One and Done – in which I say the word “uterus” way too many times
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” – Jane Austen
Also true:
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a woman in possession of a toddler, must be in want of a baby.” – Everyone in the world.
I’m not sure how long it took after Alvie was born before people started asking when I was going for number two. At first, my answers were something like, “Not at least until the doctor clears me for extra-curricular activities,” or “I might even consider contemplating thinking about that when I’m done breast-feeding,” or even, “holy hell, people, why so nosy about my private life?”
The birth was not the most fun birth ever. (I’m not sure what that would look like in my mind, but probably something that involved one of those “I didn’t know I was pregnant until I accidentally had a baby while doing deep squats at the gym” scenarios.) However, even beyond the emergency c-section, and blood loss, and scariness, there were moments when I considered giving it another go. You know – have a girl, get the matched set, collect them all, etc.
And then the post partum stuff hit. The anxiety. The depression. The horrible mania. The bad, darkness.
Right then and there (or, more accurately, a few months later when, with the help of the drugs and Inigo and Fezzik, I crawled out of the pit of despair) I decided that one was enough. My mental health (not to mention my body) were not worth another child.
Plus – the one I gotwas so awesome, why mess with that kind of perfection? Having another is just tempting fate. I might end up with an ugly baby! Or a dumb one! Or, even worse, a *gasp* Catholic Republican!
And so, in May, I had a procedure to block up those tubes. It was painful. SOOO PAINFUL! As has been everything that’s been anywhere near my uterus. My uterus, according to Dr. Nye (the procedure doc could be Bill Nye’s identical twin, and I cannot remember his real name – he wore a bow tie!) is the most sensitive, delicate flower ever (paraphrase). I had to wait three months to see if it took. And in the meantime, I had to go back on the pill.
About three weeks post procedure, I started to feel a little sad again. And then a lot sad. Not always, and not pit of despair sad (please imagine that in the albino whisper voice), but not good.
Before I graduated from psychiatric care in April, my shrink determined that I was unusual (and she didn’t even know about my delicate uterus! I am a special snowflake!) in that my bouts of severe depression, anxiety, and bipolar have all been the result of a vast hormonal change. Puberty. Going on the pill when 15. Changing to Depo when 19. Course of Lupron at age 24. I’d been fine since then, until…(drum roll) having a baby.
After the post-birth hormones quieted down (strangely enough, about 6 weeks after I stopped breastfeeding), I felt great.
Until I went back on the pill.
Well – yesterday, I had my exam (and with the help of 3 ibuprofen + 1 Xanax, it wasn’t too bad) and passed! A+ for tubal blockage! No more babies up in this uterus! And, almost as importantly, no more pills.
I tossed the pill pack immediately upon returning home. I wanted to have some kind of ceremony, but settled for just putting them in the secure garbage (aka one that Alvie can’t access) and telling Alvie that he is guaranteed to be an only child. He was thrilled. I think. He may have just been excited that he’d once again found and hid a remote. Hard to tell.
So now I’m hoping that the removal of the hormones from my system will shortly result in a much better and happier gazelle. One with energy! And motivation!
But even if it doesn’t result in me getting out of bed at 5 am on the regular again, at least I know that I’ll never have to hang out with the albino and the six-fingered man again, because I don’t think Billy Crystal is hanging out to bring me back next time.
I could work in the Pit of Despair when I grow up, right?
