When I was a kid, I loved creating things with Lego blocks. I remember working on a little construction project and putting my creativity to test with various pieces in many shapes and colors. My mother would get upset when she stepped on one of those pieces barefoot at my negligence to properly put them away once completed. The karma I received manifested in the form of my little sister wreaking havoc on my plastic buildings before they were completed. Whenever one of my projects comes to and end before its completed, can be enough to drive me insane. As the foundation for the project being to take shape. The toy slabs laid, the frames erected, I began to see how the image from the lego box would be assembled before my very eyes. But to my dismay, that came to an end when my toddler sister dismantled my not-so-carefully staged area and beginning of my masterpiece.
I came back to find the pieces all over the room. The frame destroyed, the little lego man in the Barbie house, and key pieces missing only to be found later that evening when my mom would step on one barefooted. I was scolded for being negligent in my storing of my toys. Instead of crying that my little sister was the culprit, I just accepted the blame and the disapproval. It would take too much effort to explain what really happened, and what difference would it make throwing my little sister under the bus? I could take the disdain and move on with my life. I could take the destruction of my project and move on to create more elaborate buildings in the future.
As did my lego project, the biggest project of my life ended prematurely. My project of growing old and happy and married ended far too prematurely. It ended shortly after inception. It ended before the marriage could begin. When I proposed to my fiancé, I had already established a covenant between God, her, and I. I began behaving and acting as the head of the household. I moved us into a bigger home. I tried to sow seeds that would one day provide us financial security. I longed for a son. I guess my biological clock ticks on leaving my legacy here on earth, because life is short.
When I matured to the point of accepting myself as a potential leader and a father, I began the fun process of impregnating my fiancé. It wasn’t an accident. She was aware. I was aware. We stared in each other’s eyes in the bedroom in full knowledge that our actions could produce a human being. We spoke of the next Black President of the United States coming through her womb. The plans of my building were forming in my mind as did the Lego blocks.
There was no surprises when she started becoming nauseous. When the little test turned blue, reality hit her, but not me; I had already accepted my role in our family. The only surprise to me would be the amount of effort it took to protect my family from the onslaught of attacks by almost every outside force. We had to overcome a lot to make my dreams come true. I began the tumultuous tasks of making it happen. During the first trimester, I fought off so many demons that I became weary. I lost the stamina it took to adequately provide protection for us. I was so happy to be a father. I posted pics of the baby’s first images of her womb.
The day we learned of our baby’s fate, we visited the doctor for a routine check-up. In the second trimester, we had a routine visit to check on mom and the baby. We were so excited because I hadn’t ever heard the baby’s heartbeat. We already had names picked out for a newborn boy. ST3 was supposed to be me reincarnated. I remember her laying on the table laying back with the blue gel being painted on her rounding belly and the look of the ultrasound technician frustratingly searching for the heartbeat. I remember the cold tone that came out when she said, “I’m so sorry, I can’t find the baby’s heartbeat.” The air in the room must have been sucked out. The temperature rose 30 degrees Fahrenheit. My fiancé sobbed in a screech that still echoes in my head. I asked God why? I searched for the strength to comfort my fiancé and placing my own emotions on hold.
I hugged her. She hugged me. A cocktail of tears collected on our faces and shirts. The ultrasound technician said a prayer for us. We were devastated. We didn’t leave the hospital room the same after dwelling for what seemed like hours in silence. I felt guilt and emptiness for not being able to protect her from the demons.
I felt like a failure to protect her and the baby. I felt powerless for not adequately protecting her and my new incubating child. What is the purpose of a husband and a father? What was my purpose now?
How could we go on? Could she ever trust me again? Could I ever trust her again? The end of our engagement happened inside the cold and hot walls of the hospital room. The grief of losing momentum of an unfinished project is great. My engagement was one such loss that began to crack when my fiancé and I miscarried our unborn fetus in her second trimester. Men are taught to be strong for their women in grieving moments, but who is going to be strong for us?