The Messiah Who Might Have Been

I’m already nine weeks old. Two weeks ago, she didn’t know that I existed, but she was worried about a vague pregnancy. As far as I could tell, she had three girlfriends – Zina, Valentina and Olga – and she told all of them: „I think I’m in serious trouble.“

To be honest, I didn’t realize at first that she was talking about me. When she called Olga from the editorial office, Olga didn’t get it at first either.

„Mila, what’s up? What do you mean, ‘you’re in trouble’?…VD?“

„No such luck. Olya, it looks like I got knocked up.“

„Really?! When did it happen?“

„I think…“ she started doing the math. „…about seven weeks ago. Maybe earlier. I’ve been late often, so I didn’t figure it out right away.“

„Are you sure? Maybe you should go to the doctor?“

„I know it without the doctor. All the signs are there. The nausea, the colostrum… I’ll have to get another abortion.“

I shuddered, hearing that abominable word. She reacted immediately when she felt my emotion. „Excuse me, Olya, I don’t feel well,“ she said gruffly and hung up the phone, grabbing at her throat with both hands.

I realized that I’d been found out – now she knew for sure that there was another life glimmering under her heart. Maybe this was for the best; she would calm down and give up her wild life.

I knew that I existed before she knew it. Modern medicine erroneously considers a child’s date of birth to be the day he or she comes into the world, although it does not deny that the embryo’s heart is already beating at four months. This means that even before the officially recognized date of birth, the fetus is a living being, gathering enough strength so that five months later it can break out of its shell and begin to live in a new world.

I gathered this information when Mila (that’s my Mama’s name) was studying The ABC’s for Pregnant Women. This book even included my name, Embryo. I don’t like it – it sounds pretentious – but I don’t want to argue over trifles. Let them give me whatever name they like. Even Fetus. I don’t care.

The book says that a woman who is about to become a mother should take care of her future child’s health by eating well, avoiding psychological stress and spending more time outdoors. Alcohol, nicotine, excessive physical exertion and strict diets are off limits to pregnant women.

Going by the book’s recommendations, if one were to rate Mila’s readiness for changes in life on a scale of one to five, she wouldn’t get any higher than a two. I don’t mean to complain about the food, although I’ll admit I’m already sick of French fries. Of course it wouldn’t hurt if my Mama varied the menu, but I won’t get hung up on food. There are more substantial problems. Besides Mila’s harmful predilections for alcohol and smoking that have haunted me from the moment of conception, there is now a third enemy: nervous breakdowns.

There’s nothing I can do for her; she’s in no condition to control her feelings. Her stresses are my headaches. If she’s not able to build a soundproof wall around her heart and protect herself from unnecessary suffering, I’ll have to take care of myself. So far, this is just a declaratory statement. We are joined by a single thread, and I am powerless to change anything. If she sneezes, I tremble as if there were an earthquake. If she becomes nervous, I grow faint from the stuffiness.