Deeper Than a Carnation

A portrait of me that my daughter drew at nursery school.

The red crayon goes outside the lines of my face, and for some reason, my hair is a swirl of purple.

When she proudly handed it to me saying, 'Mommy, this is a present!', there was a tiny, dried-on piece of pink clay on the corner of the drawing paper, likely from her fingertips.

She will be four years old this summer.

Lately, she has started to develop her own preferences, and it takes her longer to choose which crayon colors to use.

As I sat in the corner of the kitchen, gently scraping off that dried-up clay with my fingernail, I suddenly remembered a strange phenomenon.

We believe that the moment a child is born, we become separate bodies.

We believe that from the day the umbilical cord was cut, we began to walk our own separate lives as independent individuals.

However, the truth our bodies remember is far more persistent, tear-jerkingly selfish, and warm.

The 'secret promise' remembered by the body

Microchimerism, a phenomenon known by that somewhat inorganic name, is like a 'secret promise' exchanged between lives.

A little before she was born, about four years ago.

Some of the tiny cells that made up her, while she was still in my womb, slipped through the placenta and quietly flowed into my body.

And even more surprisingly, those tiny cells did not disappear after birth; they found homes for themselves in the mother's brain, heart, and lungs, and settled in.

One study found that cells derived from a child were detected in the brains of mothers who had given birth to them for decades afterward.

Even if my child grows up, leaves home, eventually grows taller than me, and even if we go years without seeing each other, that young version of her from that day continues to live inside my brain.

When I am thinking about something alone, worrying, or glancing out the window, her cells might be looking at the same scenery with me at the edge of my thoughts.

Since learning about the existence of these 'body roommates,' I have started to feel a bit uneasy whenever I get deeply depressed or secretly curse someone in my heart.

It feels as if the pure version of her inside my brain is peeking at all my immature, true feelings...

I feel an indescribable sense of embarrassment that I didn't have before I knew the science.

Even in the place that should be the most private in the world—my own mind—there is a roommate from whom I cannot hide anything.

When I think of it that way, perhaps this place is no longer just for me alone.

The existence of 'ambassadors' that immunology has begun to discover

This is by no means a one-sided case of freeloading.

Recent immunological research suggests the possibility that cells derived from the mother, which remain in the child's body, play a role in teaching the immune system that 'Mom is a part of you,' thereby suppressing attacks.

It is as if they are quietly whispering deep within the body, 'Please don't mistake Mom for an enemy.'

Just as a mother protects her child, these cells continue to work deep within the body throughout their lives as ambassadors, protecting the peace of each other's immune systems.

Furthermore, there is this poignant story.

When a mother's heart is injured, the child's cells rush to that location, transform themselves into cardiac muscle cells, and attempt to seal the wound.

That is the purest form of repayment, gifted by a child before they even learned to speak.

While gazing at the construction paper after the pink clay has peeled off, I gently place my hand over my left chest.

Here, or perhaps in the deep recesses of the brain where I am writing this very sentence, a part of her is quietly breathing today, regardless of my own will.

Strata of glue and luxurious silence

The hand that gives a carnation and the hand that receives it.

Perhaps we are just living while pretending to be lonely, all the while harboring parts of each other within our bodies.

When I think of it that way, even the scissors scattered around the room, sticky with glue, and the scraps of brightly colored construction paper start to look like lively messages being exchanged between cells.

Suddenly, what pulled me back from the lingering sentiment to reality was that unpleasant 'stickiness' I felt on my fingertips.

Looking, I saw that the scissors my daughter had been using for her craft were covered in glue, and white, dried marks were left on the table.

I hurriedly tried to wipe it off with a damp cloth, but the glue only spread thinly, and the entire table became faintly white, wrapped in an inescapable stickiness.

If this situation not going as planned is also because her cells living in my brain are laughing and saying, 'Mom, you don't have to try so hard to look good,' then, well, maybe I can forgive it just for today.

I am confident that by tomorrow morning, I will find myself nagging again, saying 'Wake up early!', but just for tonight, I think I will enjoy a slightly luxurious silence with the little roommate in my brain, sitting before the table that has turned faintly white.

▼ For those who wish to gaze at a little more 'wonder'

While wiping the 'stickiness' of glue from my fingertips, I remembered that earnest stubbornness I once felt, seeking moisture with those dry fingertips.

The connection of invisible 'cells' is surprising, but in fact, our 'breathing' might also be resonating with our children unconsciously.