2/20/15
I have been anxiously awaiting this appointment since I set
it up a month or two ago. I am nervous that I will have to argue my case to the
doctor, because I’m young and I’ve heard that it can be hard to convince
someone to do this operation without some haggling. I’ve been suffering a heavy
depressive episode for a solid week now, however, and I think that fact alone
will be enough to push my case in the right direction.
I sit in the waiting room at the Women and Children’s
Pavilion and take glances at the other patients. I wonder if some of them are
here because they’re already planning their families. I’m almost smug as I
think to myself that I won’t have to worry about starting a conventional family
– that I have decided to take this step and define my own version.
After I’ve been called in to the doctor’s room and had my
vitals taken, I sit alone staring out the window. I wonder if I should be
staring at my phone when the doctor comes in, or if that makes me look like I’m
too immature to make adult decisions. I’m not sure if this is an irrational
thought or not, but I pull my book out anyway. I want to appear educated, well
informed, capable of making such a big decision at a young age.
When the doctor – a man I chose specifically based on his
experience in this field – walks in, the first words out of his mouth are, “I
will do a tubal litigation on you, but…”
Although I’m listening to the rest of his speech, I’m so
relieved that I won’t have to fight him to do the surgery that a smile begins
to creep on my face immediately. I pay
close attention as he tells me all the things I’ve already heard and researched
– this is an irreversible decision, I may come to regret it, and if I ever
choose to get pregnant in the future it will cost at least $30,000 with no
guarantee of success. He tells me that there are methods of birth control that
I can use now that aren’t permanent, and they often have the added bonus of
reducing my periods. I can tell that he is genuinely concerned, but I can also
tell he knows I’ve already made up my mind – he only tells me the facts out of
obligation, not as a means to persuade me to alter my decision.
He looks over my file and confirms a few things about me and
we discuss which procedure we both think would be best suited for my body – a body
that has never given birth to a live child and is now opting out of ever doing so.
I again find myself staring out the window. I’m looking at
the trees and letting the weight of my decision sink in again. I look at the
trees to ground myself. I have always thought trees to my closest connection to
God. I let all the thoughts and doubts tumble around in my brain. I see those
trees and remind myself that there is beauty in the world, even when I can’t
see it. I think, “Is it selfish to not produce a child to experience this
beauty?” I think, of course, of the traumatizing and brutal miscarriage I had 7
years ago. I think of how I’d always yearned, ached to give birth to a child of
my own. I think about how beautiful and humbling it would be to let God place a
human inside me, let it grow, and birth it into the world.
And yet…that is what I can’t do. This world is the reason I can’t do it. While part of me will
always grieve the fact that I won’t experience the miracle (and oh, it’s such a
beautiful miracle!) of childbirth, I know in my heart that wanting to birth a child is not enough reason to have a child. Because when you have a
child, it’s a living, binding contract with that human for the rest of your
lives. And I’m not prepared to make that commitment. I will never be prepared.
There are too many factors involved in raising a human being, and I
respectfully acknowledge that this will not be my lot in life.
I think again about the world, and it confirms my decision
again. I think about the depression and anxiety I have lived with all my life
and I think about how selfish I would be to pass that on to my child. I think
about the way I was treated by my peers when I didn’t fit their standards, and
I know how helplessly heartbroken I would feel watching my offspring experience
the same. I think that, even if they do fit in with the world, is that really
what I would want? Do I want to have a child who submits to peer pressure,
follows the crowd into potentially dark territory? Do I want to watch from the
sidelines as my child grows up and chooses a path that may lead it away from
me? Do I want to watch a human being that I created and love experience
heartache, fear, anxiety, seclusion?
This may sound harsh, and I know that not everyone will
understand or agree with me. I know they will tell me that there is also so
much joy and beauty in the world. I know this to be true, 100%. I won’t dispute
that. But we live in an age of terror, and I genuinely fear things will never
get better. We live in a world where people kill each other over race,
religion, and sexuality. We live in a world that produces “role models” in the
form of pop singers and misogynist celebrities. We live in a world where people
hide behind their keyboards while going out of their way to ridicule, shame,
harass, and torment their online peers. For as much chance as a child has of
experiencing joy in this world, I do not believe I will ever be ready to take
that chance, especially if it is born with the same mental darkness that I've been plagued with.
There are many other reasons, of course. I like to sleep in.
I love to travel. I hate being tied down to anything. I like to know that I can,
at any moment, uproot myself and move onto something new. Additionally, I’ve
worked with children for over a decade. I love those children endlessly. I have
loved many of them as if they were my own. At the end of my life, I can happily
say that I played a positive, influential role in their lives. So even without
producing babies of my own, I have still impacted the lives of many. This
brings me satisfaction and I am eternally humbled to have been entrusted with
the care of other people’s treasures. The loves of their lives have also been
the loves of mine. I have done my best to guide them, protect them, and teach
them as I would had they had been mine. To have been able to share my heart
with them is something I will always be grateful for. I believe God gave me the
gift of compassion to care for many, even if it means sacrificing caring for
just one.
All these thoughts enter and exit my head slowly and
methodically. I don’t realize until later, but this is my way of grieving what
could have been while also fully embracing what will be. When I leave the
doctor’s office, the delight and relief I feel is the happiest moment I've had
in weeks, and I know I’m doing the right thing.
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