Ever tried relating to someone in a womb?
It’s not so easy for me. He’s supposedly covered in lanugo, a strange and temporary hair. His eerie pictures from the ultrasound resemble a creature from a low-budget sci fi film. And didn’t he have a tail? Last week, his size was compared to a fruit I’ve never even heard of.
But then it was casually reported to me that he had the hiccups.
If you’ve lived in an apartment designed like mine, you may have forgotten (or willfully ignored) that when you sit down in the bathroom, there could be someone in the apartment next door doing the same thing you are. Someone only about three feet away from you, separated by a couple panels of drywall. Someone you may have never spoken to, but who spends a great deal of time within a stone’s throw of you. Someone you could almost pretend is not there, except for the occasional toilet flush or loud coughing attack.
This was my realization: that often, within a few inches of me is a living, hiccuping person who, through the walls of a couple layers of tissue and fluid, can hear the muffled sounds of my life. And if I listen closely, I can hear his.
He and I may not share lanugo, appearance, language, or much else yet, but we share practically the same space.
And we both get the hiccups.