I didn’t want to wake up this morning. Not in the usual my body hurts, I didn’t get enough sleep and I’m not yet ready to deal with three screaming toddlers kind of way. I didn’t want to wake up because last night I dreamt I was pregnant with my baby girl.
Yes, I am one of those boy moms who desperately wanted a girl. I love my three sons with every ounce of my being, but without a daughter, my family feels incomplete. I can’t explain why—there is no logical reason or explanation, but it just does.
I rarely wake up with access to the emotional experience that took place during my dream, but this morning as I woke, I felt what it was like to be pregnant with my baby girl. I felt whole. Complete. Like the piece of my soul that had been wandering outside of my body had found its way home. I felt happy and hopeful.
As I slowly opened my eyes, those feelings began to fade. The emptiness that has nestled its way into my abdomen began to swell. The happiness began to fade and the hope, once again, felt out of reach.
I have made several very important decisions in my life, but none have felt as heavy as the one I’m facing right now.
I am 31 years old. I shouldn’t have to be making this decision. This was supposed to be our last resort. My doctors were supposed to find another way.
Many people in my life do not understand the weight of this decision.
“Take them out already! Your pregnancies were hellacious. You can’t possibly go through that again.”
“Didn’t he already have a vasectomy?”
“What’s the big deal? It’s just a uterus. They are just ovaries.”
But it’s not just a uterus. They are not just ovaries.
Those ovaries, my ovaries, grew, protected and carried the eggs that created each of my beloved boys. They are not just ovaries; they are breaths of life. They are eager souls waiting to be born. The miracle of life is held there, woven like thread piercing the core of that sacred space. My sacred space.
They aren’t just ovaries.
And this uterus, my uterus, is not just a uterus. It is a house. An old, rickety, well-worn but cozy house. A house that has many scars, scars that each tell a story. Stories filled with moments, with memories—precious, priceless memories.
This uterus is not just a uterus; it’s life. It’s our life together. It’s connection—intimate, human connection. It’s the bond between me and each one of my boys. It’s time together, blood shared, hearts beating as one.
It’s a fluttery feeling. A first kick. A somersault. A roll.
It’s my hand gently rubbing his elbow. Our first visible touch. It’s a daddy’s first kiss.
It’s patience, a hopeful promise of life delivered. It’s wonder, imagination and possibility.
It’s change, growth and transformation. It’s a young woman becoming a mother, a single cell multiplying, tiny little fingers and toes forming, organs developing, a baby growing and thriving.
It’s a lost soul finding purpose and direction.
It’s a part of me, a part of them.
It’s not just a uterus; it’s desire.
It’s a dream of one more life.
It’s the abundance of love I have for her.
I’m just not ready to give her up. Not yet.
I know I need to schedule the procedure, and I will—soon. My boys need me to be healthy for them. But it won’t be easy. And right now I’m giving myself space to grieve. I’m wrapping my arms tightly around my waist so I can feel myself let go.
It’s helping a little.
I look up at my three little boys and feel the love that radiates through the room.
One of these days I will reach for the phone. And it will be okay.
I will be okay.
We will be okay.