Umbilical

Deepa Kamath

I stand in the shower, skin lathered and glistening. Shampoo, soap and steam

conspire to create a deceptively simple routine. This has been the birthplace of

bright ideas and optimistic resolutions, the sanctum of my most profound grief

and complicated closures. Tears flow effortlessly when they blend in with running

water and inspiration arrives when you are no longer waiting.

Sometimes, when I bathe at noon, a stray sunbeam sneaks in through the window

overhead, splitting into a resplendent rainbow, as it dances amidst the droplets.

Yesterday at midnight, that same window was battered by rain; it’s rhythmic

white noise, serenading and soothing me, as I washed myself clean.

Standing now under its steady, predictable stream, it occurs to me that I can no

longer see my toes. I haven’t been able to in a while really, my growing belly

getting increasingly in the way. As I contemplate its taut roundness, I begin to

notice faint twitches within. A kick? It repeats itself. Hiccups, perhaps? I wait and

wonder if they’re real, or imagined. The guidebooks tell me that it should feel like

popping corn, or the flutter of a butterfly wing. Another twitch. Unmistakable.

Real. And yet, nothing adequately describes the sensation of that very first

movement. In an instant, I am made aware of a bond - old as the ages, but unique

to the two of us - tying me eternally to the unborn baby in my tummy. It seems

appropriate that this communion unfolds in the sacred space of my shower.

Until today, being pregnant has remained largely hypothetical. The pink line on

my over-the-counter pregnancy test first indicated that I was. My blood work

confirmed it. The ultrasound endorsed it. Weeks of nausea and exhaustion,

attested to it. But tests and symptoms weren’t nearly enough for my mind and

soul to absorb the monumental changes taking place within my body. Feeling a

movement, hearing a heartbeat, those are palpable.

The days and months after spotting that thin pink line were exhilarating and

excruciating. At thirty-seven, I felt like I had just barely learnt how to keep myself

clothed and fed and not yet entirely out of harms way. By a stroke of luck, I had

met the gentlest man in the universe, and shown the good sense to marry him,

even if it meant moving continents. But until this moment, every aspect of my life

had felt reversible and undoable. If it didn’t fit, I could and would, return it. Even

to commitment-phobic me, it was exceedingly clear that you couldn’t send babies

back to where they came from. The prospect of impending parenthood struck

untold terror in my heart.

Yet today, I feel him move and that very heart skips a beat. I look down again at

my stomach and notice my belly button, protruding, pulsating. I realize that it

once linked me, inextricably, reassuringly, to my own mother. It still does. It

always will. As I wipe myself dry, I know that I may never be ready. But for this

one moment, I can be. And maybe the next.