Dear Infertility (part 8)

Dear Infertility,

I think about you. Every damn day. Sometimes you’re just a whisper. Other times, you seem to have a megaphone. I’ve been fooled into thinking that you’ll go away and just when I get a reprieve from you, boom. There you are.

I don’t know why I can’t shake you; why the trauma of my surgery haunts. It’s like you’re sewn into my bones. Every fiber consists of you. Until I shuffle off this mortal coil, I suspect it will always be this way.

Like a spider at night, you’ve weaved a web I cannot escape from, even when I try. Why do you insist on holding me captive? Is it the way you came into my life? Or, could it be the way you’ve changed it? 

I’m a parent. You know this. Still, you persist. You love reminding me of yourself. A bit egotistical, don’t you think? Oh, you really enjoy making me wonder what could’ve and should’ve been. It’s your thing, isn’t it?

Dear Infertility,

Stop. I know I’ve begged this of you for far too many years. You won’t listen. It’s because you’re trauma – T.R.A.U.M.A. Despite therapy, prayer, marriage, adoption and many other things, you remain a constant shadow of pain from years ago.

I find myself wondering about you and it makes me feel guilty, although, I haven’t committed a crime. Guilty for pondering the things I do. Guilty for wishing things would’ve been different. I’m convicted of that.

Dear Infertility,

If I kept it all inside, I’d allow you to win. I can’t do that because you’ve already taken so much from me. You altered my childhood. Yes, you did that.

From the hysterectomy to feeling like a vagabond in the midst of other girls to imagining what my biological child would be like, you’ve been the narrator.

But, don’t forget, it’s my voice.

And, I’m still here.

In That Building

That building right there is where my life changed in 1983. It’s where worried parents and frantic doctors scrambled to save my life; the hallways imprinted with the pacing back and forth steps of a team wondering what was wreaking havoc on my body. Broken hearts. Spilled-out tears.

I ended up spending my senior year of college interning in that hospital. In an odd way, being there every day was comforting; like coming home. Occasionally, I meandered my way up to the floor where I stayed for a month. I searched for the nurse’s eyes to see if anyone recognized me. So many years had passed and the hospital had gone through its own renovation. Everything was different.

I’ve said before that trauma is not a place. It’s an experience. Yet, in many ways, trauma can be connected to a place. Seeing this hospital and being inside it reminds me of the pain I experienced there, but it also renders me with the calmness of courage I had to fight the infection and survive.

In that building, I won. My future changed and trauma infused itself into my parents and self, but I won. The building has changed so much. Walls have come down and in their place, the newness has taken over.

The same goes for my life. Tearing down the walls I built up to store my medical trauma revealed a newness; a refreshing of spirit. But the trauma of it all has never left. I feel hints of it from time to time. I battle with the injury to my self-esteem and physical issues still occurring years after my surgery.

In that building, my life changed. We’ve both been through many renovations, yet we are connected to each other.

Because that’s what trauma does.