This is a whiney, desperate-sounding post. You have been warned. But there is comic relief at the end.
If not excited I should at least be glad that things are moving forward. Our donor's colonoscopy was normal, so; God-willing, we anticipate a mid-September transfer. It will likely fall on or around Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year.
I should be looking forward. I neither expect nor want to be excited or optimistic. But must I be terrified? I keep envisioning losing another baby or babies. And I don't know if I'm strong enough. I know I come from a line of strong women. But I don't even feel like a real girl. (Cue the Pinocchio music.) And I had some Very Black Days and some Very Black Thoughts during this process. I never acted on them. But what if...?
My mentor gave me her usual wise advice today: I need to remember I'm not in control, and I need to remember that motherhood is not the only role that defines me, nor is it the be-all and end-all. Of course she is right. But I struggle to take her advice. I want to be a mother more than anything else in the entire world. And I don't think it's just wanting what I can't (ever?) have. I want to be a mother because I want to be a mother. I changed my sister's diapers when I was ten years old. In high school, I read my little siblings bedtime stories and drove carpool. At Shabbos dinner I spend more time with my baby cousins than with the grown-ups. There was even a period where my little sister would call me "Mama" by mistake.
Give me children or I shall surely die!
(And yes, I know Jacob's reply.)
I know I mustn't think too many steps ahead. And I know that I shouldn't focus on a timeline because I "won't be less of a mother just because it happens at forty-five instead of twenty-eight." But honestly -- it doesn't feel that way. I do feel like less of a mother because I play no role in the creation of this baby. I know this is foolish. If someone else were talking like this to me, I would tell her that motherhood is about raising a child, not making a baby. And the idea of waiting another seventeen years sounds SO INCREDIBLY PAINFUL. I know that the moment I hold a baby or babies in my arms, if I ever do, the hurt will be healed and it won't matter if I am a geriatric parent.
I can't seem to take even my own advice, huh?
Do childless women get babies in Heaven?
I just want to curl up and cry, and maybe talk more with my mentor, but I have already taken up so much of her time.
Okay, I should provide at least some comic relief. Here: I asked a patient to provide a urine drug screen today. He provided a cup of water. Um, busted!
And how about other good news: Husband and I celebrate our third anniversary this weekend. We have reservations at a very fancy restaurant, and I'll be wearing the dress from our American reception, and I even bought nail polish. I haven't bought nail polish since I was thirteen. It's ridiculously frivolous, and why would I want to be unable to do anything for two hours while the polish dried? But I like being girly because stupid things like nail polish and makeup make me feel like a real girl. You don't need chromosomes or hormones to do that.
I just wish I could get out of this self-centered rut. I need to remember how lucky I am. Even just to be alive is a gift.
I need to get a grip.
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