Fork in my Life

The first blog I ever read was Brownfemipower.com.  I found it when I began searching for "women of color feminism."  Since then, I'm thousands of posts in, and I still wonder what the "meaning" of my blog is.  Whether it's been to inform, vent, or share my life - it's always been a reflection of what is going on in my mind and heart.  

And so, with this blog, I am beginning new phase in my life and my blog shall be heir to a decision I made to bring new life into the world.

I'm not pregnant, far from it.  48 hours ago, I attended my first appointment with an ob/gyn in Cleveland, my home now for the past 6 weeks, and uttered the words aloud for the first time: I want to have a baby.

I was alone, intentionally.  In this woman's office, looking deep into her dark blue eyes and she smiled right back at me.  There was an enormous glass window to my left and a windowfull of sunshine poured on my skin as I said it aloud.  I felt amazing, beautiful even.

My reproductive system has always been tumultuous.  An early onset of my period, extremely irregular cycles, and a ovarian tumor and partial ovarian removal surgery at age 20 has decorated my life with frequent visits, medication, pain, and wondering.

I want to a child.  

Adonis and I have been talking about this for awhile and while millions of womyn become pregnant all the time, I can honestly say that it feels like you're the only one who's ever been done this road before.  It feels like I've had a shot of hypervigilant meds that cause me to worry over my body and become acutely aware of ever pain, however slight.

I've heard women, who are in a position of privilege to choose pregnancy, say that there is a line that you cross when you become pregnant.  I disagree.  For me, the line was crossed once I decided that I wanted to have a child and was going to do whatever I could, within reason, to go through a pregnancy.  No exaggeration, I felt different when I said those words aloud.  

I want to have a baby.

It's funny how I was and am one decision  away from keeping my life the exact same: happy, childless, filled with open moments and a carefree schedule.  Or, I can begin this journey of medical intervention, appointments, evaluations, analysis, research, learning, health, and the emotional rollercoaster involved with healthcare, insurance, fertility, and diagnosis.

I don't know much more than the average women, average feminist.  I know that prior to Monday I felt the same as I always had for the past 29 years, but then, once I sat in that bright doctor's office, having a consultation, something changed.

When I left, I cried in my car.  I don't know why.  The samples of blood, the possibilities both good and bad, the miracle, the chances this may not work, the medicines, THE HORMONES.  It all just coated my body and the steering wheel was the shoulder I had.

Today I went back to the hospital for more tests.  Another ultrasound and a transvaginal test.  A trans-what?  I asked.  As if holding in 32oz of water in your bladder while someone rolls a wet mouse-like contraption over your lower abdomen is not enough, this transvaginal exam (conducted AFTER I got to pee, thank the Lord) was basically inserting an instrument the length of a pen and the width of a medium carrot into your special spot and pressing it in various places for 18 minutes.  (There was an enormous clock, so, yes, I literally watched the minutes go by.)  All the while someone asking you gently, "Any pain here?  Here?  How 'bout here?"  I don't know, how painful do you think it is to have a e-carrot exploring your reproductive organs all in the name of a hopeful pregnancy?

I left in a trance.

I parked my car in a shopping complex and wandered from store to store, staring past everything and wondering what in the world I was doing.  I came back to life when I realized I had stopped in the cheese section of Whole Foods, where I cannot afford to shop, and was munching on sample cheese with sample crackers with sample pineapple and sample guacamole like I was at Old Country Buffet.  The produce worker was staring at my disheveled state.  

I grabbed an organic spaghetti squash and pretended I was going to buy it to normalize my appearance.

Is this normal?  Wandering around Cleveland in shock after having your whoo-ha examined for 45 minutes and you end up stealing sample munchies from Whole Foods?

Well, for me, it's normal.

I just had my 1999 surgical notes and pathology report sent to my current doctor, who is, by the way, a human Mrs. Potts from Beauty and the Beast.

Test results back in a few days.