Sitting draped in my doctor's office today, I had quite a bit of time to reflect on things. When one is surrounded by the accoutrement of childbearing, it's hard not to think about having babies. For me, it's hard not to worry about whether I ever will have them or not.
Nobody enjoys these visits, I guess. There are few positions as vulnerable; few relationships require the level of trust the relationship between a woman and the doctor who helps her maintain the apparatus of the creation of life does.
When I go, though, there's always another layer underneath the general discomfort: the fear that one day the doctor will come back in and tell me that my body has finally betrayed me to the final extremity and that children are not possible. Every year, I procrastinate about making the appointment. Every year, I sit nervously in his office, trying not to look too closely at the photographs and other artwork of newborns and infants that cluster on the walls. Every year, I endure the exam and pray he won't tell me, with genuine apology on his kind face, that I will never know what it's like to carry life inside me and be a mother.
These visits are stressful to say the least. I'm sure after a few days have passed, I will find some self-deprecatory humor in it, but right now, I'm tired of thinking about it, tired of worrying about it.
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And then you said.....