(No more) close calls
by Jillian Bogater (Exile From Hysteria)
I blame the last time I took a pregnancy test on endometriosis.
As a long-term sufferer, I had grown used to heavy periods. Very heavy.
But all of that changed about six months ago once I started the pill. Aside from the obvious birth control, it was supposed to slow the monthly flow. While my periods became noticeably lighter, something unexpected happened. My menstrual cycle became wildly unpredictable.
During the week of “dummy” pills, my period was very light at first. Almost undetectable. Then the next month I got my period a week early. It got to the point that I was completely unsure of when or how heavy my period would be.
Then a couple months ago, it just didn’t arrive. I racked my brain trying to remember if I somehow missed a pill.
Could it be that I was pregnant?
I checked the calendar. I was five days late. On the pill. Everything seemed improbable. My boyfriend and I weren’t exactly ready for a baby, but I was open to the possibility. We would make it work, I told myself.
I considered this possible accidental pregnancy. I thought of changing the spare bedroom into a nursery. Buying a stroller. Deciding between cloth or packaged diapers. We would get by. Our mothers would make sure of that.
I pushed my hands into the bathroom closet, feeling around in the dark for a leftover pregnancy test from a couple years prior. I pulled it out and checked for the date. Expired by eight months. It would have to do.
I ripped open the thick foil package, and proceeded to pee on a stick. It took almost 10 minutes to get the result: not pregnant.
I tossed the test in the trash. My heart sank a bit. I realized I was in no way ready for a baby. But the smallest hint of one, just the faintest possibility somehow lifted my spirits. The next time I buy one of those, I told myself, would be a happy occasion. Matt and I will be prepared, and actively trying to conceive.
Two months later, my heart breaks. Now that I have decided to get a hysterectomy because of my struggles with endometriosis, I realize there will be no more close calls. No anxious trips to the drug store to buy a pregnancy test. No more daydreams of maternity clothes. Of people debating if my baby looks more like Matt or me.
When I found out about the surgery, my gynecologist suggested having a baby right now, then having the hysterectomy. Others told me I should harvest my eggs and consider using a surrogate. Both of these options just didn’t fit. The timing was off. Matt and I discussed it, and we just couldn’t justify having a baby to accommodate a surgery. And the egg-harvesting route sounded complicated, and expensive. Another definite no.
As I tearfully explored these options, Matt gently reminded me of the many children already in the world who desperately need parents. That we could provide them with the family they need. He was right. Knowing we had this option somehow lessened the weight of the situation.
The luxury of an accidental pregnancy has passed me by.
This much I know.
But I refuse to believe a hysterectomy is the end of the road.
Not now. I have too much love to give.