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Friday, October 30, 2009

Frankenstein Finds Hope in An Envelop

Yesterday I asked my Mom to put her cells in an envelop with mine and send them to a lab in Michigan. I had the CaBRI Medical Center envelops on my desk for nearly a year and could not bring myself to ask her. As much as I want to pull the dark covers away and expose what happened in the bright light of day, its so hard to talk to her. It's nothing terrible. I mean, its the creation of a child, but somehow it makes me feel guilty to push her for information. This is not the story that gets told online and in those happy Dateline reports but I believe it is actually very common.

I think my Mom sees herself as my sole creator in so many ways. She is not my only parent, she is married to my Dad and while he is my father he is not genetically related to my creation. Here's where the contemplation gets a bit sticky - while its physcologically exceptable for the human conscious to think of itself as the sole creator of another being, the mind is perplexed by the idea that we are created solely by one. The idea of "one creator" is not at all new, I mean look at literature from Frankenstein to Jesus Christ to Roman Mythology, we have all these examples of a child coming from just one parent. Laughably its typically only from men, but I won't even start on that rant.

I remember reading the story of Athena springing from the head of Zeus in college and laughing out loud that Ma must have seen it that way. She does not know who that other individual is, she does not know his name, his face or the swagger of his walk. So its easy to feel like I just grew inside her like magic, like the immaculate conception, like an ameba that just popped off her side through fission.

I remember asking her one day, "Ma, what about me is different? What do you see in me that makesyou say, 'this does not come from me'"

She just sat there for a moment and looked like she was honestly contemplating the question, scanning me for signs of "him" and she came up with nothing.

I crinkled my brow and looked at her in disbelief, "honestly Ma?"

She thought again.

"Well, I don't know where you get the big feet and small boobs from, but other than that, no, nothing." Of course only the undesirable things could be "other" and that makes things even more convenient. Anytime you stumble on some bad characteristic you just chalk it up to the sperm.

All humor aside, I don't fault her for the perspective and I know how much she loves me. It's her way of dealing with an issue that I can't personally resolve. I won't quote Frankenstein here, I did that enough in college, but the chapters on the woes of his creation definitely come to mind. It's important to note that Frankenstein is the name of the creator, not his beastly creation whom we fear so much. I read and examined the text throughout college and my heart was just ripped out for the beast. I felt his tumult, his confusion. I did not relate to anything evil he did but I could see how he felt such loss. I can understand how the idea of just one parent rather than an entire identity could frustrate you to insanity.

So in those small pieces of us, placed in an envelope and shipped to MidWest, I too began the path to pull together something of separate human pieces, an identity, a creator, a reason for my small breasts :) and big feet.

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