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Wednesday, May 10, 2006
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dilemma.I walk an interesting line in this space.
Between honestly and bluntly sharing the details of my life, and keeping my secrets.
Between veracity and circumspection.
Between wanting to write only what is beautiful, and wanting to write what is true.
Sometimes, everything comes together, and there are no questions. I know I am doing the right thing, and then I do it.
But then I think and think and sometimes delete and scratch my head and worry about my family and my friends and what they must think or what they would want. I have no desire to hurt anyone.
Life is not all poetry, though. Certainly it is not all beauty. And if this was what you came here looking for, you should maybe come back tomorrow. Or the next day. Or next week.
A month, perhaps?
I struggled with what to write here after what I said Monday, especially when so many of you came eagerly with faith and wisdom and grace.
Everything you said touched me, from the comments you left to the emails you sent. I thought my entry might be met with some brow crinkling and a bit of eye rolling -- why is she being so dramatic? -- but if you felt that way, you kept it to yourself.
So I'm going to level with you.
And before I do, a disclaimer: I can't take advice right now. Trust me on this. I know myself well enough to know that. I guess I take the risk of putting things out there, so I get back whatever people choose to give. But if you care, please. I don't need to be told what to do.
I know what to do. I will keep going.
I was told by a specialist today, after rounds of tests and examinations and referrals, that there was 0% chance I would ever bear children.
There was lots of stuff after that, too, but I assume that will sink in later. I heard her talking about rare autoimmune disorder and nonfunctioning systems and shutdown and likely been this way your whole life.
I did. I listened really well.
And then she said, "Any questions?"
"You can't do anything?" Heart beating.
"Not about that. I don't like telling anyone your age things like this, especially when you're not married and you don't have any children yet. But this is not something your body can do. If I said it could, I'd be lying, and that's not fair at all. I mean, you could try donor eggs, but your body would likely attack them. I'm very sorry."
Alright.
Stand up now, smile, go make your follow-up appointment, walk out the door, go to the elevator. Where is the elevator? Take the stairs.
Eleven floors down. Slowly. Call your mom, apologize. She says not to, through tears. Do it anyway.
Walk home.
Sit down on the couch. Are you crying? You're crying. Nobody else is here, go ahead.
No.
Tell your roommates as they arrive home. Matter of fact. Just say it. Smile. Shaking, a little.
You should eat dinner. You didn't eat today. Think of what you want to eat. What do you want?
Then it hits you like a hard, silent, dark wall.
Not 20%. Not 10%. There is 0% chance.
She said depression would not be unheard of. Grieving. Letting go. Issues with relationships. Did I have a boyfriend? Was I planning to have children one day, anyway?
No. And oh, yes yes yes.
In my head and heart, that was going to be the culmination of 22 years of feeding and rocking and diapering and caring for hundreds of little ones who were not my own, from sweet babies who belonged to friends and family, to the frail bodies I held in hospital, to the smudgy-faced toddlers I corralled to give their moms a break at camp.
An absolute natural, everyone said.
Nature says otherwise.
I am trying so hard to keep feeling lucky, because I know that overall, in the big picture, I sure am.
But all I have right now is just keep breathing.
11:23:07 PM 
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© Copyright
2006
Meg Fowler.
Last update:
6/1/06; 11:12:16 PM. |
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