I have been one morose woman lately. Just meh. This whole hysterectomy had me in a twist, but I couldn’t really figure out why. I have every confidence in my surgeon, I’ve had many surgeries at the facility. Was I feeling the slow stroll of mortality? Was I just being to self-involved? I was killing myself trying to hash it out in my head. Then, last night, it hit me. It hit me like a ton of bricks actually.
On Wednesday the 25th of February, I will no longer have the fixins’ to make another child. I have always wanted a second child. But, life goes a little something like this: you see your own family and friends struggle with parenthood at a young age, so you actively avoid it. Possibly you are with Mr. Right Now and you purposely avoid it. Then you meet and marry the other half, you are both in your late twenties and are all “LETS HAVE ALL THE BABIES EVER!!!!”. Then you fight about stupid things and decide to wait, then life occurs a little bit more and suddenly you both need to take a step back and reassess.
The reassess portion is by far the trickiest part of life. You are both living independent of each other, making good and bad choices. If you do talk, it comes from things that are deep wounds, and you are both so mean to each other. You say things that you wouldn’t say to your worst enemy. On the chance that the sun does peek though, and you can act like adults, wounds heal and calmer heads prevail. You then enter the second “honeymoon” phase, just a little older and wiser.
You go back to doing adult things, paying bills, having jobs, keeping a home, making big decisions like “which 3 for 1 special should we go to tonight”? The path isn’t always rosy, but you can (99% of the time) traverse things like adults, both sides conceding at the proper time. It’s about being able to work together, even if ideas and beliefs are different. My way or the highway is just a waste of time. Why would you marry someone, knowing they are SO different that you would want to change them?!?!?!
As you glide into your early 30’s things start to happen, pap smears come back irregular, which requires a whole host of unpleasantness. The doctors tell you “babies are probably not possible”. You mourn and move on.
Then, after one particularly flagrant night of consuming many 3 for ones, the woman wakes up and tries to pick out what needs to be done that day. You start to think about woman things, do a little hand math, then rush to the bathroom. You grab the almost aged out home test, and do that thing you do. While you immediately see the two-line positive test, you think – did the excess that I drank last night doom our whateveritisatthissecond?
The husband is already up and watching TV and giggling about the “THAT WAS SO FUNNY…do you remember…”. He spies the look on your face, you know, the one that looks like you’ve just seen a ghost and urgently asks “what’s the matter…?” He sees you literally holding a stick that has your pee on it, and there is an electric moment of “I can’t believe we did it”. Then you force him to go buy more “to be sure”, they are all positive as well. You see doctors who ask alarmingly private questions (was this planned? are you safe at home? is the father in the picture?), who confirm, for like the 10th time, that you are indeed, pregnant. Then they ask if you want to see the babies heart beat and you are all “AWWW YEAAAAHHHH”, until they pull out that enormous wand to cram up your naughty bits.
Being pregnant was a breeze for 6 months, then things go wrong. In and out of hospitals, can’t regulate blood pressure, the this and the that’s that are all super scary when you are growing another human. Then at 8 months, your perinatologist very calmly asks you “how would your like to have your baby today?”, YOU ARE SOOOOOO DOWN WITH THAT.
Baby comes: what do you know, those many, many, many, beers you had the night before you discovered you were pregnant did not turn your too perfect angel into a frog. Doctors warn, “a second child is risky, but if you try, sooner rather than later, ok?”. You skip off having just had a perfect child, and forget every damn precaution.
Fast forward 7 years, you have finally scored a really good job. You start getting the coveted insurance. You start to think “women have babies at 40 all the time.” So, you start seeing doctors who want to do the tests because “you are turning 40”.
Fast forward 2 months, you are sitting in your office and your boss enters your doorway just as you answer the call that changes your life in a second “yeah, you have cancer”. Everything you have ever planned, or wished for crumbles at that second.
So you do the surgeries and you take the prescriptions that “protect you”, only to find that while this stuff was protect the one thing, it’s actually colonizing a riot on your lady parts, but it was a small colony of one. You and one of your many “ologist” doctors agree that waiting and monitoring is best. Phew…right? 3 months later, it is a larger more menacing colony of eight. Your ologist says “no more waiting, the time is now”.
Quicker than you can light a match, having a second baby is gone.
Then I torture myself with “shoulda wouldas”. Then felt guilty for not giving Maegan that sibling she pleaded for with those big, blue eyes.”
Then you turn to your husband and verbally vomit all of these different marbles you’ve had banging around your brain box. The millisecond before you go start zipping around like a balloon with a loose valve, he looks at you and reminds you that it was almost a sure thing that me and a 2nd baby would have died. He reminds you that there is no improving on the perfection of your first.
Then you realize (for the first time in print): he is right. Then your first child walks into the room and says “are you ok Momma?”. You know at that second it was you that painted yourself into a corner by over thinking.
This is me, getting over my myself.
Love and light,