Saturday, January 12, 2008

State of the union

I've been debating how much of this I want to share with you. At first, I thought I'd document the whole thing. But I figure there are probably more than a few of you who would consider it WAY too much information. And, really, it's not any of your business. So then I decided I'd keep it all to myself. But here's the problem with that: if I keep one thing all to myself, I keep EVERYTHING all to myself. If I'm not talking about the big thing, if I'm not talking about what's really going on right now, if I don't at least drop it into the conversation somewhere, I feel like everything else I have to say is fake. Which explains why many of you have been on the receiving end of this conversation: "Okay. I slept with that one guy. Again. There. Now we can talk about our manicures."

So, in the interest of a speedy return to more manicure talk, here it is: some of my girly parts are misbehaving. Nothing major, nothing even particularly uncommon, but misbehaving nonetheless - and misbehaving badly enough to require medical intervention. There are a couple of methods of treatment for this particular misbehavior, one of which comes with a greater chance of problems in future pregnancies. This didn't particularly concern my doctor, who lifted her head from between my stirruped feet long enough to say, "You're done having children anyway, right?"

It was intended to be a simple question; one to which she assumed she already knew the answer, based on many of our previous conversations. But those other conversations were primarily informed by the notion that I wouldn't have the chance anyway; that by the time I found someone I might even consider having children with, my existing child would be graduating from high school, or at least old enough that the idea of starting over would be too crazy to contemplate. But really, I had never completely closed the door on the idea of having another.

And so that one simple question threw me into a bit of a biological clock panic. Am I done having children? Have I been foolish to entertain the notion that there might be one more coming? Do I really not have a say in this decision? Is this really something that my cranky reproductive system gets to decide without talking to me first?

And that's when the dreams started. Dreams of bombs. Dreams of fires. Dreams of explosions. Dreams of the end of the world. Dreams of dead people, everywhere. And me, gathering up their severed limbs, sobbing, calling my boyfriend to apologize because I couldn't put them back together, couldn't fix them, couldn't give them life.

Don't need to be Freud to analyze those ones.

So I had the procedure on Thursday - the one that's associated with the least risk for future pregnancies. I've been laying low in the days since, suffering from, ironically, rather strong contractions. I feel like I'm in the early throes of labor. For the record, the procedure was minor and the likelihood of any complications to my baby-making abilities is incredibly slim. It's actually very silly for me to have reacted so strongly to the diagnosis. Nonetheless, while physically it's been simply an inconvenient couple of days, emotionally it's been a painful couple of months.

And that's why you haven't heard from me.

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