Are there really accidents?

       I am one of those ‘supposed accidents waiting to happen.’ I was conceived inBremerhofen, Germany at the end of WWII, by rape.

I have written several times about my origins, because I learned that my dad was not my biological father by my mom shouting, “He’s not your father!” in anger, when I was 16. Was this an accident? It was my life’s most painful trauma; my trust was broken with the dad I loved and defended for years against my mother’s ugly accusations. Those painful moments unconsciously kept me from showing unbarred physical affection to my dad.  No longer was I able to hug him close like I do my two daughters and three granddaughters.

My dad wrote weekly letters to me while I attended Cornell University’s School of Nursing. In the 1990s, I reread those precious letters, sobbing in therapy for the loss of never being able to talk about what he addressed in one of his letters – to know the reason for my lack of being affectionately demonstrative. He never pressured me or asked me WHY to my face. I wish he had. I wonder still what I wrote back to my dad. After he died, I never found my letters to him, although I did find a few cards I’d sent to him extolling my love and appreciation, like on Father’s Day. I am sad and happy all at once, like when I take moments to look at photos of us being together hung on my living room wall. On my refrigerator door.

It’s like we’ve been in a car accident and I am the only survivor. Like when he died of a sudden heart attack at age 60; no chance to understand or repair our ‘accidental’ heart-broken distance created on that fateful day when I was 16.

Anti-abortionists say abortion is only acceptable, if the mother’s life is in danger, or if she is raped. Yet, I am glad to be alive!

So, am I an accident? Am I meant to happen?