“One disaster at a time.” Those were the last words told to me by my doctor, one of my partners in this process of trying to make you into a cradling reality. Today, I had a hysterosalpingogram which is fancy word for shooting dye through fallopian tubes to make sure they are clear and functioning properly. Your only Tita, my wonderful sister, spoke her usual positive words when I told her that the discomfort was like getting a papsmear multiplied by fifteen, “Well, you never, ever, ever have to get that done again. Ever.” And when I told her how they stuck cold metal up my Precious and then inserted a long application into me, and then filled me up with a fluid that made me feel like I was either going to die of cramps or explode, she replied, “Mhm. Sounds great – like reverse birth.”
Humor, my dear, will be the key to surviving life. You’ll learn that when you are born.
Your father was made to put on a safety apron because it was in an x-ray room. It was scarlet and tightened around his torso with a big piece of velcro. He looked quite anxious when he noticed stains on it, but he tried to keep me laughing. Or maybe both of us to relax before the horrible test I was about to have.
To distract myself from the pain, I tried to imagine what it might feel like to actually be pregnant with you. It’s worked so many times before. The discomfort and sense of invasion was so thick, I could hardly get away in my thoughts. That’s rare. I’m usually the kind of woman that cannot be followed in the secrecy of my mind. I can usually escape in a moment, but not today.
To make things even more complicated, I have some sort of tear in my – hold onto yourself – my rear end. A fissure, is what it’s called, and feels like I am passing GLASS once a day. Yes, glass. More fiber, water, exercise, yoga. I’m doing everything I can, but the pain is so traumatic, so acute. Today it was so consuming, I cried in the shower for a long time. It’s been weeks of pain, my dear, and with the thoughts that you may or may not be realized only makes me hold tighter to a thread of possibility that may not even be real anymore, but I still hope.
I have to believe that since the dye cleared my tubes, my surgery was successful, and I am surviving some of the most physically painful times of my life that I am a mother in training. I shovel snow, have my tubes inked, write manifestas, and cook mean meals that stick to your ribs. I am woman.
Hear me roar.
If you are ever born inside me, you’ll be the first to hear it.