Sometimes It's Easy to Make a Hard Decision

They had pretty pink bows in their hair.

Running through the grass and falling on top of each other, the two little toddlers were oblivious to their mothers’ watchful eyes. Their playful giggling drowned out any adult conversation coming from the bench only a few feet away. As I walked past them I wondered. I wondered if their children were adopted or if they had them the good ole’ fashion way.

I’ve been having conversations like that a lot in my head lately. It seems I’ve not only noticed children more than usual, but I have found myself caught in conversations about people’s children. I’m sure this has always been the case, but in light of my recent doctor’s appointment the thought of children seem to be more front stage than usual.

I don’t have any children and my scheduled hysterectomy on April 1 permanently closes the deal. Sure, I can adopt. I have no problem with that. But there’s something about the birth of a baby. Your baby. The one who has your green eyes or your curly red hair. The child who has your smirk. Your laugh. Your bad math skills, but your artistic flair. A little you… as good or bad as that may be.

I was a little girl once.

And I had dreams. As a child I always assumed I would get married and have children. You know, the white picket fence and children’s artwork on the fridge. I’ve never married. I’m in no hurry for a bad marriage and so I’m more than willing to wait on a good one. But the children. I’ll be 40 next year and I have never, never wanted to have children in my 40’s. I applaud those who do, but it’s not something I want.

My mother asked me to put off the surgery and see if I could have a child. God bless her. She’s probably the only mother in history to ask her unmarried daughter to get pregnant. I can’t. I never wanted to be a single mom. And I can’t ask my boyfriend of less than two months to be a daddy. Plus, the real humdinger is that I’m most likely infertile anyway.

Part of me wishes I could give her a grandchild. Even though my parents would strongly disagree, I do feel like I’ve short changed them. I have never given them something that would bring them such incredible joy. I would love to be able to do that for them. But I can’t. And it hurts.

I explained to my mother my decision for having the surgery. I told her as deep as the emotional struggle is to permanently end the dream of having children, the relief I will get from having no more pain is stronger. The unbearable pain has to go. And out of this decision comes the guilt over a child that has never been born. My child.

I would be lying if I said the doctor’s suggestion was a shock. I had been contemplating it for the past couple of years. It was always in the back of my head, but I was too scared to say it out loud. The “what if’s” kept my mouth shut. The “could be’s” kept the dream alive. It took the doctor to say something for me to actually acknowledge it. To realize it. To absorb it.

And it made me feel justified.

I’m not one for radical surgeries just for the hell of it. I don’t have cancer and so this isn’t an emergency. But the early April date works in my busy schedule. I’m not looking forward to the cabin fever, but I am looking forward to after the recuperation period. I think I’ve forgotten what it was like to feel healthy. They say you never know the actual level of pain you’ve lived with until it’s gone.

As of today – Friday, March 6 at 7pm – I’m happy with my decision. I reserve the right to break down and cry at any moment. But right now as I type this… I’m okay.

It doesn’t matter if they were adopted or not.

Those two little girls I saw playing were having the time of their lives. Their grass-stained pink shirts and their messed up hair were the furthest things from their minds. All they cared about was each other and how loudly they could laugh. They don’t know how they came to be. They don’t know if they were planned or an accident.

And it surely didn’t matter at that moment. To anyone.