I might be an awful person.
The other day, I was leaning on the CLOSE button in an elevator, pretending not to see the woman with the SUV Heavy Artillery Anti-Aircraft Assault Stroller and screaming progeny barrelling my way. The doors closed just in time, but the experience got me thinking.
No, I do not feel bad deliberately closing the elevator doors on Mommy and whatever was making that godawful piercing shriek - 30 seconds of not losing my mind in an elevator should not be too much to ask.
I also feel pretty good about going out of my way to park in Expectant Mother parking spots when grocery shopping or visiting Wal-Mart. First off, how the fuck does anybody know I'm not pregnant? Second of all, I've had sex before too, and never expected preferential parking afterward as a result. A parade perhaps, given that it might have been a while in between encounters, but not special parking.
(Clearly, I may be experiencing some misplaced anger toward pregnant people. Overall, I think I've handled Alex's impending baby-daddy status very well. Maybe not so much on the day he told me, but it had been a while since I'd thrown up for any reason, so barfing up breakfast immediately afterward wasn't a big deal. It's important to keep your stomach on its toes anyway - almost like a fire drill for the esophagus.)
Since then, I'm handling it so well, I've even gone on Facebook to see if there are any photos of the happy couple and impending...belly. Normally, I avoid looking at his photos for the same reasons most people avoid looking at car accidents, but I'm handling things very well, so I thought I might verify that this was really happening.
And it is.
Some say growing new life is miraculous. Particularly for her, who is clearly pregnant, but still appears less pregnant in a tight dress than I do. She seems to be one of those magical pregnant women whose boobs are bigger, belly is perfectly round, but the rest of her body remains size zero. I've been more dramatically constipated than this woman is pregnant. And yes, I just said pregnant five times in one paragraph, and I'm not changing it. She looks exultantly happy in every photo. Alex looks very proud.
More than one person has asked me what I'm going to do about this situation. Frankly, I was unaware that there was anything to be done. I had no part in this happening, I have no part in whatever happens now.
What I suppose I'm really being asked is whether I'm finally going to stop talking to him. This would seem the healthiest option...and yet...clearly more than one person doesn't know me very well.
The fact is, I'm curious. Curiosity can be a good thing, and it can also mean getting your head stuck in a hole or sitting in an ER with something in your ass that has no place ever being that close to a human colon. It's really only the outcome that determines whether curiosity is positive or negative.
Alex doesn't seem to think his life is about to change in any significant way. He still wants to know when I'm coming for a visit, as if he'll still have the luxury of time and energy to leave the house and lie about where he's going with a kid around.
When I suggested the logistics of us seeing each other again are probably about to become much more difficult to work around for at least the next 20 years, he didn't share the same concerns.
"This is me we're talking about, and I'll find a way to see you," was his exact response.
This is indeed, Alex we're talking about. Alex, who loves to play hockey and ski every weekend in the winter. Alex, who loves to golf and spend days and nights on the lake in the summer. Alex, who likes his house looking like a show home, and whose truck is so pristine it still has new car smell after four years. Alex, who is too embarrassed to ever buy toilet paper in public for fear the cashier will picture him on the toilet. Alex, who has had more sex than the entire Roman Empire. Alex, who despite his promiscuity, secretly has one of the most crippling obsessive-compulsive germ phobias I've ever seen. Alex, who once brought an entire bottle of bleach to the five-star hotel I was staying in because I said the room had a jacuzzi tub and I wanted to take a bath with him. Alex, who spent an hour scrubbing that bath tub until his hands were raw just so he could sit in it with me without having a panic attack. Alex, who is about to be introduced to life with a baby.
And so I'm curious as to how this all plays out. Partly because I'm an awful person, and partly because I'm not. I love him, I want him to be happy, and he always said he eventually wanted kids.
Eventually is here, and I'm excited for how much he is going to love that little yard ape. And if it turns out the kid has his eyes, I could even love it too.
Before I walk away from him, which I will do eventually, likely in slow motion with something exploding in the background and a wind-machine blowing my hair about fetchingly, I want to know what happens next.
I want to know Alex as a father. I want to know if his life really changes, and what he'll do if it does. I want to know whether he's suddenly OK with germs after the first diaper blow-out, or whether he burns his house down and bleaches the remaining soil.
Yeah - I might be an awful person.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Turducken, maybe?
"You are not a turkey loaf."
In addition to everything else my new personal trainer puts up with, patiently having to explain to me that I have the same muscle and bone framework as every other human being, and that I'm not missing key components such as entire muscle groups, has got to be the most exasperating.
While it's true that I have muscle areas that are extremely difficult for me to isolate, this does not mean they don't exist. Me trying to explain my physiology by comparing myself to a boneless turkey roast didn't help my case any further, although to be fair, I said I was a roast and not a loaf. A loaf would be ridiculous.
After so many months through last winter of near immobility, a number of my muscles just don't fire normally. This can actually be great, because my trainer will then "show" me exactly what muscles are supposed to be contracting by putting my hand on his arm, leg, or back.
I don't care that my trainer is 21 years old, adorably puppy like and I'm neither of those things - this is delightful.
Even though my trainer has a girlfriend that he talks about often and sweetly, he and I are in a long-term committed relationship. Yes, I'm paying him a lot of money to be in this relationship, but me having to pay for a man over top of me so I can lay there and pant has always been kind of inevitable.
I see him for three hours a week, which is more than I see any of my friends. While it's not a sexual or romantic relationship, he knows when I'm having a bad day, haven't shaved my legs, and have left the house with mismatched socks. Basically, he's probably the closest person to me these days.
He is also arguably one of the best looking guys I've ever seen in real life, but it's hard to be attracted to him when he looks like that, and I end each of our "dates" looking like a spandex clad tsunami victim.
A month or so ago I was diagnosed with a thyroid problem. The problem being, my thyroid had quit this bitch. When a thyroid works over time, it's hard to keep weight on. When it refuses to do anything at all, it's a whole other world of misery.
Even while doing Weight Watchers, I was gaining three to four pounds a week for months on end. I'm sure the Weight Watchers corporation collectively heaved a sigh of relief when I gave up and stopped going to meetings, because I must have really been fucking up their numbers.
Since that diagnosis, I started seeing a Naturopath. She's devised a new diet and supplement regiment, and while it's very strict and low-calorie -- it's working. In one month, I'm down nine pounds. This is progress.
Five days a week, I'm in the gym. Three of those five days a week, I'm there once in the morning and once at night. Most of my sessions are cardio, except for the three hours my trainer spends a week trying to convince me I'm not a turkey loaf.
I can honestly say I've never worked harder at anything in my life. My days are focused on my eating schedule and going to the gym. That's it. Oh, and texting people. Texting has replaced my social life, which only makes sense, since it long ago replaced my sex life. My phone gets more action than I do, and I'm not just a little bit concerned it's contracted chlamydia.
The isolation factor in doing what I'm doing may actually be the most difficult part about it. Few people understand how important it is to me, and the sacrifices I'm willing to make. No, I won't go to brunch. No, I don't want to drink. No, I can't skip it just for a day. No, I don't want to go to Costco just to eat the samples.
With every pound lost, I feel a little bit more like me, which means I'm not so much fighting to get my health back, as I am fighting for my life.
And that has to be worth a few free samples at Costco.
In addition to everything else my new personal trainer puts up with, patiently having to explain to me that I have the same muscle and bone framework as every other human being, and that I'm not missing key components such as entire muscle groups, has got to be the most exasperating.
While it's true that I have muscle areas that are extremely difficult for me to isolate, this does not mean they don't exist. Me trying to explain my physiology by comparing myself to a boneless turkey roast didn't help my case any further, although to be fair, I said I was a roast and not a loaf. A loaf would be ridiculous.
After so many months through last winter of near immobility, a number of my muscles just don't fire normally. This can actually be great, because my trainer will then "show" me exactly what muscles are supposed to be contracting by putting my hand on his arm, leg, or back.
I don't care that my trainer is 21 years old, adorably puppy like and I'm neither of those things - this is delightful.
Even though my trainer has a girlfriend that he talks about often and sweetly, he and I are in a long-term committed relationship. Yes, I'm paying him a lot of money to be in this relationship, but me having to pay for a man over top of me so I can lay there and pant has always been kind of inevitable.
I see him for three hours a week, which is more than I see any of my friends. While it's not a sexual or romantic relationship, he knows when I'm having a bad day, haven't shaved my legs, and have left the house with mismatched socks. Basically, he's probably the closest person to me these days.
He is also arguably one of the best looking guys I've ever seen in real life, but it's hard to be attracted to him when he looks like that, and I end each of our "dates" looking like a spandex clad tsunami victim.
A month or so ago I was diagnosed with a thyroid problem. The problem being, my thyroid had quit this bitch. When a thyroid works over time, it's hard to keep weight on. When it refuses to do anything at all, it's a whole other world of misery.
Even while doing Weight Watchers, I was gaining three to four pounds a week for months on end. I'm sure the Weight Watchers corporation collectively heaved a sigh of relief when I gave up and stopped going to meetings, because I must have really been fucking up their numbers.
Since that diagnosis, I started seeing a Naturopath. She's devised a new diet and supplement regiment, and while it's very strict and low-calorie -- it's working. In one month, I'm down nine pounds. This is progress.
Five days a week, I'm in the gym. Three of those five days a week, I'm there once in the morning and once at night. Most of my sessions are cardio, except for the three hours my trainer spends a week trying to convince me I'm not a turkey loaf.
I can honestly say I've never worked harder at anything in my life. My days are focused on my eating schedule and going to the gym. That's it. Oh, and texting people. Texting has replaced my social life, which only makes sense, since it long ago replaced my sex life. My phone gets more action than I do, and I'm not just a little bit concerned it's contracted chlamydia.
The isolation factor in doing what I'm doing may actually be the most difficult part about it. Few people understand how important it is to me, and the sacrifices I'm willing to make. No, I won't go to brunch. No, I don't want to drink. No, I can't skip it just for a day. No, I don't want to go to Costco just to eat the samples.
With every pound lost, I feel a little bit more like me, which means I'm not so much fighting to get my health back, as I am fighting for my life.
And that has to be worth a few free samples at Costco.
Friday, October 5, 2012
The Pilot's Wife
I'm sweating through my blouse, and if sit for one minute longer, I'll be sweating through my pants. Possibly my boots. The elderly gentleman sitting next to me on the couch is cucumber chilly in a cardigan and turtleneck.
What happens to old people? How can they not feel heat? It's dangerous. Not so much for them, but for people who still have blood left to steam. And by people, I mean me.
The elderly gentleman is William, and the non-profit organization I work for is making a home delivery of some medical equipment he needs. I'm just along for the ride, and thought the old fellow might like some company while my colleagues work to set things up.
William is a former military pilot, and at 93, still very handsome. His face is relatively unlined, bright blue eyes clear, and white hair retirement commercial approved. I cross my arms to prevent the sweat from dripping from my boobs to my waistband.
"Are you too cold? It's a bit chilly out today. I can turn up the thermostat if you like?"
NO. OH SWEET JESUS. NO.
I assure William I'm very comfortable, but thank you. Considering we're strangers in his home, William is very hospitable. He apologies for a mess that's non-existent. He's only been in this retirement residence apartment for a month, and his move here was hasty.
He points out an errant box on the coffee table, and cords all over his computer table. He shows me how he Skypes with his grandkids on his massive computer screen. William is legally blind, and the text on screen is massive.
I compliment him on the art in his home. Beautiful big paintings are all over the walls. Stunning landscapes and swirling colours - they appear similar. I ask him if they're all by the same artist, and he laughs.
"Why yes! I did them!"
William and his wife travelled the world, and to remember their favorite moments together, William would paint a painting within hours of getting back home.
I ask him about where various paintings are from, forgetting he's blind and can't see where I'm pointing. I'm smooth like that.
The white church looking building? San Juan Capistrano, where we saw the birds. The red rocks? Yuma, Arizona. Extraordinary place. The blue water? The Aegean Sea, off of Crete. That was quite the day - I remember Janie diving into the water. I remember every minute of that day.
Does Janie remember? His wife is part of the reason we're paying this visit. William's on his own, for the first time in a long time. They've been married 70 years. Even if I met somebody and married him tomorrow, I won't live long enough to be married for 70 years. 70 years. A lifetime.
When I ask how Janie is doing, he makes a see-saw motion with his hand.
"You know how it is. Up and down. Good and bad days."
Actually, I don't know. I don't know what it's like to lose most of the love of my entire life to a massive stroke.
From what I heard, Janie can't speak, and is paralyzed on one side. She's 96 years old, and until a month ago she loved to cook, bake, and tend to her garden. She took care of her husband, acting as his eyes when the former pilot and artist lost his sight. Married for 70 years, he now lives in the apartment living section of the retirement home. She lives in the long-term care section, separated by long, progressively more hospital smelling hallways.
William points at a small scooter parked by his kitchennette. It's a new purchase, and he's delighted with how fast it goes. People sure do get out of the way!
He uses it to visit Janie every day, and was just there this morning. She was agitated. She speaks, but nobody understands what she's saying, and her thoughts are all jumbled up like a salad. And she has the runs.
William and I sit in agreeable silence. The runs do have a negative affect no matter who you are. I stare at the painting with the blue water, and imagine myself in it.
"This is a nice apartment - very well appointed," I tell him.
Who says that? Somebody who'd dying of heat exhaustion says that. The apartment isn't bad, but it's small. William and Janie left a big, rambling family house behind. The kids were still sorting through the details. When Janie had her stroke, everything happened very quickly.
It's not so bad, William agreed. "I thought I'd be carried out of my house feet first, but life doesn't always work out the way you plan it to."
You got that right.
In fact, he and Janie had reserved an apartment in another place.
"It was nicer than this - the one on the lake?"
I know the place. That retirement home is like a Sandals resort for the elderly set. I'd move in there tomorrow if they let me, but will never have the money.
"We had to give up the spot after Janie...you know. They don't have long-term care there, so we're here instead."
"How's the food here?" I ask.
"I wouldn't brag about it."
There are grocery bags on the kitchen counter, and I ask William if he does his own shopping. His eyes light up.
William has an outdoor scooter, that's even faster than the indoor one. He went all the way to Wal-Mart with it, and the damned thing even has cup-holders!
I agree that cup-holders are a necessity for living, and am just as delighted as William at the idea of him running people off the sidewalks in a giant scooter. The man did fly fighter jets after all.
"Where are you taking the outdoor scooter next?"
William said he was going to pick up Janie, and take her down the coast.
I whip my head around, fearful that William's cheese had suddenly slid off his cracker, and he laughs at my reaction. He got me pretty good, and I laugh too.
But what if I did though, William said.
"What if I picked up Janie some night, put her on the back of my scooter and we got out of here. Just went for a ride. Went for another trip. Would you tell?"
"Well William. You've assured me you have cup-holders, so I wouldn't say a thing about it. I wouldn't stop you at all."
Dammit. Now my eyes are wet too.
William said he knew I wouldn't say anything, that I'm a very fine girl.
And so is Janie. And if you ever hear of an old man busting out his wife from a care home and taking off for places unknown on a super fast scooter with cup holders, don't try to stop them either.
Instead, let's all hope they make it to where they're going.
What happens to old people? How can they not feel heat? It's dangerous. Not so much for them, but for people who still have blood left to steam. And by people, I mean me.
The elderly gentleman is William, and the non-profit organization I work for is making a home delivery of some medical equipment he needs. I'm just along for the ride, and thought the old fellow might like some company while my colleagues work to set things up.
William is a former military pilot, and at 93, still very handsome. His face is relatively unlined, bright blue eyes clear, and white hair retirement commercial approved. I cross my arms to prevent the sweat from dripping from my boobs to my waistband.
"Are you too cold? It's a bit chilly out today. I can turn up the thermostat if you like?"
NO. OH SWEET JESUS. NO.
I assure William I'm very comfortable, but thank you. Considering we're strangers in his home, William is very hospitable. He apologies for a mess that's non-existent. He's only been in this retirement residence apartment for a month, and his move here was hasty.
He points out an errant box on the coffee table, and cords all over his computer table. He shows me how he Skypes with his grandkids on his massive computer screen. William is legally blind, and the text on screen is massive.
I compliment him on the art in his home. Beautiful big paintings are all over the walls. Stunning landscapes and swirling colours - they appear similar. I ask him if they're all by the same artist, and he laughs.
"Why yes! I did them!"
William and his wife travelled the world, and to remember their favorite moments together, William would paint a painting within hours of getting back home.
I ask him about where various paintings are from, forgetting he's blind and can't see where I'm pointing. I'm smooth like that.
The white church looking building? San Juan Capistrano, where we saw the birds. The red rocks? Yuma, Arizona. Extraordinary place. The blue water? The Aegean Sea, off of Crete. That was quite the day - I remember Janie diving into the water. I remember every minute of that day.
Does Janie remember? His wife is part of the reason we're paying this visit. William's on his own, for the first time in a long time. They've been married 70 years. Even if I met somebody and married him tomorrow, I won't live long enough to be married for 70 years. 70 years. A lifetime.
When I ask how Janie is doing, he makes a see-saw motion with his hand.
"You know how it is. Up and down. Good and bad days."
Actually, I don't know. I don't know what it's like to lose most of the love of my entire life to a massive stroke.
From what I heard, Janie can't speak, and is paralyzed on one side. She's 96 years old, and until a month ago she loved to cook, bake, and tend to her garden. She took care of her husband, acting as his eyes when the former pilot and artist lost his sight. Married for 70 years, he now lives in the apartment living section of the retirement home. She lives in the long-term care section, separated by long, progressively more hospital smelling hallways.
William points at a small scooter parked by his kitchennette. It's a new purchase, and he's delighted with how fast it goes. People sure do get out of the way!
He uses it to visit Janie every day, and was just there this morning. She was agitated. She speaks, but nobody understands what she's saying, and her thoughts are all jumbled up like a salad. And she has the runs.
William and I sit in agreeable silence. The runs do have a negative affect no matter who you are. I stare at the painting with the blue water, and imagine myself in it.
"This is a nice apartment - very well appointed," I tell him.
Who says that? Somebody who'd dying of heat exhaustion says that. The apartment isn't bad, but it's small. William and Janie left a big, rambling family house behind. The kids were still sorting through the details. When Janie had her stroke, everything happened very quickly.
It's not so bad, William agreed. "I thought I'd be carried out of my house feet first, but life doesn't always work out the way you plan it to."
You got that right.
In fact, he and Janie had reserved an apartment in another place.
"It was nicer than this - the one on the lake?"
I know the place. That retirement home is like a Sandals resort for the elderly set. I'd move in there tomorrow if they let me, but will never have the money.
"We had to give up the spot after Janie...you know. They don't have long-term care there, so we're here instead."
"How's the food here?" I ask.
"I wouldn't brag about it."
There are grocery bags on the kitchen counter, and I ask William if he does his own shopping. His eyes light up.
William has an outdoor scooter, that's even faster than the indoor one. He went all the way to Wal-Mart with it, and the damned thing even has cup-holders!
I agree that cup-holders are a necessity for living, and am just as delighted as William at the idea of him running people off the sidewalks in a giant scooter. The man did fly fighter jets after all.
"Where are you taking the outdoor scooter next?"
William said he was going to pick up Janie, and take her down the coast.
I whip my head around, fearful that William's cheese had suddenly slid off his cracker, and he laughs at my reaction. He got me pretty good, and I laugh too.
But what if I did though, William said.
"What if I picked up Janie some night, put her on the back of my scooter and we got out of here. Just went for a ride. Went for another trip. Would you tell?"
"Well William. You've assured me you have cup-holders, so I wouldn't say a thing about it. I wouldn't stop you at all."
Dammit. Now my eyes are wet too.
William said he knew I wouldn't say anything, that I'm a very fine girl.
And so is Janie. And if you ever hear of an old man busting out his wife from a care home and taking off for places unknown on a super fast scooter with cup holders, don't try to stop them either.
Instead, let's all hope they make it to where they're going.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
A Baby Story
Every few months I find myself in a walk-in clinic office, asking for a renewal on my birth control prescription. Frankly, it's the only optimistic thing I ever do. While I'm at no immediate risk for getting pregnant, a very small, nearly dead part of me likes to think I one day might have regular sex again.
Usually the clinic doctor asks some perfunctory questions about whether I smoke or have had my blood pressure tested ever, and I leave 30 seconds later with a small piece of paper and renewed sense of misplaced optimism.
This time, the doctor didn't immediately reach for his prescription pad. Instead, he asked me if I'd "finished family planning?"
I had no idea what he was talking about, and told him so. Realizing he was dealing with somebody who may not have the intelligence required to swallow a pill, he spoke more slowly.
"Are. You. Done. Having. Children?"
Well no wonder I was confused. First off, like many people who've known me for less than a moment, he was assuming I had a biological clock and maternal instinct. He was wrong, but because I do have a lightly used vagina, I suppose it was an honest mistake.
Most people with vaginas do want kids, and aren't in the least bit terrified by how so many children smell inexplicably like juice.
(Seriously - why is this? There's no juice for miles, and kids will just exude nasty Tropicana blend. It's disturbing.)
I assured him that I had no children at all, and wasn't planning on changing that. This seemed to settle the the issue for him.
"Why not just get your tubes tied then?"
I was speechless. I know I'm not using my uterus and assorted tubes for anything special at the moment, but that's no reason to just tie things up like old newspapers and clear it out of there.
(I may be slightly fuzzy on exactly what having one's tubes tied entails medically, but my outrage remains.)
The doctor's concern is that I'm too old to be on the pill, which is so fucking awesome. And by awesome, I mean not awesome in any way. I'm at a high risk for blood clots, and cringe-inducing pathos apparently. At a certain age, if nobody's knocked me up yet, taking pains to prevent such a thing from happening probably becomes farcical.
I suggested that any kind of surgery would be too drastic for me, and maybe, since I'm not married, I might want to keep my options open. The look he gave me was pure pity.
We settled on a prescription for an IUD, which I was actually delighted with. No pills to take, and good for five years!
Two days later I was in another medical office, having finally landed a family doctor. It only took five years, but I found a doctor willing to accept me as a new patient, a decision I'm sure the man already regrets deeply.
This new doctor is lovely. Truly, lovely. Despite a line-up of patients waiting outside, he took a long time to talk to me about all of my health issues. We discussed my vagina exploding, which I thought was an excellent segue way into getting his opinion on switching to an IUD, given my history.
Suddenly, he wasn't sure what to say. Considering how smoothly he'd handled everything else I'd told him, this was unnerving. Stammering, he asked if I wasn't aware that given the nature of the surgery I had, I probably couldn't have children. Didn't anybody tell me that?
Well...no. Nobody did.
It stands to reason. I'd actually wondered about it, but never asked because...well, kids are disgusting. I've never wanted to have one. I've never even wanted to touch one, but have occasionally given in and held a baby or two here or there just to prove I'm not entirely heartless, and can perform such a task without needing legal representation.
I figured I probably could get pregnant, but would likely be unable to deliver naturally or even carry the baby to term. In the weeks following the surgery, I asked the surgeon so many questions. Important questions, like how I could avoid a colostomy bag? Would I ever be able to have sex again? If I can have sex, can I have anal? Not that I really want to or anything, just...could I?
I never asked about kids.
I count myself as very lucky that I've never wanted to have children. I'm grateful, because how devastating would my life be if I did? Nobody wants to date me, let alone procreate with me.
If I wanted to get pregnant, I'd be looking for a careless one-night stand or donor sperm. I'd be raising the sticky, stinky little monster alone. Finding a mate, often considered the best first step to having a family, is not in my future.
It's a little like being relieved New York Fashion Week didn't call me to walk in any runway shows this year, on account of my terribly busy schedule.
Surely, my busy schedule is the only obstacle standing in the way of career as a sought after supermodel.
Ahem.
I can dislike children as much as I want, and remain relatively dry-eyed when told I may as well convert my womb to office space, but the truth is, it would never happen regardless of what I want.
That said...it's one thing to choose not to do something. It's something else entirely to have that choice taken away.
Flash forward to two days later, when me and my questionable uterus are sitting in my office, texting with Alex. Like any other time I've ever talked with him, I ask him what's new.
His exact answer: Nothing. Baby's due soon.
Funny, because he never told me his girlfriend was pregnant. Not once, and we chat nearly every day. He had nine months to remember to say something, because she's due in October. Funny, because he swears he told me, but I'm pretty sure I would have remembered that little nugget of info. No baby brain over here to make me forgetful.
Funny how everything happens all at once, all the time. I know very little about his girlfriend, other than she's gorgeous, normally a size 0 with improbable double D breasts, and was at one time, married to somebody else. Her and her husband tried to have kids, and underwent IVF treatments - but nothing took.
Funny, that this week would be the best week ever to learn one last thing to know about his girlfriend and the goddamn miracle baby she's about to drop. They're both over the moon, as everybody always is. And why not? She has what she always wanted, and...I suppose I do too.
Usually the clinic doctor asks some perfunctory questions about whether I smoke or have had my blood pressure tested ever, and I leave 30 seconds later with a small piece of paper and renewed sense of misplaced optimism.
This time, the doctor didn't immediately reach for his prescription pad. Instead, he asked me if I'd "finished family planning?"
I had no idea what he was talking about, and told him so. Realizing he was dealing with somebody who may not have the intelligence required to swallow a pill, he spoke more slowly.
"Are. You. Done. Having. Children?"
Well no wonder I was confused. First off, like many people who've known me for less than a moment, he was assuming I had a biological clock and maternal instinct. He was wrong, but because I do have a lightly used vagina, I suppose it was an honest mistake.
Most people with vaginas do want kids, and aren't in the least bit terrified by how so many children smell inexplicably like juice.
(Seriously - why is this? There's no juice for miles, and kids will just exude nasty Tropicana blend. It's disturbing.)
I assured him that I had no children at all, and wasn't planning on changing that. This seemed to settle the the issue for him.
"Why not just get your tubes tied then?"
I was speechless. I know I'm not using my uterus and assorted tubes for anything special at the moment, but that's no reason to just tie things up like old newspapers and clear it out of there.
(I may be slightly fuzzy on exactly what having one's tubes tied entails medically, but my outrage remains.)
The doctor's concern is that I'm too old to be on the pill, which is so fucking awesome. And by awesome, I mean not awesome in any way. I'm at a high risk for blood clots, and cringe-inducing pathos apparently. At a certain age, if nobody's knocked me up yet, taking pains to prevent such a thing from happening probably becomes farcical.
I suggested that any kind of surgery would be too drastic for me, and maybe, since I'm not married, I might want to keep my options open. The look he gave me was pure pity.
We settled on a prescription for an IUD, which I was actually delighted with. No pills to take, and good for five years!
Two days later I was in another medical office, having finally landed a family doctor. It only took five years, but I found a doctor willing to accept me as a new patient, a decision I'm sure the man already regrets deeply.
This new doctor is lovely. Truly, lovely. Despite a line-up of patients waiting outside, he took a long time to talk to me about all of my health issues. We discussed my vagina exploding, which I thought was an excellent segue way into getting his opinion on switching to an IUD, given my history.
Suddenly, he wasn't sure what to say. Considering how smoothly he'd handled everything else I'd told him, this was unnerving. Stammering, he asked if I wasn't aware that given the nature of the surgery I had, I probably couldn't have children. Didn't anybody tell me that?
Well...no. Nobody did.
It stands to reason. I'd actually wondered about it, but never asked because...well, kids are disgusting. I've never wanted to have one. I've never even wanted to touch one, but have occasionally given in and held a baby or two here or there just to prove I'm not entirely heartless, and can perform such a task without needing legal representation.
I figured I probably could get pregnant, but would likely be unable to deliver naturally or even carry the baby to term. In the weeks following the surgery, I asked the surgeon so many questions. Important questions, like how I could avoid a colostomy bag? Would I ever be able to have sex again? If I can have sex, can I have anal? Not that I really want to or anything, just...could I?
I never asked about kids.
I count myself as very lucky that I've never wanted to have children. I'm grateful, because how devastating would my life be if I did? Nobody wants to date me, let alone procreate with me.
If I wanted to get pregnant, I'd be looking for a careless one-night stand or donor sperm. I'd be raising the sticky, stinky little monster alone. Finding a mate, often considered the best first step to having a family, is not in my future.
It's a little like being relieved New York Fashion Week didn't call me to walk in any runway shows this year, on account of my terribly busy schedule.
Surely, my busy schedule is the only obstacle standing in the way of career as a sought after supermodel.
Ahem.
I can dislike children as much as I want, and remain relatively dry-eyed when told I may as well convert my womb to office space, but the truth is, it would never happen regardless of what I want.
That said...it's one thing to choose not to do something. It's something else entirely to have that choice taken away.
Flash forward to two days later, when me and my questionable uterus are sitting in my office, texting with Alex. Like any other time I've ever talked with him, I ask him what's new.
His exact answer: Nothing. Baby's due soon.
Funny, because he never told me his girlfriend was pregnant. Not once, and we chat nearly every day. He had nine months to remember to say something, because she's due in October. Funny, because he swears he told me, but I'm pretty sure I would have remembered that little nugget of info. No baby brain over here to make me forgetful.
Funny how everything happens all at once, all the time. I know very little about his girlfriend, other than she's gorgeous, normally a size 0 with improbable double D breasts, and was at one time, married to somebody else. Her and her husband tried to have kids, and underwent IVF treatments - but nothing took.
Funny, that this week would be the best week ever to learn one last thing to know about his girlfriend and the goddamn miracle baby she's about to drop. They're both over the moon, as everybody always is. And why not? She has what she always wanted, and...I suppose I do too.
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