not one for the dates and anniversaries.
… even if I remember everyone elses’ and the phone number from the address I lived at in university, too.
So it’s funny that I even realized that it will be six months ago tomorrow that I had one of the worst days of my life.
I’d like to say a lot has changed since then, but life has been pretty much the way it always was. I work, I spend time with my friends and family, and I can’t sleep worth a damn.
Same girl I always was.
Except.
Now there are the migraines and the body temperature fluctuations and the low iron and the whacked-out blood sugar and the rashes and the infections and the bone pain and the cramping, too.
But life goes on.
Right?
It has to.
That’s what I believe in order to keep walking through all of this.
And this is what I wrote that night, six months ago.
***
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.
***
Guess what?
I still am.
November 10th, 2006 at 2:05 am
you are, and beautifully. but bad news is still bad. I am sorry about that part.
xoxo
November 10th, 2006 at 2:30 am
yes, you are still breathing, and doing so with a grace, dignity and strength that is humbling and inspiring. i know the pain must still be as sharp as ever, but hope the breathing comes easier for you with each passing day.
November 10th, 2006 at 8:08 am
Amen, sister.
There’s a great line from the series Six Feet Under, which I adored, after a certain character has died (I won’t give it away) and The character of Ruth says to the priest, who offers words of comfort about God and why painful things happen, “Well God is an assh*ole.”
That’s my only explanation.
J
November 10th, 2006 at 9:37 am
I’m so sorry, Meg. I know that there is no substitute for you having your own baby since you want it so much. But on the other hand, should you ever choose to adopt, I believe you would be one stellar super wonderful great mom to a little child who needs someone.
November 10th, 2006 at 10:20 am
I’m betting on you as a mother someday, somehow. There are a million ways to be a mother. You’ll find yours, I’m sure of it.
November 10th, 2006 at 12:03 pm
That has always been my greatest fear.
November 10th, 2006 at 12:10 pm
Yeah. Mine too.
November 10th, 2006 at 4:41 pm
I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that you will a mother one day. A fantastic mother — better than most.
November 10th, 2006 at 7:45 pm
I am a relative newcomer here so I did not know your whole story, Meg. Holy crap - what a bomb to be dropped on you. I am so sorry to hear it. But in the short time I have been reading your blog, I will say that I feel you have an inner strength and faith that will carry you far. Just by sharing such numbing news is an amazing act of faith. Where there is a will - there is a way. You certainly can be a mother some day if that is your fondest desire. Never give up hope.
November 11th, 2006 at 1:26 am
I’m so sorry.
March 27th, 2008 at 10:31 am
So sorry to hear this, but please do not give up hope. I have known too many mothers who were told they would never have children. There is always a way. Besides adoption there is using your eggs and a surrogate mother and there are places where this treatment is not that expensive like India.
There are also sometimes alternative therapies that have done wonders for people. There is a book called “Inconceivable” by a woman who was told she could not have a second child. It was her story on how she proved the doctors wrong.
If there is a will, there is always a way. Do grieve this news, but never give up hope!