You know the memories that are so deeply impressed in your
mind that there is no question they will ever fade? I’d like to share with you the slightly
mortifying story of my first menstrual cycle and how that shaped my personal
views of AF (Aunt Flo), until just two years ago when I felt my very first
longings to have children.
If you’re still reading, the story begins at Lakeside Middle
School in Irvine California. I was in 8th
grade the fall of 1984, and it was just before my 13th birthday. Changing after gym class on Friday afternoon,
I realized my shorts and underwear were period soaked. My first thoughts were about how lucky I’d
been to have on dark colors so the blood was unobserved. I knew what was happening, but I wasn’t
prepared and I was terrified of the gym teacher, so I stuffed tp in my pants
and went on to class. I think the shock
of this slightly unwelcome intrusion of my burgeoning fertility kept me from
feeling the initial cramps, but by the time school was out, I was uncomfortable
and still slightly baffled.
You see, I was scheduled to climb Mt. Whitney that weekend
with my Dad and little brother, and my Mom was already out of town at a Girl
Scout event. There was no way in hell I
was going to talk to my Dad about what to do.
(In fact, Dad, if you’re reading this, please don’t ever tell me that
you did.) Anyway, I somehow survived the
hike using tp, and Mitch got the two of us a reprieve from summiting when he
had difficulties with altitude sickness. There’s a shot of us feeding the camp birds
the morning Dad summited. It was nice
to be still in our camp and observe the hustle and bustle of the many other
climbers.
I remember the movement helping, and I loved backpacking
back then, so the feeling of the hip strap may have been supportive and
comforting. I also remember being
greatly relieved when we returned to civilization and indoor plumbing. Even before my Mom got home, I had found the
instructions in a box of tampons and successfully stemmed the tide of AF. But I can’t help but wonder: if that life
transition had been honored and celebrated instead of hidden, would I have
valued my fertility in the way I now know it deserves?
It has only been two years since I started welcoming AF with
joy, and secondary signs of fertility with excitement. Most of my cycles were accompanied by extreme
cramping that I now realize was a symptom of out of balance hormones. I was a drama queen until I finally became
aware of the ill effects I was causing myself.
My parents calling me Sarah Bernhardt when I threw tantrums as a child
only made me react more. I’ve learned
stress control the hard way as I’ve tweaked my functional and emotional systems
through trial and error with mostly allergen-free diet and mindful exercise,
mostly yoga, walking and swimming.
However, for the majority of my adult life, I was partnered
with, and behaved like an adult child, and I felt completely unprepared to care
for real babies so I did everything in my power to avoid getting pregnant. When I did accidentally conceive, there was
no discussion about whether or not to carry to term. We could barely take care of ourselves; we
would be train wrecks of parents. Some
physical discomfort was endured in exchange for continuing our chosen
lifestyle. It seemed like the right
choice.
Unfortunately, there was emotional trauma that didn’t get
voiced or worked through. I realize now
that I didn’t even consult my ex or ask how he felt. I went to him with my solution, and probably
didn’t even ask for comments or suggestions.
Even though it was my body and my life, I now see that was callous, as
was my horrific treatment of that precious unborn life. What I can hardly believe looking back, is
that I messed up twice more, and each time confirmed that I still didn’t
consider us fit for parenthood. I tried to question my ambivalence and attempted
to turn my awareness up, but I didn’t feel a connection to those literally ill
conceived fetuses. I couldn’t envision a
life with children of my ex.
Why were we together?
I think we truly enjoyed each other’s presence for a long time, most of
22 years. We had common interests and
hobbies; more like best friends than passionate mates, usually. Settled, and ever so slightly stuck, but not
uncomfortably, really. The second half
of our partnership was aboard a sailboat, so the energy always quickly
refreshed if we happened to have a disagreement. But we just slowly stopped connecting at all,
unless we went away together, and then everything would seem great. But it really wasn’t, so we broke up. After all, there were no children to tie us
together.
Now I’ve built a successful relationship with a man who cares
so much about my well being that I feel pampered into compliance with
challenging preconception protocol. And
I realize if we want to make a great baby, we need a healthy vessel and
conduit. Shortly after meeting my new
partner’s adult children, I knew I wanted to have his kids if I could. I shared this desire, and of course my amazing
partner (AP) agreed that it would be fun.
What a cool guy! So here we are
two years after that first decision to reverse his vasectomy. On August 25 this year, the surgeon performed
a vasoepididymostomy, where the vas deferens is surgically reattached directly
to the epididymis. AP healed up quick
and clean, like a young dog, and could hardly wait out his two-week doctor’s
ordered celibacy.
In the meantime, I’m working with a team of providers to
smooth out my hormonal systems and thus replenish my ability to make and carry
a baby to term. Positive changes, even
small ones, keep us motivated to stay on track with healthy, sustainable
habits. Cramps and stress are easing
when I remember to follow my recommended courses of treatment and actions, and I’m
settling into the magic baby journey.
I’m not feeling rushed as we cast off on this voyage together. It’s taken me more than twenty years to
embrace this adventure and I’m steady and ready.
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