Malina, Malinka, Malinia.
Linka, Linia, Malunia.
I loved her name. The way it formed in my cheeks, tongue and teeth. The feel of it, the longs and shorts of the syllables. All the teasing, loving, ridiculous nicknames my other language allows.
Mala. My little one. Malinka, slodko. My sweet.
It took awhile before we landed on the right name. One that would work in both of my languages, that family and friends alike could pronounce. One that could be both tough and pretty, grown-up and childish, suiting whoever she decided to be.
Malinka, Malinia, Malina.
I’d lie in bed in the mornings, taking my time before rising and readying for work. I’d wait to feel her move, stretch and squirm, marveling at the life inside of me, the inchoate personality. My child. I savoured every move, wanting these moments together to be long and lazy. And I practiced her name – kind of guiltily since we didn’t even know if she really was a girl yet – but I tried out the combination of consonants and vowels, exercising my mouth, getting accustomed to sounding out the name of my daughter. Imagining myself a mother. Wondering who she was, waiting. Stomping feet and laughter and tangles and tear-stained cheeks and opened presents and all kinds of firsts and slammed doors and raised voices and painfully tight, neverending hugs. All, somehow, in the sounds of her name.
Moja Malinia. Malinka moja. My darling. My dear one.
In the aftermath of her birth, shocked and horrified beyond comprehension that she was gone before we even got to really meet her, we were asked for her name. One well-meaning attendant took our awkward silence as cue to rally us to proper parental love She deserves a name! You have to give her a name! And in those moments of numb confusion, grasping at a way to talk privately to each other about what to do, we asked whether we should find another name. But decided, no, Malina she was. Who she had always been. Giving her another name would be cheating. Lying.
I’m just not sure I feel this way now. I wonder if we did the right thing. If we really had to do that, to give that name away forever, locking it away with someone who will never be. Whether it would feel any easier if we saved it for another who might live. Whether we would ever be able to use it again.
Probably not. It’s done.
But I wonder this as I search for another name for another possible girl. Sounding out syllables, shaping vowels and consonants with tired cheeks and grief-weary lips. I worry what it means when I can’t find another name I love as much, that fits as well, that my mouth and throat can form and feel with the intimacy and emotion of someone who’s supposed to be a mother. I have ideas, in fact one main likely contender, but they still seem awkward, at times unimaginable in comparison. They’re not the same.
I do have my moments with this one, the laziness of those lingering mornings in bed now injected with anxiety, the needle-sharp pricks asking how it will all turn out this time. I do call this one by a name now. I practice its different forms and versions, but this time silently. The sounds reverberate in a space only I can hear, secret and safe.
Though maybe this one hears me anyway, can sense the sounds her mother is silent uttering. The name waiting for her in the dark under warm, yellow-orange porchlights.
I hope it’s recognized, by both of us. I hope this one answers the call and finds her way here, home.
——–. ———. ——. My heart. My love.
6 comments
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June 26, 2009 at 19:28
mirne
I have the same with Freyja’s name. My baby girl was always Freyja. As soon as we had the ultrasound at which they told us we had a girl inside me. She was Freyja immediately. My son Kees took longer … it was a name my husband loved, and which I had to get used to. This baby is different. We’ve picked a name for him, but I don’t have the same enthusiasm that I had for Freyja. It still sounds different, awkward. I guess I’ll get used to it.
June 26, 2009 at 21:59
Catherine
I hope she hears you call her by her name.
I hope she answers.
I hope she comes to meet you under those yellow-orange porchlights.
I hope she comes home.
And I recognise that hope is not enough. But I hope.
And Malina is a beautiful name, I’m glad you didn’t give her another.
xx
June 27, 2009 at 01:21
Sally
Before I even knew I was pregnant, my girl name was Lily Joy. Simple as that. We never knew we were having a girl, until her limp body was placed on my chest after birth. And I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it. I gave her a new name. And in my hazy, grief stricken, drugged out state, I named her Hope as some sort of act of defiance I guess. But I second guess that decision every single day. I just didn’t want to bury my Lily. I couldn’t do it.
Now, with the possibility of carrying a new girl (although we’re pretty sure this one is a boy) I don’t know if I can do it. I just feel I have to have a living Lily. If not this baby, perhaps another in the future if I could ever be so damn lucky, but I just don’t know.
I really feel I fucked everything up naming Hope, but really, the situation became fucked up when she died inside of me. Of course everything was going to be a mess after that.
Oh, and we didn’t really have a boy name and we still don’t. If this kid is a boy I have NO IDEA what he will be called at this present moment. Not a clue.
June 29, 2009 at 16:13
melka
Sally, thanks so much for sharing this. It really helps me to hear it, your experience of what it’s been like to make that other choice. It’s just so hard, isn’t it? No matter what, it just seems like we lose. We’ve lost. And nothing can really make it less than it is.
June 27, 2009 at 03:19
Angie
Malina and all its forms and pet names are beautiful. Your writing is just exquisite, I feel like I am with you, sitting right there in your space when you write. Thinking of you as time grows closer. With much love.
June 28, 2009 at 00:58
Ya Chun
When Serenity died, we picked a name that was on our list earlier, but kicked off (I don’t like ‘words’ as ‘names’ so much); but now, I think I would have to start with a whole new list. The names on our old list don’t appeal to me as much as they used to.
But I do think that a name similar to Serenity’s might get on that new list. (a similar meaning or a similar sound) maybe not something you would do with two siblings, but since I got a dead baby, I figure I can break some rules.