ISLAND VOICES
The terror of being in womb of an ice head

By George Singson

I read an article in the newspaper in which a woman pleaded no contest in the drug death of her newborn child, who had four times the toxic level of ice in his system. I hope some mother-to-be reads this and thinks twice.

I'm alive and kicking. I can't hear the voice saying "my baby," but I feel the words. It makes me feel good; that's who I am, a baby. It's warm inside, and Mom's rhythm is soothing ... it never stops. I sense the energy connecting me to the source. "Umbilical cord," "womb," I don't understand, but I know.

Mom, mother, when I feel those words, everything is warm and kind. I am happy.

It is always dark and soft — I am growing.

"Batu," "glass bowl," "smoke" — new words. Everything is changing inside, the gentle rhythm is now louder, faster. Surging force enters me. "Terror," "fear." I'm no longer safe in here. My world is trembling, my entire being is shaking. I feel the taste of smoke in my blood. I can't breathe, but I know the smell. I am afraid. Mama, Mama, help!

Mama loves me, but she can't help me, though I hope she wants to. I'm hungry, but Mom doesn't eat. Everything is shaking inside.

I'm really scared.

The rhythm changed again: slower, softer. But I need the faster, more powerful rhythm. I hurt a lot; I need the stronger, faster rhythm. Mom, help! It hurts! Make the hurt go away!

I hear Mom's voice crying, yelling, screaming. It deafens me. Then a stronger voice, yelling, screaming.

"You fat, stupid, ugly damn baby!" I knew fear, terror, but now I know guilt; it's all my fault. I'm sorry, Mama, I love you — please, I'm sorry. I need you, Mama. I hope you need me, too!

Mom is getting pain. I am being punished, too. She says she needs some batu. I need it, too. It's too painful without it.

Yes! Yes! Yes! I feel the power returning, trembling me with Mom's faster rhythm, stronger, flooding our umbilical cord with more energy.

Mom really loves batu. I hope she loves me as much.

Everything is changing, faster. I'm really afraid. My darkness is no longer safe and comfortable. It's getting colder. I can hardly feel the rhythm now; it's getting really cold. I must have done something wrong. It's my fault, I'm sorry, Mom. I love you, Mom — help me. Mom, I'm going cold ... Mom ... Mom!

George Singson, of South Point, Hawai'i, is retired and does volunteer community work.