Neither did my minister husband. Twenty-three years later I still remember how I seethed when he gently suggested, in his most sympathetic manner, that my issues with mortality were the real cause of my anger, not the idea that I could never have another child. I was in no frame of mind to have him tell me what I was feeling. I said I needed him to be my husband—not a minister.
I hadn’t gotten the answers I needed at home, so I called my friend Terri, a therapist. When I told her I was having trouble letting go of my uterus, she said, “Meet me in my office tomorrow at eight o’clock.” I felt better already. Terri listened to me in a way that no one else had, as I dealt with the emotionally overwhelming thought that my daughter would never have a sibling.
The day I arrived at the hospital I was functioning as a defeated but reasonable warrior, until I was given one of the last papers to sign, and it said, in effect, “As a result of this procedure, you will be sterile.” The escalating emotions at the absolute impossibility of birthing another child, along with a feeling of helplessness, shattered my composure. My tears turned to sobs and my self-control dissolved right in front of the admitting person, my daughter and my husband.
I ran out of the room and through the waiting area and made a turn away from the open lounge, where families waited near massive closed doors marked “No Admittance.” On my right were elevators to the hospital rooms—not a good choice. Further along was the cafeteria, also not an option. My only alternative was the door on my left, marked “Chapel.” I hurried in, sat down and cried with abandonment. It felt good to grieve for the children I wouldn’t have. My responsible self knew that at some point I had to surrender, but for now, in this empty, dark, womblike room, I let my sorrow flow.
My daughter and husband had scampered after me and now stood in front of me, dumbfounded. My daughter looked deeply concerned and sad. My husband looked frightened. When the flood of tears subsided, I said, “I’m sorry.” Which was untrue. But my good-girl script was strong, and I felt that I should apologize. And now my daughter and husband were soothing me. My daughter even asked me if I wanted to go home. “What a gal,” I thought.
That night I was alone after visiting hours. I went downstairs to the chapel and asked the Great One for courage, strength and guidance. When I got back to my room there was a familiar figure sitting in the chair, waiting for me. Nancy was my spiritual sister—we’d lived in the same town four years prior. She was an aging hippie who had graduated with honors from the school of hard knocks. Nancy sat with me and guided me through a meditation in which I visualized myself waltzing in my favorite meadow of wildflowers in dazzling Technicolor. She did a laying on of hands that was supposed to distribute my energy where I most needed it or some such thing. As I closed my eyes to sleep, Nancy kissed my forehead, or maybe it was my third eye, and said, “Good night.”
Early the next morning the nurse who got me ready for the surgery said in a kindly, thoughtful, almost reverential voice, “Honey, you look so peaceful. You have a glow about your face and head.” We stared at each other with no need for explanations.
It was about 5:30 a.m. I had been transferred to a gurney and was about to be wheeled out of the hospital room and down the hall to the elevator marked “No Admittance.” At that moment of no return my daughter appeared, followed by her dad. The night before she had asked him to drive her to the hospital so she could see me before the operation. And when he tried to talk her out of it, saying that the staff probably wouldn’t let them in, that it was not hospital policy, and they might be too late to see me, she countered, saying she’d get a friend’s mother to take her. Apparently that shamed him into driving her. She told him in the car, “Dad, Mom needs me.”
Lying on the gurney, traveling down the hall with her holding my hand and bending down close to my face, I gave up the battle, with sweet assurance that I was victorious. I had my daughter; she was all the children I needed.
