I am lying in my childhood bedroom, staring up at a ceiling that once had thousands of glow in the dark stars, but is now completely and totally blank.
It feels like a metaphor for my future. A tabula rasa in ceiling form. At thirty-three, being here feels a bit like a failure, but then I look at my life, and what I’ve been through in the last year, and it all of a sudden doesn’t.
It feels like success. It feels like love.
My parents loved me enough and were supportive enough that when push came to shove, they welcomed me back into their home with open arms, and then carried me through the darkest days I have ever known with embraces, jokes to release the tension, and shoulders for me to cry on.
It’s that unconditional love, that bond, that I so desperately want to share with someone else. Not just any someone, my someone. That little girl I’ve seen dancing in my dreams since I was seventeen. That unknown, unnamed child that keeps calling me momma. My
subconscious screaming and plotting any way possible to make her real, and yet, there’s nothing.
This dream has been such a part of my life that I have done, and have given so much of it away to reach it. I’ve walked away from relationships with people who undoubtedly loved me, but for whatever reason weren’t ready to have children, or didn’t want them at all. No one goal has shaped my life as much as this one has, and the sense of urgency that plagued me in my twenties has now become a horrible farce of urgency, so much so that I’m at a god damned stand still.
Surgeons and oncologists do whatever they can to help you live the life you want to live, within reason, with cancer. They do, and it’s amazing how far technology has advanced. Every day since my surgery I’m better, I can feel it, but medically, statistically, they’re keeping the numbers at roughly 80%sure I’m clear.
I’ve never been an 80% person. That’s a solid B in my book, and dammit, I was an A student!
But 80% allows me to have children, or rather, a child. 80% allows me to be a mom. 80% is better than a hundred percent with no uterus and early menopause and no baby ever to call me mom.
But I’m not there yet. And as hard as I try to get to the spot where I am ready to be there, I’m just as far away as I have ever been. Financially, I’m ok, but that won’t last that much longer unless I start looking again. Relationship wise, how do you begin to tell the guy who you’ve been crazy in love with for the better part of two years, who has really only been your friend, and then became something other that you want to have a baby? Like now? Before 80% turns into 60% or 50%?
If you’re me, you tell him via text in typical self deprecating humor about raising money to get invitro done, and then act mock horrified when you realize he might actually run the other way if you become a sperm obsessed baby making machine that only wants him for one thing….
But I want three things really, and for other people they seem to come more easily. I just want him, for the rest of my life, and my kid to call him dad. It’s utterly crazy, and strange to think about…..
Or maybe not…he just said I could
use him for whatever I want.
I doubt he knows what a monster he may have unleashed.