I wrote, last Saturday, all of the posts you saw this week, save this one. This one started on Thursday morning, from my desk. All week I have watched what I wrote on Saturday publish, knowing I needed to write something for today.
To be a good writer you need a good beginning and a good ending. Sometimes the post flows because I have a beginning, and sometimes I start at the end and work backwards. I have a beginning – starting in 3 places: my happiness with my life, my feelings about powerlessness in pregnancy and finally coming to terms with how Gabriel died. What I didn’t have was an ending – for two reasons. The first is most simple, Mr. Spit and I were still talking about what the ending was.
Perhaps, if you have ever thought about getting off the merry go round of pregnancy attempts, you had a bolt of blue. Perhaps you had a vision from God. Perhaps someone said something, you had a moment of clarity, anything really. Me? I looked around my home office and decided that I had enough with it still painted yellow and green for a nursery. I want a space that is my own. I have a vision of an office/guest room, and I know what I want it to look like – which is not yellow and green.
Please don’t take this the wrong way – I don’t need a second opinion from another doctor. I’m not interested in their opinions, I’m interested in mine. Mine says that I’m done with pregnancy. I never want to be pregnant again. I’m not interested in adopting. If that was a great option for you, I’m pleased. I’m not interested in it.
Here’s the second reason I don’t have an ending. I called by OB on Monday, to book an appointment to have my tubes tied. The wait list in Alberta means I will wait just over 2 years. That doesn’t work for me. I need to be done – now. I need to know that there will be no miracle pregnancy. I need this waiting game to be over. I want to get on with my life.
The incentive for tying my tubes was because it left the door open, if only a hands breadth, for a pregnancy with a surrogate. Not now. We aren’t interested now. I was hedging my bets against five, ten years from now. A true hedge: it’s not the best of all possible worlds, but it does leave me some freedom to change my mind. But that’s not possible, not if I have to wait 2 years for a tubal ligation. The vasectomy is the quicker option. It’s the less invasive, the no fuss, no muss option. A tubal ligation gave me the option to realize I changed my mind. A vasectomy is permanent. No mind changing, no hedging. We’ve struggled all week against the hedge and the final decision.
That’s not life, is it? Life is about making the decision. Life is about being the guy in the room and making the call. Hedging postpones a decision, it doesn’t make it. Sooner or later, we would be right back in this place, trying to decide again. Here’s the thing about decisions – sometimes you make the right one, and some times you make the wrong one. But always, you make the call – you know that you made it and why. It was always your choice.
When I came back to this post at 10:00 tonight, I read the first bit to Mr. Spit. Then we sat and talked. In the end, it only took 15 minutes. 15 minutes to summarize, to discuss, to get back to the core of it. 15 minutes to choose to be the guy in the room, the one making the call.
Maybe, probably there is no right and wrong in this decision. Maybe you just make the call, and 5, 10, 30 years from now you look back and you realize that you did what you could with the facts you had. You faced a shitty situation and you made the best decision of equally bad choices.
I’m ending this post as the song In a New York Minute plays and I’ll end it the same way I ended phone call with Mr. Spit. All of that thinking, all of this writing, all of that talking.
“Babe, let’s be done now.”