I’ve noticed a personal mentality shift recently. I can’t pinpoint exactly when it began, but I think I realized it was happening this week:
I’m not upset anymore about the possibility of never being pregnant. In fact, I don’t want to be pregnant. Not that I would be mad if it happened, but I certainly don’t desire it anymore.
Before this shift, I used to look at pregnant women and stare in awe of the miracle inside of them. I wanted that. Why couldn’t I have that? Now, I can only focus on the downfalls of being pregnant:
Pain, pain, and more pain
Complications (sometimes many complications)
NO SOFT CHEESES!
Never-ending visits to the doctor
Anxiety (times 1,000)
and the list goes on . . .
I used to walk past Motherhood Maternity in the mall, and I yearned for the day when I could put on one of those cute maternity dresses. Now, I think about how I never have to spend the extra money on clothes I’ll likely wear just once.
All of this sounds wrong, doesn’t it? I feel like a terrible person for thinking these things. And on top of running through a laundry list of negatives, I think about my own, personal fear with pregnancy:
I do not, under any circumstances, want to pass my shitty genes along to my child.
Repeatedly, I’ve thought about what would happen if we got pregnant and I had a girl. How would I feel if, 25 years later, my daughter came to me and told me she was infertile? Would I forgive myself? I don’t know if I could. I’ve often thought about the risks of further fertility treatments on my own body, especially after the breast lump last year, but that doesn’t come close to preparing for the risk of passing along these same issues to my children. It’s difficult enough to watch friends and family members go through the pain of infertility. Watching my own kid go through it would be too much to bear.
I struggle writing about this, because I don’t want anyone to assume I think badly of them for going through or continuing treatment. This is my issue; it is something that has surfaced for me in recent weeks as I heal from yet another surgery. I also know that there is no guarantee our biological children would have fertility issues – or that any child we adopt wouldn’t.
Maybe this is closure to all of those years I spend wanting desperately to carry a child. I don’t know. I'm still working through it, so it's hard to tell if the door is closed and locked or if it remains open just a crack. What I do know is that while I will probably always roll my eyes at the women who get knocked up when their husbands look at them the wrong way, I don’t know that I will envy them anymore. I don’t know that the green monster will ever be as strong as it once was toward pregnant women.
Maybe this isn’t the healthiest way to cope. But it’s a start.