The Human Touch 2013 - University of Colorado Denver

Misconception ...
Nicole Arevalo
I remember the before time,
Before a choice changed the way
My heart beat and pumped and bled.
Before the face of misfortune became
A familiar shadow that clung to my skin.
I remember us, hands twined, wistful
Wishes that soften a smile into an
Enduring glance. We thought of
Creating life, beginning our own
Family tree became our mission.
Our journey began simple enough.
We moved in synch, matching our
Rhythm. The story of us ripened.
We pursued that biological desire,
With love not misused moments.
I waited and dreamt about—
Tiny fi ngers and tiny toes—
Feather light kisses upon a nose—
Precious blankets, petite clothes
Did I misread the signs?
The fi rst few mishaps caused
Us to stumble, but we endured
Each step, lost, but not without
Direction as we clung to the renewed
Sanguineness of a specialists’ voice.
I became a puppet, tied to tools of
Infertile idealism. I traded in my faith
Filling in the missing pieces with pills,
Pregnant words, injections, becoming
A pincushion with mercurial moods.
Each month hope waned as I
Became a suppliant, calling
Down the moon so that the
Tides could keep the fl ood at bay,
But the prayers were misspent on me.
I became defi ned by my failures,
Hard and stiff like the bite of a
Mistral passing through the Rhone.
Sadness morphed into melancholy.
Disappointment became harrowing.
My life changed, as did the vocabulary
Upon which I stood. Simple to complex.
Possible evolved into impossible.
Fertility became barren ground. Did I
Regret my choice? Was it a mistake?
Months fl owed into years like
Warmth returning to an ice touched land.
I endured each new sound dawn made.
I survived spoken words about life,
But I was no longer me. I was a misfi t.
I was now part of a group whose
Miscarriages and misfortunes bound
Them together in solidarity, but
Whose voices were often muted
Against the landscape of a taboo topic.
Society picks at my scabs, saying I malinger.
They refuse to acknowledge this disease,
My uninvited guest, my unseen stalker,
Who walks in my shade, never allowing
Me the freedom of remission.
Infertility exists. We exist. I exist.
We survivors, we courageous women
Who push through the ashes
Of this misadventure to subjugate
Our depression and live again.
PG 138
PG 139