by Karen Paul
I
The DNA of a fetus can remain in the mother’s blood for decades after giving birth. This is called microchimerism. The cells traverse bidirectionally across the placenta and take up residence in the mother. This turns the carrier of the fetus into a chimera—a being comprised of different genetic characteristics. I did not know I was changing my genetic makeup when I was making a baby. Or that there is a secret alchemy of pregnancy.
In 2027, GRACE & GRAVITY will be edited and published by the Washington Writers’ Publishing House. Submissions for Volume 12: Grace in Justice are open through November 15th.
Greek mythology introduces us to the Chimera as a female three-headed beast— lion in the forepart, goat in the middle, and dragon in the rear. The Chimera was the child of the monster, Typhon, who was the product of the earth goddess lying with the god of the underworld. The Chimera added her own blood to the line by giving birth to the Sphinx and creating an eternal riddle.
The best beasts are always female.
The Greeks made everything more interesting.
What happens to a mother who has grown more than one fetus in her body? Does she carry the DNA of each separate human being plus her own? Is she a multichimera?
II
My son Ari was born twenty-six years ago and lived for five days. He nested in my body for thirty-seven weeks and four days, his amniotic home punctured by an errant needle, leaving him insufficient fluid to complete the task of growing his lungs. If he left his DNA behind inside me when he was born, by cesarian, does that mean a part of him is still alive? And if so, what part?
I have three living children whose DNA, presumably, has also resided in my body. Maybe this is why they say it’s hard for mothers to let go. Because you are literally tied to your children through the strands of your own helix.
III
The Minotaur had the head of a bull and the body of a man. He was conceived by Queen Pasiphaë of Crete, who wanted to sleep with the Cretan Bull and had the Greek inventor Daedalus construct a fake carapace through which she could lie with the creature. When her husband, King Minos, discovered this deception he demanded that Daedalus create a labyrinth in which the Minotaur could be caged and never escape.
My husband and I visited Crete on our honeymoon. No ruins of the labyrinth have ever been discovered. We walked the palace grounds of Knossos, admired the Heraklion architecture museum, drank ouzo and ate fresh octopus in the port city of Chania. We hiked the Samaria Gorge. After eight hours of trekking in the heat, my fingers swelled so I could no longer wear my new wedding ring. When we returned home, we realized we had lost the film canisters from the trip and had no pictures of our journey. In our honeymoon album, my husband cut up postcards of the places we had visited to replace the lost photos.
Even without physical proof of the Minotaur, Crete felt like a maze, navigating windy roads, pulled alternately towards and away from the deep blue waters surrounding the island. All the while, we were constructing our own labyrinth, enjoying the afterglow from our wedding and seeking ways to capture and harness the life shimmering in front of us. Tripping down ancient, cobbled streets, we felt blessed by the sun bouncing off the Aegean and unaware of what clouds might lie ahead.
I didn’t connect the signs in Crete. I did not yet carry the DNA of four other human beings in my plasma. We had only each other.
IV
Greek satyrs were chimeras, with the head and torso of a man and the back end of a horse or goat. Satyrs were thought to be troublemakers, as well as sexually insatiable creatures. Spirits of nature, satyrs were also associated with fertility and often depicted cavorting with nymphs in the artwork found on Grecian urns.
I was fertile like a wood nymph. I had an easy time conceiving. I could blink and my next nymphet would be on their way. Had I known this in college, I would have been more discrete. My body is round and big-breasted and clearly built to bear babies. I was asked if I was pregnant well into my fifties. Being pregnant felt like I was doing what I was designed to do.
Having a pregnancy result in a neonatal death felt like not only had the doctor made an error but that my body had failed as well. I spent fifty-three days on bed rest, flat on my back, never sitting up, willing my body to continue to cocoon the life inside of me long enough that he would be able to breathe on his own when the time came to emerge. It wasn’t enough. Nothing would have been enough. My body bled. My body failed me. Failed my baby. I never spoke with that doctor again.
The most famous satyr appeared in the ballet Afternoon of the Faun, choreographed and danced by Vaslav Nijinsky of the Ballet Russes. Controversial because of its erotic undertone, after its premiere in Paris in 1912, the company chose not to include it in its London season. Titillated, I read about the faun in a biography of Anna Pavlova when I was young, taking dance classes and dreaming of becoming a ballerina. I was one of the best dancers until I reached high school. I was now in class with girls older and more talented. Plus, at fourteen my body metamorphosed from the litheness of a wood nymph into the roundness of a fertility goddess. I crumbled, never managing to go on toe.
Several years ago, I decided to reinstate the practice of writing letters by hand to my friends. My oldest friend, a dancer herself who knew my secret desire, wrote back and sent me a pair of her worn pointe shoes, intimating that no one would ever know if I chose to try them on. I sat down and drew one onto each foot, gingerly smoothing out the soiled pink satin ribbons and tying them up my ankles. My war-torn body and her gift knitted together like a helix, and I was at last on toe.
V
According to Christianity, a gryphon—half eagle, half lion, often with the face of a man—depicts the two sides of Christ: the divine and the human. Incorruptible and yet mingled with the blood on the hands of mankind.
My doctor had my blood on her hands when she delivered Ari.
Ari’s name means lion in Hebrew. We named him in utero during our fifty-four days of bed rest because we knew that he would need strength to breathe on his own when he emerged. On his tiny headstone it says, “The lion sleeps tonight.” He wasn’t strong enough. I have grown stronger since he died. Like a gryphon, said to have the strength of a lion.
Minotaurs and satyrs and gryphons are all depicted as male. Once the power of the original chimera was realized, men co-opted it and made it their own.
Only the Sphinx remains, chimeric, female and enigmatic, reveling in her secrets.
VI
Ari also remains, leaving his secrets inside me. I am a chimera. I carry the knowledge of a boy who was never to share it with the rest of the world. I alone know him. I alone hold him. I alone understand him. When I die, there will be no one left who will remember him. He will disappear. We will be phantoms, two souls linked only by cellular structure, turning to dust.
Karen Paul is a writer with essays published in numerous outlets, including the New York Times Modern Love column, the Washington Post, Lilith Magazine, the Boston Globe, Pangyrus, the San Antonio Review, Modern Loss, Motherwell, Red Wheelbarrow, Open Secrets on Substack, and the two-volume pandemic collection, When We Turned Within. Karen graduated with an MFA in creative nonfiction from Vermont College of Fine Arts and is working on a memoir about grief and widowhood.
