mother and father and in-laws will still be there. My family in Lebanon and in the US will still be around. My friends will still call and stop by. The construction may be over, or it may not. My savings will have diminished some. My weight will have increased. My muscles will have atrophied. My daughter will have grown. I would have grown. A new year might have dawned. A Thanksgiving would have passed. A birthday might have been celebrated. A photo shoot might have occurred, or it might have been missed. And dust would have accumulated. Preparations would have been orchestrated from bed. Laundry done by someone else. Storage raided for the appropriate gear.

 

It would still be Winter.  I would still be me, albeit somehow different. Less attached maybe? More calm? Less restless? A mother of two? That last question is the biggest mystery of all. A mother of two. To me that is the only acceptable ending to my story, but the ending is not something I can write out myself. A mother of two at 30 weeks? 32? 26? 28? Part of me just wants to be a mother of two. The selfish part of me want to be that at 37 weeks. But that may be too much to ask. Maybe I should just content with what I am handed. Maybe I should stick with:

 

"A mother of two. The End."