Dear Post Secret

This was written for a contest called "Confessions" on a different site. It is based on truth but written as fiction. Not my own truth, by the way.

Dear Post Secret,

Nineteen years ago, I had a son. Nineteen years later, I wish he'd never been born.

I suppose I began wishing this years ago, before he was even born, actually. I was content, just my husband and myself, living in our humble abode. No way was a child going to ruin my dream.

I refused to accept my pregnancy even when the symptoms were all there; the morning sickness, the disgusting bloating and pain, the intense bitchiness; It was terrible. Only when that b*****d of a doctor told me the unwanted truth did I believe it. And I hated him, almost as much as I hated the beast that was growing inside me.

My husband was elated by the news, but I was enraged; So enraged, in fact, that I tossed myself from the stairs. My husband thought I tripped, and he was in hysterics about the baby. I, on the other hand, hoped it hadn't survived the fall. My heart fell when the doctor said the child was okay; My attempts were in vain. I would've tried again too, but my husband wanted this child so badly, and his beliefs went so strongly against abortion. I was stuck with the demon, and I would do anything to get rid of this intruder.

I have never been fond of alcohol or drugs, but I utilized them throughout my pregnancy. I figured this would harm the baby into nonexistence, or at least cause the child to be taken away from me. My husband is no idiot, and he found out about my substance abuse. He threatened to leave me if I didn't get clean, and he began to despise me for hurting our child. I couldn't have him hate me for I loved him more than anyone, and he was my everything. I stopped with the drugs, and I had to go to counseling so I could keep the baby. I lied so much to that therapist, because if I told him how I really felt, they would definitely take the baby away.

Seven months later, when the child was born, I refused to look at him. I knew how ill he was, and I figured if the baby didn’t survive, I wouldn’t care. He was so small, only two pounds, and he was so broken. For the first few months of his life, he lived on a respirator in a see-through box, his little organs fighting hard to keep him alive. Once, he crashed, and they called a code blue. I thought he was a goner, even hoped he was, but he survived. If he had died, it would've been all my fault, but I didn’t even care.

One evening, I woke up and saw my son for the first time. A nurse had brought his incubator into my room, thinking I would like his company. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but I fell in love with him immediately. He was so beautiful, so perfect, and my heart sank. If he died, it would be all my fault, and I would care.

He lived, and he was healthy for the first few years of life, but by the age of three, I noticed the bruises. My husband and I fought and fought, thinking the other was hurting our child. He hated me, and I hated him, until the news was revealed; Cancer. Our son was suffering from cancer.

This became our life. We lived and breathed chemotherapy, radiation, and medical jabber. My number one goal was to keep my son feeling well, holding his hand as he threw up or cried. I was determined to keep this previously unwanted child alive, because now, I wanted nothing more than that. My child had become my life.

My son was four when the cancer disappeared, and I was able to breathe again. Everything was going to be okay, and everything was for eight years. That’s when we heard the word; Relapse.

The second fight lasted another year, and my son’s normal childhood was ripped away from him. My heart broke when his hair fell out. It shattered when he told me no one wanted to be friends with the "sick kid." I wanted to make it all better for him, but I was powerless.

Now my son is nineteen, and the cancer has appeared thrice. This time, he won’t survive. The chemotherapy is destroying him, and the radiation will do the same. He's on the marrow list, but this alone won’t help; He needs other transplants too, and the chances of him getting them are slim to none. As I write this, I sit in his little hospital room. He is asleep, and has been for a couple of weeks now. I think of that day, many years ago; He was so small, and he was fighting so hard to stay alive. It's the same now, except he is ninety pounds heavier; still small, frail, broken. The machines breathe for him, pump blood for him. If I shut them off right now, he would die. Then again, he’s dying already. It hurts to say it, but I know it’s true. I don’t even know how much longer I will have him.

Nineteen years ago, I didn’t want this son. Nineteen years later, I want him more than anything, and I would do anything to have him forever. I still wish he had never been born, but for different reasons now. If he had never existed, he never would have felt this pain. I never would have felt this pain. I wouldn’t be having my child taken away from me. A piece of my heart wouldn’t be breaking off. I wouldn’t have to bury a son.

I did this to myself, I know. I wished him gone, and now, later rather than sooner, I’m getting my wish. Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it.

Author's Note

Do you think I developed the character nicely, or could it use some work?