As soon as I walked through the door, I was greeted by faces I hadn’t seen in years. Faces I had been longing to see forever.
Old friends who I adore, and couldn’t wait to catch up with.
I had intentionally donned loose attire to accommodate my baby making pudge, but even more importantly – my less than happy gut.
I had convinced myself that 3 days of pain pills were only making the situation down there worse at this point, and so I had powered through the hurt.
No pills. No anything. Just pure toughness.
And it was fine… at first.
One drink in, I was still doing pretty OK. We played some ridiculous game I had never heard of before that involved $3 and rolling dice until you were out.
I got third.
Which would have been cool, except third is really just 2 away from winning all the money.
Still, it was a good time.
Then we all headed outside to play flip cup.
Something I literally haven’t played since my going away party in San Diego 2 ½ years ago.
Apparently flip cup came back to Arizona from that party with a vengeance, and my old friends have been taking it seriously ever since.
I love to pass a good tradition along.
As soon as I played that first round though, I knew I was in trouble.
My stomach was revolting. Cramping up and sending shooting pains through my chest and shoulder. Yes, my shoulder. I realize this is ridiculous, and I can’t explain it. But for the past few days I have had shooting pains in my shoulder very similar to the gas pains you get in the same place after laparoscopic surgery. Pain pills can’t help them, and in fact – they’ve only seemed to make them worse. Having never had these pains outside of surgery though, I can only assume that endo has caused something in my diaphragm to be inflamed. Something that is extra irritated by pain pills and booze right now.
Yes, I realize that I sound out of my mind. I understand that I am coming off as a whiny little drama queen who is just looking for reasons to complain.
But I swear to you – my insides hurt right now. For the past 4 days, they have hurt. And it would appear that the hurt is only spreading.
Still, it really is my own fault. I was doing fine. I was feeling better.
I should have known that drinking anything at all was a bad idea.
And so, it was in that moment that I secretly texted my dad. He had dropped me off (making me feel like I was about 15 years old, but loving him for being my chauffer all the same) and even though I had only been there a few hours, I let him know.
“I’m ready to go whenever you’re ready to come get me.”
I just knew my stomach couldn’t handle anymore. I knew I needed to get home in bed and wrap up with my heating pad.
Because this is what my life has become.
The girl who used to do keg stands and shoot tequila like it was water.
I can no longer handle 1 ½ drinks without feeling like my stomach is on the attack.
Fifteen minutes later, my dad was there. I said my goodbyes, blaming my early exit on the old man. Not wanting to own up to how much pain I was already in. Hoping I would be able to walk out of there up right. That no one would notice the newly pained look on my face.
The ride home was rather quiet. Dad was tired, and I was hurting. At one point though, we started talking about my grandparents on my mom’s side of the family, who I only just recently found out have moved into assisted living.
I was telling my dad that I wouldn’t want to live a life where I had to be taken care of all the time. That I would just prefer not get old at all.
And then I realized – my dad has 25 years on me. The man is 6’6”, meaning his body has to work that much harder to keep him up and running. At least, that was where my logic was going.
“I take that back” I said. “You’re not allowed to die. Ever.”
Because the truth is, the one thing I really don’t think I could take or handle right now would be losing my dad. I’m pretty sure that would be the thing that would push me over the edge.
He didn’t respond the way I thought he would though. Instead he said “Well, it has to happen eventually…”
Wait. Stop. Don’t even go there!
“I’ve lived a good life” He said. “I’ve raised two good kids and done what I’ve needed to do. If I die tomorrow, it will still have been a good life.”
I can’t think about this right now. Stop talking like this!
“Not before you’re a grandpa” I said. “You still have to be a grandpa.”
I think he thought he was comforting me with what he said next. I think he thought he was saying the right thing.
“No. I don’t need to be a grandpa. It will be OK if I’m not.”
No it will not be OK. You not being a grandpa will not be OK. Why aren’t you angry about this?!? Why aren’t you pissed? This isn’t fair!! Be angry! Be angry for me! Be angry for you! Just be angry!
But don’t say that it will be OK if you aren’t ever a grandpa.
Because it won’t be. It just won’t be.
I had to fight back tears the rest of the ride home. Not wanting to break down at that moment.
Not wanting to break down at all.
When we got home, I went to take my new boots off.
The brown Dansko boots I bought this week.
Beautiful boots. Leather boots. Sexy boots.
$250 boots.
“I love my boots.” I was saying as my dad passed my bedroom. “They are super cute.”
“Not as cute as the crib I would have bought instead of them if I had been pregnant” I finished. “But still cute.”
The tears were already falling as I heard my dad say “Stop doing that to yourself!” on the way to his room.
He didn’t know I was crying. I’ve said a million flippant things along those lines in the last few days. My snarky side trying to make as much sense as possible out of the mess that this has all become.
“I didn’t get a baby, but I do get to go spend ridiculous amounts of money at Express.”
“I’m not pregnant, but at least I can have a glass of wine.”
“If I can’t have babies, I’m going to spend the rest of my life traveling. Just quit my job and get on a plane and write about it. My own version of Eat, Pray, Love.”
I haven’t cried when I’ve said any of those things, so there was no reason for him to think I would be crying when I said this.
Except that I was. And it didn’t stop.
As I washed my face, and brushed my teeth, the tears fell.
When I crawled into bed, the pillow was shortly soaked.
I stifled my sobs. Kept them as quiet as I could. But I cried.
I cried over my empty womb.
I cried over the idea of my dad dying before he becomes a grandfather.
Over the idea of him dying at all.
I cried over old friends who have all moved on to the next stage of their lives. Who have all gotten married and at least started talking about babies.
While I am still stagnant. Doing the same things and maintaining the same less than substantial relationships. Already facing the fact that I will probably never carry a child.
I cried over my empty womb.
And the money that has been lost on this endeavor.
I cried over the choices I've had to face. The ones it seems no one else in my life has ever had to come up against.
I cried because of the pain I have been in for the last several days.
And because I feel like a weak person every time I complain about that pain.
I cried because I don’t want to feel like this. With my heart ripping out of my chest.
And I cried because in just one more day I have to go home.
To my real life.
To my job, and house, and responsibilities.
I have to go home and face the fact that I have no idea what comes next. I have no idea what my life becomes now.
And I can’t even begin to imagine how I will recover from this.
I cried because while I have been able to hide out here for a few days and pretend my life is something other than what it is, I won’t be able to do that much longer.
And then what?
What do I do now?
Now that there is no upcoming cycle.
Now that it has become clear that endometriosis is staking its claim on my body again.
Now that the hopes of carrying a child on my own are having to be tucked away into a closet somewhere in the very back of my mind.
I cried because I honestly do not know.
And in that not knowing, I feel incredibly lost.
Lost because despite all the love and support and warmth I have surrounding me right now; I’m not sure I have ever felt so alone. So devoid of anyone who understands or feels this hurt as deeply as I do.
And I realize this makes me a hypocrite, because on the one hand I claim that I don't want anyone else hurting over this while in the same breath acknowledging that I don't want to feel it alone. I recognize my own lunacy in these statements. But I can't help it. I want it all. I don't want anyone else to hurt, but I also don't want to be hurting alone. I don't want to bring anyone down with me, but I don't want to be the only one feeling this ache.
I want someone else to acknowledge how unfair this is. I want someone else to be angry with me.
I want to not feel so alone in this pain.
I want someone else to give me all the answers that will make this better.
I don’t know what comes next. And I don't know how I'm going to figure it out.
And so, I cried.
Because at this point, I'm just not sure what else to do.
