I have always wanted to make a human. Like always. When I played dress up as a little girl I would put a pillow under my dresses and then have a baby. It isn’t that I wanted kids necessarily (although I can’t remember a time when I didn’t dream about being a mother) but I really, really, really have always wanted to be pregnant.
I started having sex when I was 16 and I pretty consistently misused my birth control. I knew that meant I might get pregnant and while I totally played up having that freak me out, it really didn’t.
I tried getting pregnant with my first husband. God that was 20 years ago. I tried, it failed. Every month I would make him prop me up on gigantic pillows from our bed while I laid with my legs feet up on the wall praying for the sperm to find my egg. Hoping I was gonna make a little human and feel it growing inside of me. I get horrible PMS with tender breasts. Every month I thought my tender breasts were a surefire indicator that I was pregnant. And every month, I wasn’t.
They would say you are too young, there is nothing wrong, you are fine. Um…no I am not. I know my vagina and my uterus, something is wrong.
I am getting a full hysterectomy. I am 41 years old.
We know the cause of my infertility.
It is too late to fix it.
For the last 5 years I have been praying for a miracle. Praying that my partners vasectomy would fail and I would get my miracle pregnancy. Hoping every single month that this time is THE time and I am going to have the baby I have always dreamed of having.
If one more person says but you have kids I am gonna throat punch them. While this is an entirely true statement and I am eternally grateful every single day that I have this beautiful and amazing family and that JTK did indeed bless me with three beautiful children…I did not make them…I did not create them…they did not grow inside of me while I nurtured and loved them with my own womb.
You see…I have always wanted to make a human. And all I can make is jacked up calcified cells that may or may not be cancerous. So here I grieve. I grieve the loss of hope. I grieve the death of my reproductive organs. And while I am so excited that my uterus won’t be 3 1/2 months pregnant with parasitic alien babies anymore and that I won’t have to buy tampons anymore and that I won’t have to try the diva cup again for the 3rd time (because my sister swears by it) and I am finally going to feel better and not be in pain…there is a part of me that is so saddened that my body has let down that adorable little blonde girl who always dreamed of having a baby.
That’s me playing dress up with my sister.
One more thing. I know that I birth communities. I know that I birth policies. I know that I birth activists. I know that I take care of other peoples children and help them birth their greatest selves. I know that all of this is happening for a reason and it is so I can birth the next phase of my life.
I know all of these things.
But right now, today, all I want is to have a big ass fall apart and have someone hug me and tell me that this totally blows and that I am right…it isn’t ok…just for today.