Poetry- "Glad to have survived"

Can't imagine, how it feels- Despair and shattered hope and blame,

I do not aim to judge; to understand I cannot claim.

Hearing, that your child is "flawed", is something less than "normal",

Hearing, that your child will die, in phrases unfamiliar, cold and formal,

-We're the lucky ones, and like to think that it is gonna be alright,

Like to think, that they don't know what they are talking- but life's not black or white.

Would you bet your happiness on one out of a hundred cases, honestly?

Would you go through with it- the most unlikely gamble? - You will see,

That so many are not this strong,

That there's no blame, no simple right or wrong.

It's tragic though, how easily what is not needed to be known, is found,

And once revealed, how by the burden of that knowledge one is bound.

It's tragic, how both you and me, we have to be the experts suddenly,

Cause talks online give better information than some doctors you might see.

What matters, is not only facts- it's understanding that we lack,

Remaining doubts for months and years is what's remembered looking back.

Irrational fear, of condemning unborn children to a life in misery and pain, which we,

Helped spread ourselves in well- meant accounts of our struggles though occasionally.

Does anybody realize, how sharing nothing, but the loudest, scariest, most drastic stories hurts?

Even to us they're humbling, while to someone else they're frightening beyond words.

So much misinformation about us is still out there,

Leading to life- or-death decisions, that's not even rare.

Talking about "mild cognitive impairment", “academic struggles” or a “disability”,

Could not be further from the truth- at least for some, at least for me.

Outdated talk of "mental retardation" that surrounds a stigmatising name,

If we're better than anyone, at something, if we are just us- we're labelled all the same.

It is all real and valid, all the grieving, struggling, wishing not be,

But us complaining can cost lives, we bear responsibility.

So vastly different stories, all under one name,

Hardly comparable at times- despite somehow being the same.

All of them should be heard and seen to give women a choice-

So here I am like many sisters finally raising my voice.

To tell you I don't need your pity, just a fighting chance,

And before you start to judge me- more, than just a passing glance.

I'm telling you, that I don't fit your quota, have no disability in any way,

And that whatever our goals- we're going to succeed- no matter, what you say.

That my existence is not anybody's burden, is not pain,

That we should rethink our understanding of what's "normal" once again.

That I can be all I want- a doctor, scientist, someone's friend or wife,

I'm telling you, that I am more than glad to be alive.

If you have faith, are open, if you take your chances, too,

Perhaps a miracle might happen,

A shooting star might pass by- just for you.

One day, at a state of true acceptance we will have arrived,

And until then I'm telling you- I'm glad to have survived.

-Annelie