It has been a while since my last post. Only this time, I have a great excuse. Or a crap excuse, depending on how you think about it.
My mom has been in the ICU since November 1. It is a terribly long and terribly terrible story, one involving botched medical procedures, removal of muscle, skin, and most of a colon. Oh, and did I mention a stroke? Yes, let’s throw one of those in.
The good news is that my mother is alive and feisty. In fact, for Christmas she gave my dad the finger. (Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Norman Rockwell!) I’m cautiously optimistic that she is improving, but she is by no means out of the woods. Her doctors think she will require some kind of inpatient treatment for a year.
I went to visit my family three times in the last two months. I spent Christmas in the ICU with my mom. I gathered around her hospital bed with my brother and sister, and cried. I sat next to my dad in his bed, and held him while he cried.
This has put things in sharp focus for me. It made me realize how important starting a family of my own is to me. Someday I want people to cry over my hospital bed, DAMN IT! As of now, I’ve just got Mr. Ostrich and he hardly cries. (He is from New England. They don’t emote up here.) I need to breed or there will simply not be enough pulling of hair and gnashing of teeth when I die. I want to have created a family that cares enough to support and love each other the way my parents have. Is that too much to ask?!
Which brings me to the topic at hand: my dusty, empty uterus. During my last post, I wrote about going in for an HSG, to see if there was any blockage. Drum roll, please… It’s all good in my hood! It was a thoroughly unpleasant procedure, but at least it checked something off the list as to why Mr. Ostrich and I haven’t successfully created a little chick of our own.
For months, I was convinced that there was something wrong with me. The emotional browbeating that you can do to yourself in a situation like this absurd. My body was betraying me. Get that- I was betraying myself.
You’d think that this news would be a comfort. But it isn’t. Because there is nothing about me to fix.
So… let’s step back for a minute. All my ultrasounds, blood tests, and HSG test have come out “fine.” There is speculation of a smidge of endometriosis on my left ovary, but nothing that would be causing difficulty in conceiving and maintaining a pregnancy.
Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Or specifically, are you thinking what Mr. Ostrich is thinking?
When my doc started all my infertility tests, he also gave me a referral for Mr. Ostrich to have his own analysis done. I got all mine scheduled right away. Him? Not so much.
This represents a fundamental difference between me and Mr. Ostrich.
If something is broken, I rush in with 50 plans to fix it. There will be flow charts! There will be milestones! Hell, I may even PowerPoint!
If something is broken, he sits back for months until he is ready to fix it. There will be no communication on progress. One day, I will turn around and he will have addressed said broken something. Quietly, eventually done.
When all the proverbial shit hit the fan with my mom, I had a heartfelt discussion with Mr. Ostrich about starting our family. I asked him to make getting his junk inspected a priority. And because he is a sweet, wonderful man, Mr. Ostrich now has an appointment in a few weeks.
Now I wonder if he is doing some browbeating of his own. If I’m not the broken one, what if he is? I’m not so worried about the medical implications, mind you. What is it like to be on the other side, watching the person you love most turn inward like I did?
Of course, this is all conjecture. I’m sure his tests will come back fine. My doctor will say “Huh… that’s weird. I guess you’ll just have to keep going at it FOREVER with no results. Good luck with that.”
I will end up alone at 80 with no one to cry for me but the nursing staff at the home I will be wheeled into by my nieces and nephews who all have real parents to deal with.