09 May 2015 No Comments
It’s been months since I last wrote here. And, true to form, things have taken unexpected turns and twists since those days – one of which was probably the biggest shock of my life. It’s all too much, to be honest. So I guess I’ll just jump right into it.
My entire life changed on Sunday, March 1, 2015. Why?
I found out that I was pregnant. Seven months pregnant, to be exact.
Yes, indeed, the same woman that was told since the age of fifteen that she would never, ever have children (due to an endometriosis diagnosis), the same woman that had never planned for children in any way, shape or form…. seven months pregnant. Since March 1, 2015, I have been riding a roller coaster that no one on this planet could even imagine. I have raged, screamed, cried, felt overwhelming joy and sadness all at once, and have come to realize that I am now partially responsible for another human being. I have participated in bringing a new life onto the planet. I have left something of myself behind.
I am forty-three years old…. and pregnant.
As of this writing, I am a mere three weeks away from my due date (given as June 1, 2015, though it’s almost a sure bet that it’ll be earlier than this). In less than 21 days, I will be in a hospital bed doing what is undoubtedly one of the hardest things of my entire life (and, probably, screaming for drugs at the same time, heh).
I can tell you what – my husband has SKILLS.
I am still struggling with the realization, more than anyone can understand. Am I happy? Yes, in some ways, I can’t deny that I am – although I’d given up long ago that I would ever reproduce, I always thought about what I would do or not do if I’d had a child of my own. I sometimes longed to participate in the rituals of motherhood, though I never dwelled much upon it because, deep down, I knew it wasn’t possible. (Or so I thought.) Until March 1, 2015, I simply didn’t consider it – it wasn’t possible. Or…. so I’d thought.
Of course, that was then. This is now.
I’ve learned a lot in the last seven years, since I re-started this blog as a sad, depressed, suicidal obsessive. I’ve grown up, both by choice and by necessity. I’ve transformed from a high school graduate with no ambition to a driven professional with a Master’s degree. (Yes, I did get it – that’s the other big news – my graduation ceremony is on the 17th, though I won’t be able to go because it’s too soon to my due date. But I did make it. With a 3.80 GPA, at that.) I’ve learned much about myself on that road. I’ve reconciled to some degree with my past, with my family, and have realized that I needed that family and those friends more than I ever thought I would. I’ve met new people and have reconnected with some old people, while leaving others behind (that I really needed to).
Because, you see… I’m now responsible for a new life. It’s up to me to be the best parent that I can be now – and to try not to make the same mistakes that my parents did. The kid’s got a great start already – both parents are in the picture with no threat of loss. I didn’t have my mother and my father – but my baby does. That, already, is a stroke of luck that I didn’t have. My husband was understandably shocked (maybe more than I was, even, and that’s saying something) – but he’s on board now, as much as I think he can be. He’s had a painful past regarding his other children – but I think he knows that this time will be different. This child is different.
This child, quite honestly, is a fucking miracle. It should never have happened. But it did. It did.
It’s no longer all about me. Not anymore. Now…. it’s about my daughter, Valerie. My baby girl. My miracle.