"But you don't understand," I said through tears. "You can't even begin to understand."
Fertility is something most people take for granted. People naturally assume that everyone will get married and then have children. Biological children.
When I was 15, I became very ill. I had felt sick for a long time. Just sick. No real pain. No real illness. Just sick. Then one week, I began vomiting. Hundreds of time. The pain in my abdomen was so intense that I could only stand it when I was in the bathtub.
On a Friday night, my Dad went to the big football game between the rival high schools. I was suppossed to be there. Instead I was lying in the bathtub.
"Mom," I cried. "I'm sick. I'm really sick. I need to go the hospital"
I remember very little of the drive there. I remember my temperature, 104 degrees. I remember them saying that I needed a pelvic exam.
"No. No. No." I screamed. They would ignore my cries. My mom held me down, with some nurses. I remember nothing except the doctors tie. It had Noah's ark on it. And the pain. And the speculum. It was cold, and it hurt.
Months later, after I had healed from my pelvic inflammatory disease, the tubo-ovarian abscess that had leaked throughout my body..I began to think that maybe I would have problems with kids.
I had always wanted to be a mother. I think it's because my mom was such a MOM. She had a job, a teacher, but she was a mom. Everything about her said "Mom" She constantly talked about her children. She still does.
My mom never left the hospital room. She spent each night sleeping in a chair. She protected me.
I knew she would though. She had before.
Two years before, when I told my mom about the years of abuse. I don't know if my mom instantly believed me. But I do know that despite how hard it must of been, my dad and my mom protected me.
Thirteen years is a long time to be abused.
I never connected that illness to the abuse. The doctors did though. One day, after attempt after attempt at getting pregnant had failed, I was given the news.
"The doctor who did your surgery asked us. He said, Has she been sexually abused? The amount of damage is consistent with severe sexual abuse. She will probably never have children"
I was hysterical for over an hour.
But almost instantly, I felt better. I had a reason. I had a reason why I didn't have a baby yet. I would adopt. It was ok.
The truth is though, infertility is never ok. I read the beautiful words of people suffering from infertility. I have gone through it myself. With my friends. I know what it feels like to have your body betray you in some kind of wicked sense.
You wonder why. You question whether this means you aren't suppossed to be a mom. You cry. You hurt so much.
"I understand that," he said. "That must be really hard."
"Yeah..but you don't understand."
Infertility is awful. Infertility because of sexual abuse? Well damn. I mean really. Damn.
"But I'm angry for you. I hate that it happened. I understand."
The truth is though, you can't understand. Because I don't understand. I don't think anything was "meant to be" because that leads down a tricky road. Am I adopting because I was abused? I hope not. Was I abused so that I could parent an adopted child? I don't think so either.
But after awhile, it becomes ok not to understand. The truth is, I'll never forget anything that happened to me and the ones I cared about. But I've learned to decide that what is in the past is in the past. No one can hurt me anymore.
And when you acknowledge that you won't be hurt anymore, you gotta mean it. To sit and say "Why? Why me? Why can't I just have sex once and get pregnant? Why does it involve so much more?"..that means I'm letting someone hurt me.
Instead I chose to be thankful. Thankful that I'm alive. Thankful that I had parents who stood by me in the depths of the darkest despair. Thankful that one day, I'll be a mom. Thankful that no matter what, I survived.
When you stare down evil, when your heart plummets to the bottom of the earth, but you still survive, then you become ok with not understanding. And you just start living.