The Swollen Belly
There is very little in my life that I am not extremely thankful for. I am thankful to the people who have passed through like angels and are instrumental in my rebirth over and over again. I am thankful that it is 2008 and I am here still enjoying life, though there have been times in the past when there was a good chance it would not be the case. I am thankful for Joe and Ellie. I am thankful for my brother, my father and all of my family because I love them. I am thankful for my friends. I am thankful for Obie and PennyLane.
There are other things that like all humans I wish I could change. I would bring my mother back in a second, if I could. I would bring her back without pain or suffering and replete with health and life. And…I would have a baby.
It is the one thing that remains constant and ever present that I will be unable to overcome: my wish to have a baby. There is nothing in my head that permits me to comprehend, let alone accept, this reality. I don’t voice how often it occupies my thoughts, for if I did, I would speak of nothing else ever. The lack of a child screams at me daily in every instance of my life. The “clock” most women are terrorized by in their mid-thirties pounds so loudly in my head, I have to make a concentrated effort to turn off the ticking. Otherwise, I would get nothing else done in a day. Growing up, being a mother one day was just something I knew and expected, not something I dreaded or feared. Nowhere in my childhood or adolescent life was there room for doubt or even a small inkling that having a baby of my own was not just a given. Even after becoming ill at 11 and pre-Google, I got my hands on information and read what I could about my illness and pregnancy. I read nothing else. Nothing else mattered. What ever else would come with this illness, I thought, I would handle it – but not this. I wanted to make sure that there was no blaring; “Don’t Even Think About It” documented anywhere. I sighed gleefully with relief when I read that: “Most women with lupus carry to term and have healthy infants.” But with everything else that followed my lupus, I had to wonder…
Now more than ever I see pregnant women everywhere. They are surrounding me and drowning me in realization. At my office, on the streets, all over Hollywood, on the subways, on the buses, in malls and supermarkets they appear, bellies protruding showing their triumph over my failure. The outward symbol of motherhood that speaks volumes about timing and health and goodness are mere reminders of what I still seek with unabashed passion and determination. More and more I see them becoming pregnant with ease. Repeatedly, I see them carry their joy to term and deliver without incident. Yet, “without complications” is not a term that would ever be applied to or associated with me. My pregnancy would begin with the words high risk attached and would prove to be a daily struggle against all odds. For me it would be a time of great joy and ongoing trepidations.
As a result of my age, I have been a guest at baby showers more times than I ever was a bridesmaid, but I have never been the guest of honor. Each time, it is with greater difficulty that I attend these events. Each time, it is with more significant pain that I shop for them. Each time reviewing a registry becomes a testament to my ability to put mind over matter. Each time it is even more evidence of what is not there for me. Each time I pour myself joyfully into creating my gifts with tremendous thrill and attention to detail. It brings me joy to buy tiny outfits, adorable infant toys and sweetly scented baby products. While I am there, I stroke the cribs and create beautiful nurseries in my head. I imagine the hours I would spend making of the nursery a serenely beautiful and restful place for my child. As I put together my gift, I do so thinking that this is how I would want someone to do it for me. I put in each piece with good wishes, blessings and happiness. Yet the joy travels parallel to the misgivings I have about having my own child.
People with money are fortunate in that they can go through all of the fancy new procedures and treatments because they can afford it. They can pay for the expensive scientific baby making magic. I am not people with money, nor am I people with health, so I can do neither. No clinic worth the ink in its name will take me on as a patient.
I have dreams that I can’t wake from some nights. In them, I am running through vacant lots screaming out: “Who took my baby? Who took my baby?” It isn’t raining in my dreams, but the streets are always damp and the sky is always dark. More terrorizing is that I want to wake up, but I don’t until they end. The conclusion is always the same: I encounter an old woman in a noisy wooden rocking chair and she says, “What baby? God didn’t give YOU a baby!” Then I open my eyes and it is silent. There is no baby crying for me.
With patience and compassion and not a hint of phoniness, I listen to the pregnant complain about the nausea, the exhaustion, the discomforts of their condition. Vicariously, I mentally endure similar symptoms in preparation for my own. I watch as their shape changes, as their walk becomes labored and their bladders become oppressed. I watch as their nails grow strong, their hair shines beautifully and their glow is bright and visible. And when their babies arrive, I inhale all of the newness of the infant without shame. I try to commit the scent to memory for when I must return the infant to its mother and find myself again with empty arms.
There was a time when my doctors accepted, and even encouraged, me to have a baby. They no longer do that. Dr. Delaney cites my age as reason for her change of heart, but I know it is both my age and my condition at present time. I know there are people who choose this childless condition. They wish to exist for only themselves and – if they deem it necessary – a spouse or partner. I am not like them, nor am I here to judge them. In the same manner, I need not understand them, either. I did not choose this. To me it feels like a punishment, payback for crimes in a previous life. To me this feels like further proof of an unhealthy, incomplete and useless body that is housed in skin, which is tired of tolerating pain and injury.
Oddly, I am somehow able to find great joy and cause for celebration with each pregnancy that I am closely associated with. And while each time there is a hint of envy in the initial emotions that I feel, it is wrapped so tightly in happiness that it surpasses it. The moment I hear of someone announcing a pregnancy, I feel defeated, dreadful and sad, but the feelings are fleeting. Wonderment soon replaces them and I think only of the little angel that is soon to bless all who surround it. My moods are at extremes at these times with anger being momentary and contentment residing indefinitely. It is because of my varying moods and emotions that I am able to cope with the news each time.
Even as I sit here typing this, I am weeping. The tears are falling freely now because I am so fragile when I think of all of this. No one of importance has yet arrived in the office and it is just as well. I have no time right now to make excuses or provide explanations. If anyone asks why my eyes are so red, I will blame allergies, even though I have never had an allergy in my life to speak of. This is just my state at this moment with emotions so raw they are as real as the taut skin on an eight-month-old belly. Yet, I know that if I am never able to have a child, there will never be contentment or acceptance for me. There will not be an adoption or a surrogate. There will not be a life fulfilled. Of all of the things God took from me, this remains the most painful. And if I never have a child, when I close my eyes at my life’s end I will remain, in every cell of my being, bitter, regretful and angry.
There are other things that like all humans I wish I could change. I would bring my mother back in a second, if I could. I would bring her back without pain or suffering and replete with health and life. And…I would have a baby.
It is the one thing that remains constant and ever present that I will be unable to overcome: my wish to have a baby. There is nothing in my head that permits me to comprehend, let alone accept, this reality. I don’t voice how often it occupies my thoughts, for if I did, I would speak of nothing else ever. The lack of a child screams at me daily in every instance of my life. The “clock” most women are terrorized by in their mid-thirties pounds so loudly in my head, I have to make a concentrated effort to turn off the ticking. Otherwise, I would get nothing else done in a day. Growing up, being a mother one day was just something I knew and expected, not something I dreaded or feared. Nowhere in my childhood or adolescent life was there room for doubt or even a small inkling that having a baby of my own was not just a given. Even after becoming ill at 11 and pre-Google, I got my hands on information and read what I could about my illness and pregnancy. I read nothing else. Nothing else mattered. What ever else would come with this illness, I thought, I would handle it – but not this. I wanted to make sure that there was no blaring; “Don’t Even Think About It” documented anywhere. I sighed gleefully with relief when I read that: “Most women with lupus carry to term and have healthy infants.” But with everything else that followed my lupus, I had to wonder…
Now more than ever I see pregnant women everywhere. They are surrounding me and drowning me in realization. At my office, on the streets, all over Hollywood, on the subways, on the buses, in malls and supermarkets they appear, bellies protruding showing their triumph over my failure. The outward symbol of motherhood that speaks volumes about timing and health and goodness are mere reminders of what I still seek with unabashed passion and determination. More and more I see them becoming pregnant with ease. Repeatedly, I see them carry their joy to term and deliver without incident. Yet, “without complications” is not a term that would ever be applied to or associated with me. My pregnancy would begin with the words high risk attached and would prove to be a daily struggle against all odds. For me it would be a time of great joy and ongoing trepidations.
As a result of my age, I have been a guest at baby showers more times than I ever was a bridesmaid, but I have never been the guest of honor. Each time, it is with greater difficulty that I attend these events. Each time, it is with more significant pain that I shop for them. Each time reviewing a registry becomes a testament to my ability to put mind over matter. Each time it is even more evidence of what is not there for me. Each time I pour myself joyfully into creating my gifts with tremendous thrill and attention to detail. It brings me joy to buy tiny outfits, adorable infant toys and sweetly scented baby products. While I am there, I stroke the cribs and create beautiful nurseries in my head. I imagine the hours I would spend making of the nursery a serenely beautiful and restful place for my child. As I put together my gift, I do so thinking that this is how I would want someone to do it for me. I put in each piece with good wishes, blessings and happiness. Yet the joy travels parallel to the misgivings I have about having my own child.
People with money are fortunate in that they can go through all of the fancy new procedures and treatments because they can afford it. They can pay for the expensive scientific baby making magic. I am not people with money, nor am I people with health, so I can do neither. No clinic worth the ink in its name will take me on as a patient.
I have dreams that I can’t wake from some nights. In them, I am running through vacant lots screaming out: “Who took my baby? Who took my baby?” It isn’t raining in my dreams, but the streets are always damp and the sky is always dark. More terrorizing is that I want to wake up, but I don’t until they end. The conclusion is always the same: I encounter an old woman in a noisy wooden rocking chair and she says, “What baby? God didn’t give YOU a baby!” Then I open my eyes and it is silent. There is no baby crying for me.
With patience and compassion and not a hint of phoniness, I listen to the pregnant complain about the nausea, the exhaustion, the discomforts of their condition. Vicariously, I mentally endure similar symptoms in preparation for my own. I watch as their shape changes, as their walk becomes labored and their bladders become oppressed. I watch as their nails grow strong, their hair shines beautifully and their glow is bright and visible. And when their babies arrive, I inhale all of the newness of the infant without shame. I try to commit the scent to memory for when I must return the infant to its mother and find myself again with empty arms.
There was a time when my doctors accepted, and even encouraged, me to have a baby. They no longer do that. Dr. Delaney cites my age as reason for her change of heart, but I know it is both my age and my condition at present time. I know there are people who choose this childless condition. They wish to exist for only themselves and – if they deem it necessary – a spouse or partner. I am not like them, nor am I here to judge them. In the same manner, I need not understand them, either. I did not choose this. To me it feels like a punishment, payback for crimes in a previous life. To me this feels like further proof of an unhealthy, incomplete and useless body that is housed in skin, which is tired of tolerating pain and injury.
Oddly, I am somehow able to find great joy and cause for celebration with each pregnancy that I am closely associated with. And while each time there is a hint of envy in the initial emotions that I feel, it is wrapped so tightly in happiness that it surpasses it. The moment I hear of someone announcing a pregnancy, I feel defeated, dreadful and sad, but the feelings are fleeting. Wonderment soon replaces them and I think only of the little angel that is soon to bless all who surround it. My moods are at extremes at these times with anger being momentary and contentment residing indefinitely. It is because of my varying moods and emotions that I am able to cope with the news each time.
Even as I sit here typing this, I am weeping. The tears are falling freely now because I am so fragile when I think of all of this. No one of importance has yet arrived in the office and it is just as well. I have no time right now to make excuses or provide explanations. If anyone asks why my eyes are so red, I will blame allergies, even though I have never had an allergy in my life to speak of. This is just my state at this moment with emotions so raw they are as real as the taut skin on an eight-month-old belly. Yet, I know that if I am never able to have a child, there will never be contentment or acceptance for me. There will not be an adoption or a surrogate. There will not be a life fulfilled. Of all of the things God took from me, this remains the most painful. And if I never have a child, when I close my eyes at my life’s end I will remain, in every cell of my being, bitter, regretful and angry.
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