Brown: For Fathers All, the “mysterium” of the lima bean
Last night, eating Chinese rice noodles and veggies, I had a Proustian moment, a modern-day version of Marcel Proust’s madeleine.
It was a moment of fascination, and then sadness. All because of a lima bean.
I held the lima bean on my fork, lightly, gingerly, and another moment decades past softly came back to me.
It was a moment in Bryn Mawr Hospital, perhaps 1984, and I was in recovery after undergoing a dilation and curettage, D-and-C, following the first of what would be three miscarriages.
Along with the memory came the sound of the woman sobbing in the hospital bed next to mine.
She, too, suffered a miscarriage, and the choice of the word “suffered” is apt.
This was to be her first child – for me, it would have been number five.
So, back to the lima bean. I was at home, approximately eight weeks pregnant, and bleeding from my womb had started, dark, black blood.
Although I had birthed four children at Booth Maternity Hospital, my pre-natal care was set up at The Birth Center on County Line Road in Bryn Mawr, proximate to Bryn Mawr Hospital.
The OB/GYN assigned to me when I called in to report my condition told me to catch the bloody mass and obtain the fetus.
Following her directive, I did so, thus the lima bean. It was a remarkable moment, unlike any other in my life.
I called to my husband, and showed him what I had in my hand. The little bean of a life almost looked back at us as I held it reverentially.
Visible were two tiny eyes, small nubs for hands, and the core of a body in the making.
I did not know if the young woman in our shared recovery room had the same moment at home with her own little lima bean, experiencing a life almost palpable and fascinating.
Then, with each sobbing from her, however, I said a silent prayer that she, someday soon, would conceive and carry full-term a beautiful baby, to bypass the sadness and grief which so deeply broke her heart that day.
For me, two miscarriages later, seven years between baby number four and baby number five, I did birth a third son at The Birth Center.
Prior, due to my age, it was strongly recommended that I should schedule an amniocentesis. I dragged my feet in doing so, but did undergo the procedure with Nancy Roberts, a top doc at Lankenau Hospital.
In my mind and spirit at that late date, I had decided, whatever the results, that I would carry the baby to term, and not schedule an abortion in the face of some irreversible defect.
Well, as it turned out, the amnio fluid was contaminated in the lab, with no results at all. So I turned to prayer and good vibrations.
On November 20, 1989, at The Birth Center, I did give birth to a healthy baby, weighing close to nine pounds.
Then resting quietly after delivery, the thought of the sobbing woman came back to me.
In the medical world, a miscarriage is named a natural abortion. I do not like the term. Indeed, there is a reason that the fetus dies, albeit not always knowable to the parents and doctors.
On this Father’s Day, we can sympathize with the women and their partners who suffer through miscarriages, but we can also celebrate the persistence of life, and love, and the gift of children.
In “Fatherly Advice,” Maya Angelou explores the deep relationship between a father and his child, reflecting on the wisdom imparted by her own father and the enduring impact it had on her life.
This sweet poem captures the lasting influence of a father’s guidance and the profound bond forged through love and wisdom.
Angelou here highlights the enduring and irreplaceable impact of a father’s lessons, reminding us that their words and support continue to shape our lives even after they are gone.
“When I was young,
You held my hand,
Whispering advice,
Like a gentle breeze.
You taught me love,
With every word,
Your voice a melody,
I’ll always remember.
You taught me strength,
Through life’s trials,
A rock by my side,
Never faltering.
Your love, a shield,
Protecting my heart,
Guiding my steps,
Through life’s maze.
Father, your advice,
Still echoes in my soul,
For even in death,
Your words will live on.”
Mary Brown, a weekly columnist for Main Line Media News, teaches Latin at Saint Joseph’s University.
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