The day . . .
I fell in love at 25 and married at 28 to a man eleven years older who was ambivalent about children, but committed to our happiness.
the doctor said, “no birth control? …. why aren’t you pregnant?”
the doctor said, “your tubes are entirely blocked; better look into IVF and adoption”
my girlfriend (cousin, work-mate, neighbor, Princess Di, seemingly every woman between age 20 and 40) announced, “I’m pregnant!”
the Manager/interviewer (illegally) asked, “Do you have kids? When do you plan to start?”
my work friend who also can’t get pregnant, got pregnant
the doctor said, “yes the tests will be painful but we want to be sure”
of the hysterosalpingogram
of the first laparoscopy
of my husband’s semen viability test
of the fibroid diagnosis/complication
of the second laparoscopy
the IVF doctor said, “after this test, we’ll decide if you qualify for our program”
of scorching, searing pain, too much dye, a scream, my husband yelling my name from the other side of the closed door, the doctor saying, “I’m sorry about the pain. You don’t qualify for our program.”
the GYN doctor (so accustomed to sharing good news) stated, “your fibroids are the size of a three-month pregnancy and you need a hysterectomy.” He doesn’t blink or notice the look of shock/disgust/anger/sorrow on my face at the thoughtless comparison he’s chosen. I am 38 and he knows I want children.
of the third laparoscopy
I pray for a miracle . . . many miracles
my uterus and cervix are removed and it is clear; no babies inside this body, ever.
I become the most invited person in the world to baby showers that at first I attend, but then make excuses
the adoption agent said, “your husband is too old.”
the birth mother said, “yes, I smoke. How bad do you want a kid.”
the friend offering to be a surrogate said, “I’m sorry. My husband thinks it’s a bad idea.”
the next adoption agent said, “yes, you qualify for babies from these three countries and you are not too old, but we need to start looking now.”
my in-laws said, “Adoption? That’s a terrible idea. Why do you want somebody else’s child? You never know what problems you’re going to end up with.”
my husband said, “I don’t think I want to do this . . . “
of fighting, and feeling immeasurable sadness and tormenting confusion.
the therapist said, “You deserve to be happy. Do what’s going to make you happy.”
I finally said, “Enough.” I felt only mental and physical demoralizing exhaustion. Leave Me Alone. All of you. I need to rest. And decide between my marriage and adopting a child. The possibility of single parenthood at age 40+? Marriage to the man I love? Either/or. Can’t have both. I decide for myself. . . by myself.
I realized there was still love, and a commitment; a man who wanted me; needed me; loved me. And I him.
I let it sink in that I won’t be a mom, my sister’s kids won’t play with my kids, my dad won’t be a grandpa to my kids, I’ll never be a grandma, I won’t ever know a first tooth, first steps, first day of school, first anything
friends with kids don’t call back, don’t have time, don’t stay friends
I vowed to put pins in the eyes of the very next woman at a party who talks without taking a breath about her kids as though she invented kids and hers broke the mold
when days turned into weeks, into months, into years of working through grief that isn’t defined or acknowledged or understood by anyone except me and my (fourth) therapist
something like relief…. or release began to work its way into my psyche
the thoughts about doctors, therapists, in-laws, lost friends, grief, anger and pain begin to diminish
gradual, unexpected, long battled-for, welcome peace and some seeds of joy grow
the wounds grow scars, a truce is reached, and I know there is still love to be given and received, a life to be lived.
I move on . . . through it, never over it, but grateful at last for my beautiful life
S. M. Cerbone