On Not Being Afraid

A few weeks ago a friend asked if I was afraid to go to Scotland this summer, given Lyme disease and all. Before she asked the question, it had never occurred to me to be afraid.

“No,” I said. “I’m not afraid.” And it was true.

But then I wondered. Should I be afraid? Am I stupid for thinking I can travel with one carryon and a backpack holding a few meds and a lot of supplements? What if something happens? What will I do?

I second guessed myself because that’s what we do when we are afraid.

We think X is worse than Y or better than Z or whatever. I remembered how I boarded a plane to Glasgow six weeks after my mother died. I’d called my friend Cori in the Newark airport because I didn’t know how to sit still or sit alone with my thoughts back then. I needed chatter and to be heard. I was terrified to board the plane to Glasgow, but I wouldn’t admit it. When the plane came, I got on it and sat next to a Scottish man who looked like Father Time and slept from take-off to touch down. Then I got off the plane and walked into the scariest and best summer of my life.

I didn’t take supplements back then either, but I was on birth control. Since 19, I’d been taking those little pills with me everywhere and swallowing them every morning. I have rarely not traveled with meds. I know how to travel with meds. I won’t be a person who believes a diagnosis means she can’t do something she wants to do. I do what I want. (Someone, buy me this T-shirt).

And then, in June, two rheumatologists couldn’t agree on what was causing the pain in my left hand, my left elbow, one joint on one foot. One thought I had nonserologic rheumatoid arthritis, but couldn’t understand why I had no inflammation and no other evidence of this disease in my bloodstream. The other said I had spondyloarthropathy, which I had all the symptoms for, and the genetic markers, and which also runs in my family.

The first doctor was cruel and condescending spoke loud and slow and said “don’t ignore this,” as if I ignore everything that scares me. The first doctor wanted to put me on drugs that cause cancer and blood clots and hair loss and said if I wanted to get pregnant I couldn’t be on meds and “would have to suffer.”

The second doctor immediately suggested the most gentle, pregnancy-safe treatment option and was okay with me adding a promising alternative medication at the end of the summer, prescribed by another doctor. The second doctor didn’t want to take away my chance to try again for a baby. The second doctor said, “You’re the boss.” So I went with the second doctor. I started taking sulfasalazine. I started feeling better. I started feeling like my whole body was cooling down from the inside.

This is not to say I didn’t spend weeks second guessing myself, googling everything there is to google about spondyloarthropathy, sulfasalazine, low dose naltrexone, Lyme disease and autoimmunity, etc., etc., etc. This is not to say I haven’t vented nonstop to Carl or my friend Aaron (who remembers my doctor’s appointments), or haven’t lost sleep, or haven’t messy cried, or haven’t gone to therapy.

I’ve also awakened at 6 a.m., laced up my sneakers and run for an hour, or biked for an hour, or lifted weights, or walked and walked until I remembered: I am strong. I am not afraid. I will not be afraid.

In 2012 I read Cheryl Strayed’s memoir Wild the day it came it out. I was so excited to get my hands on this book.  For the first time in my life, I saw someone like me on the page. Someone who’d lost her parents in different ways, who’d lost her home, who’d seen the words family and trust disintegrate around the same time I did. I saw someone who was fierce and relentless and who carried her dead mother inside of her always and forever. In Wild, she writes:

 I knew that if I allowed fear to overtake me, my journey was doomed. Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me.

 I made this my e-mail signature. It’s still the most true thing about me. Sometimes I want to tattoo “Nothing could vanquish me” on my arthritis arm. Maybe I will.

I don’t know what will happen when I board a plane to Dublin a week from today, then another plane to Glasgow. I know I still carry the scared and do-it-even-if-you’re-scared 21-year-old with me, and part of this trip is about her, about going back to the places she walked and saying: You were so brave. You did the best you could. You didn’t fail your mother or yourself.

And part of the trip is about making new memories, about showing Carl more about the life I lived before him, about showing myself adventures and travel aren’t over just because of a diagnosis.

The 21-year-old, the 22-year-old, the 23-year-old didn’t know a thing about forgiveness or humility or trauma. But the 38-year-old has made understanding these things her life’s work. She’s got this. Trust her.

Difficult Choices

As a younger person, I lived in terror of making the wrong decision. When my mother was still alive, we’d dissect every option in front of me before I had to decide. I’d call her a handful of times a day. Tell her my problem. She’d steer me in the direction she wanted.

You belong here not there. You should do this not that. Make a list. Evaluate.

Hearing her tell me what to do provided tremendous relief. She was my mother. She wouldn’t steer me wrong.

But she was just guessing too. She was relying on her instincts, her biases, her fears, her expectations of who I was and who I should be. She was not teaching me how to make choices on my own, or how to be confident in my ability to discern what’s best for me at a given time. This dynamic is 100 percent normal.

Becoming an adult means learning how to steer your own ship.

No one can predict the outcomes of a choice. Sometimes choices can feel like life or death. Sometimes they are life or death. And yet, we have to decide. We have to go left or right or backwards or forwards or nowhere. We have be uncertain. We have to not know. We have to wonder and guess. We have to Google and stop Googling.

Being human is hard.

A therapist I used to see told me there were “no wrong decisions, only choices.” There’s truth in that statement. It’s also a little bullshitty. There are wrong decisions. We usually know what they are, even if we rationalize them. I’ve made a handful of terrible decisions. Sometimes I regret them. Sometimes I don’t.

I’m being vague in this post because there’s a difficult choice I need to make by summer’s end.

I will not go into the details. I will only share that this decision involves treatment for an autoimmune disease I have developed either as a result of Lyme, or concurrently with Lyme.

Thank you for not asking me for more information. Thank you for not saying “Get well soon.” Thank you for not talking to me about “getting control of inflammation.” My bloodwork shows no inflammation. I have worked so hard at getting control of inflammation.

Thank you for not foisting miracle cures or supplements or prayers on me. I’ve read the studies, the latest books. I’m an expert researcher and a smart person. I can understand and negotiate complexity.

Thank you for respecting my right to process difficult experiences through writing and to make decisions regarding my own medical care. Even though I am overwhelmed by this news and the choice I must make, I trust my ability to steer my own ship.

I do not feel sick. I do not identify as ill. I run multiple times a week at 6:00 a.m. I ride my bike whenever I can. I lift weights and take long walks and marvel at beautiful birds whose names I don’t know.

I visit with friends and binge-watch historical dramas on Netflix. (This one’s so good!) I plan vacations and write syllabi and enroll in classes and work on my book, which I swear I will finish and publish.

If I seem a little bitchy or defensive today, it’s only because I want to share this news. It’s too much to hold on my own. But I also cannot hold how this information is received. I cannot manage other people’s ideas about chronic illness. Being an adult means holding your own junk without spilling it onto other people. Writing helps me keep a tight lid on my junk. Writing helps me remember I am strong.

The last night of her life, my mother and I talked by phone about a difficult decision I needed to make. We talked about her illness too, how she’d started dialysis at a new place.

“I’m going to be okay,” she’d said. That was the second-to-last thing she ever told me. It was one of her last gifts. Hope.

I’ve carried this gift when I’ve gone left or right or forwards or backwards or nowhere without her.

It’s the map I’ve read a thousand times.

It’s the lamp I turn on in the middle of the night when I can’t call her.

It’s the song I listen to when I’m deciding what to do.

It’s the silence between knowing.

And not knowing.

There Is No Hiatus

I put this blog on hiatus in November 2018. I hadn’t posted in two months. I was working on other things. I thought I was clearing space to finish my book. I thought this blog was a distraction. I thought I’d get back to my book once I finished a few essays I’d committed to writing. I thought my Lyme Disease was under control.

But I didn’t get back to my book.

I wrote book reviews. I wrote grant applications. I applied to graduate programs. I wrote essays.

These were essays I needed to write. Without them, I wouldn’t be able to finish my memoir. With each essay, I saw the memoir’s possibility expand. I uncovered truths this book needed. I have a complicated process. Essays are part of that process. I told myself to follow the process. I’d get back to the memoir by spring.

But I didn’t get back to the book. In late February, I developed arthritis in my hands, with the worst symptoms concentrated in my left hand, my writing hand. I wondered if this was my body’s way of trying to shut me up? Of saying, don’t tell?

 I knew those questions were nonsense, but they were also important. They triggered my rebellious spirit. They reminded me to keep going. Bad things don’t happen for a reason. They just happen. To everyone.

My arthritis was just one more thing in a series of unfortunate things. But I remembered how I’d traveled alone to New York City the week of my Lyme diagnosis. I had dinner plans that weekend. I had a ticket to see “Tiny Beautiful Things” with my friend, Elizabeth. I was not going to cancel. Still, there was a moment when I lugged my suitcase through fresh snow in downtown Brooklyn when I wondered if I’d made a mistake. My legs wobbled as I walked. I could barely feel them.

But that weekend was also glorious. Elizabeth and I laughed and sobbed through the play, then met our friend Erika for dinner at a restaurant with the most beautiful pink walls I have ever seen. My friend Lauren showed me how the Manhattan skyline sparkled from a particularly snowy corner of Brooklyn. I also ran into my friend Javier, who I hadn’t seen since my mother died. We met for coffee my last morning in town, when we reminisced about our long-ago time as interns in D.C., and what had happened to us since then. I don’t regret this trip. At all.

I called on this same rebellious  adventurous spirit one morning in March while I drove to a writing workshop. As I wove through rural New Jersey, my wrists burned. I had never experienced this kind of pain before. It felt like someone was snapping a rubber band against my skin over and over again. It felt like someone was holding a lit match to my wrists between each rubber band snap.

This is bad. I said to myself. And I still thought the pain would go away on its own. I am so good at denial. Or hope.

 That night, I stood in the workshop host’s kitchen and told her what was happening. She opened a prescription bottle and gave me one tablet of Meloxicam. After swallowing the butterfly shaped pill, I slept without pain. Until the Meloxicam, I hadn’t realized how much space pain took up. I didn’t understand how pain took up energy I needed to sit at a desk for hours and write. I didn’t know how consumed I’d been by pain until I had a break.

When I awakened, snow covered the farm where the workshop was held. I walked around the cottage where I was staying and took photos of the gleaming countryside. Without pain, I could appreciate the beauty in front of me, the sense that I’d fallen into an Andrew Wyeth painting. I am always hushed in the presence of snow.

Then I realized I had to do something to manage the pain. How else would I finish a book?

The next week, I sat in a doctor’s exam room. This doctor was the one who had said, “I think you have Lyme Disease,” the first time we’d met. She’d ordered my tests. She’d diagnosed me over the phone in December 2018.

The diagnosis came five months after a pregnancy loss. Before my diagnosis, I had hoped to start trying again for a baby in January 2019, when I was 36. Instead, I began my first tri-antibiotic Lyme protocol. This past February, when I turned 38, I was down to two antibiotics and more than a dozen supplements. I swallowed upwards of 40 pills per day. I’d started to wallow too. In the doctor’s office, I cried. I don’t know why, but Lyme makes me cry harder, messier. Once I start, I can’t stop for a long time.

“Do you think you’re depressed?” My doctor asked.

“Who wouldn’t be depressed?”

Who wouldn’t be depressed?

In my doctor’s warm exam room, beneath paintings of New Orleans’ Jackson Square, I repeated the story I tell about my Lyme descent. It starts with an ER visit in July 2013 when I was 32. It meanders through years of doctor’s offices, lab tests, blood draws, and so much mansplaining. It always ends with the same line: I lost my childbearing years.

What a convenient story. There are clear heroes and villains. There’s a linear structure, a rock-solid timeline for childbearing. It’s a story that says the most important thing I could have been doing in my thirties was childbearing, mothering.

The problem with this story is that it ignores the essential things I did in my thirties, the ways I birthed myself. In those years of decline, I established my career, finished a degree, bought a house, strengthened my marriage, published, taught hundreds of students. I fought hard for myself.

I am undeniably different because of Lyme. My life is different, changed irrevocably. Going off gluten, dairy, sugar, and alcohol is really hard. Last night, Carl ate one of my favorite candies in front of me and I wanted to claw him. But I didn’t. I love him!

I’ve struggled for a few days with the question of how much to share on this blog, whether I should begin again, whether a hiatus is a good thing for me. I wanted to look “hiatus” up in the Oxford English Dictionary and interrogate its etymology in a way that would support my fear that the only hiatus in life is death. I realized it’s okay for me to have this fear, and I don’t have to validate myself with the OED.

This morning, I woke up at 6:00 a.m., fed the dogs, then climbed onto a bike I bought years ago with money I earned from travel writing. I rode down empty, golden streets while this blog wrote itself in my head. I couldn’t stop it. Why should I stop it? I don’t believe I’m on a hero’s journey, or that my illness makes me stronger or weaker than the person I was before. But it is giving me more to say and a greater sense of urgency. I’ve never been good at holding back. Or performing a different life than the one I live. Words, like truth, find a way.

So the blog is back on. The book is back on. Thank you for caring enough to read.

 

 

On Hiatus

“Yet It Will Come” is on hiatus while I finish my memoir Mother of Rebellion. In the next few months, this website will also be redesigned to accommodate the book. I’ll post links to my published writing, events, and other resources on Twitter.

You can find my recent work in Minerva Rising (Issue 15 Fall 2018), Bellingham Review (Issue 76), and Solstice Literary Magazine, where my essay “The Gleaming Miraculous” was a finalist and Editors’ Pick in the Summer 2018 Contest judged by Phillip Lopate. You can also read my 2018 Pushcart Prize-nominated essay “To Punctuate” at Full Grown People. Many thanks to editor Jennifer Niesslein for nominating my work — and I recommend Jennifer’s brilliant essay “Politics in Prose” in Issue 68 of Creative Nonfiction

For more about Mother of Rebellion and my most recent thoughts on writing about love and loss, check out this interview with me published on the Bellingham Review blog in September 2018.

Thank you for following my writing. More soon. I promise.

xoxo,

Magin

 

Three Words for a New Semester

Believe

I struggled my first semester teaching. Frat boys sat in the back, whispered to each other while I spoke. They didn’t have the decency to hide what they were doing by passing notes or texting. One of these boys would walk into my office with a cell-phone pressed to his ear. His high school English teacher was on the other end of the line, refuting something I’d said in class. I’ve forgotten all the boys’ names but his.

One day a female student approached while I was writing something boring on the board.

“I’ve got my period,” she whispered. “I’ve got to go.”

She backed out the door and disappeared down a hallway. I never saw her again. I thought I’d done something to drive her away. I never suspected the boys in the back, who looked strange when she left –– too giggly. Had they done something while my back was turned?

Back then, I knew so little about teaching. I let her go. I blamed myself. Now I think about her all the time. I think about each student who leaves.

I did the same as a first-generation university student, dropping a class the moment it challenged me. After I graduated, I’d said “no” to a stellar graduate program in creative writing. At 23, I rationalized my choice: I wanted to work in a genre not offered by the program.

I made a list of reasons why I shouldn’t say “yes,” starting with the suspicion that I’d never feel entirely at home in the country where I’d lived, and where I’d have to return to complete the degree. I was homesick; I missed my sister. I hadn’t mourned my mother.

These challenges were not untrue. They were also not unworkable.

The larger truth was harder to face: I didn’t believe in myself. I didn’t believe I had anything worth saying. If I could go back to the scared girl I was, I’d say: Believe.

Believe.

Believe the voice that calls you toward your dreams. This voice is inner truth, wisdom, consciousness. It’s your heart speaking. This voice will tell you to do things you think you can’t do. Do them. It’s the only way forward.

Stay

Don’t leave the minute a professor asks you to do something you don’t want to do. Like writing a thesis statement or brainstorming ideas for an assignment. Getting started is the hardest part. It’s the moment when it’s easiest to check Snapchat or text or go to the bathroom just because.

Stay in your chair, in the room, in your mind, in your body.

Whatever your professor has asked you to do is something you can do. It probably won’t take more then ten minutes. If you have a professor like me, she’ll want to help you. She’ll want to see you do what you didn’t think you could do. That’s why she’s here. Raise your hand. Ask for what you need.

Each time you leave a classroom or yourself, you miss an opportunity. You miss the chance to grow.

Stay. Stay even if you’re scared or doubting or consumed by the desire to run.

You belong here. Be present to your longing. Claim an education.

 Wonder 

Do you remember being a kid? Were you the kind of kid who wished on falling stars, believed in magic, your ability to fly? I bet you felt disappointed when you discovered those things weren’t “real.” No matter how loud you clapped during “Peter Pan,” Tinker Bell wouldn’t appear in your living room.  Maybe a sense of wonder left you. What was the point of believing in something you couldn’t see?

But what if magic is real in the way all true, unseen things are real? Love. Hope. Power.  What if you believed in your own ability to be transformed? What if you embraced the wonder of being in charge of who you become?

We can’t control everything. Other people will not see us the way we see ourselves. For example, I’ll always have to deal with men who ask, “Where’s the professor?” when they see me standing outside a classroom door.

I’ll wonder “What’s up with that?” each time, and that’s good. That’s a question I want all my students to ask.

What’s up with that?

 Don’t accept prejudice or platitudes or status quo. Suspect everything. Verify facts, evidence. Question your own beliefs. Where do they come from? Why do you hold them? Who would you be if you didn’t cling so hard?

Wonder. Wonder. Wonder.

Be curious and confused. Open to a thousand possibilities you never saw coming.

At the end of the semester you’ll be the same person who started and you’ll be different. Transformed by what you’ve learned and done. Maybe no one but you will see what’s changed. That’s true magic. Beautiful and sparkling as any falling star.

Rooms Like Blue Elephants

I’m about to tell you the most embarrassing story I’ve ever told anyone. If you read to the end, you are a true friend. Here it goes: When I was 10 or 11, my father gave me a stuffed blue elephant for Christmas. The blue was royal blue, blue as Snow White’s dress, blue as the innermost circle of a peacock’s eye, blue as the sky after a hurricane.

Up until this point, I’d never had a binky or a favorite stuffed animal. I thought kids who attached to toys were weird. But, my God, that elephant.

When I squeezed him to my chest, he felt alive. I was way too old for stuffed animals. I listened to New Kids on the Block and kept hairspray and a mirror in my school locker. By elementary school definitions, I was cool. And yet, I slept with that elephant in my bed until I went to college. Even I knew enough not to bring him to the dorms.

He was, indeed, a him. A gender determined on that long ago Christmas morning. The blue elephant became a stand-in for the father who’d left, the complicated, rarely-present, getting-sober father I could not attach to safely.

I wish I could tell you the moment those realizations dawned, I grabbed the elephant and drove to the nearest Goodwill. Nope. I gave the elephant a hug.

He is now tucked at the bottom of a giant plastic container bound for my basement. And there he will stay. Until I have a change of heart.

This summer, as we’ve engaged in a massive decluttering project, I’ve tried hard to rid myself of the blue elephant. But each time I toss him into a Goodwill pile, my chest compresses and breath catches in my throat.

To clutter means to “collect in heaps, to crowd together in disorder.” But for me to clutter is simply “to cling.”

In my clutter, I cling to a past I can never return to, the past where my mother lived, and I lived with her. I cling to a future where the object I hold might one day have a purpose, as if past, present, and future will magically align in a perfect synchronous rhythm, and all the secrets of the universe will be revealed.

But I’m trying to let go.

I’ve spent all summer decluttering our house. And I’ve reduced our clutter to one third its amount, maybe even two thirds. There are bags full of papers to shred in my guest room. There are boxes stuffed with recycling in the garage. There are weekly, sometimes twice weekly, drives to Goodwill.

“I’m coming out as a hoarder,” I told my neighbor a few weeks ago, as I dragged garbage bags bulging with donations to our front curb.

There were also piles of things out there that I had not yet bagged, so the curb looked like the perfect place for Oscar the Grouch to set up camp. Two people on a walk pointed and whispered when they passed my midden.

Another neighbor came outside and offered to leave a bag full of my clothes on his porch for a Purple Heart pickup in the morning. It was at this precise moment that I noticed the bag was white, full of my old bras, and they were all visible.

“Yes. Thank you,” I told him, too tired to be embarrassed. Too angry at everything that’s happened in the past year to feel ashamed. I don’t really have time for shame anymore. I’m decluttering a house.

The more I declutter, the more I realize objects have as much to do with my past as my future, or the fantasy of who I wish I could be if conditions –– I mean, my entire personality –– were different.

The first time I went to Goodwill this summer, I grabbed a ten-pound free weight out of a shopping cart headed for the warehouse. What if I had the sudden desire to lift the free weight one morning? Shouldn’t I exercise more? I want to be a person who exercises more. Can I be that person, please?

“I think I’m going to keep this.” I said, as I clutched the weight.

“No. No. I can’t.” I replied to myself, while a staff member looked on, and I finally let go.

“Does everyone do this?” I asked her.

“You’d be surprised how many,” she said.

So there you have it. We all have our blue elephants. We live in rooms of blue elephants. And all our rationalizations for keeping them are good –– or good enough.

My blue elephant is inanimate, thank goodness, no matter how alive he once seemed to me. We’ve all seen the scary movies where the toys come alive in the middle of the night, and I’d prefer not to be murdered in my sleep.

He’ll probably go to Goodwill tomorrow.

Or maybe not.

We’ll see.

Waiting

My mother waited more than 1,000 days for her organ transplant. She went from 39 to 40 to 41 while she waited. On her hip, she wore a black pager that would beep when her organs “were ready.” This was the expression she used, as if her organs were a steak sitting in the oven, not quite pink enough to eat. I realize that’s a gross image, but it’s what occurs to me when I remember the absurdity that was, at the time, so very normal for all of us.

Her organs were ready on June 6, 1994, the tail-end of my seventh grade year. That summer, I listened to Nirvana nonstop and wore a flannel that belonged to my best male friend. I wore the flannel as we drove to the hospital – no school for me that day! – and the chorus of “Heart-Shaped Box” rattled around inside my head. Hey! Wait!

I barely understood the song. What was the “broken hymen of your Highness?” But Hey! Wait! I got that. Those two words meant exactly what I felt as we raced toward Baltimore.

They meant a thing and its opposite could be true at the same time. Hey! Wait! And I was stuck between a thing I wanted, which was also the very thing I didn’t want.

Hey! I did want my mother to have an organ transplant because she’d die without one.

Wait! What if she died in surgery or right after?

I’d seen “Steel Magnolias.” I knew the organ rejection drill. My mother’s match wasn’t perfect. Anything could happen. I could have a mother in the morning and be motherless by nightfall. This knowledge was the one true fact of my girlhood.

Hey! Wait! Don’t feel bad for me. I don’t feel bad for me.

________

A few weeks ago, I drove past the hospital where my mother had (and survived) her organ transplant. Each time I drive past this hospital, I go back to June 6, 1994, to Nirvana, to the flannel scented with Polo cologne, to the wild ambivalence of those moments.

Ambivalence. I used that word incorrectly for years. I used to think ambivalence meant not caring enough. Do you know most people use ambivalence incorrectly?

But “ambivalence” comes from two Latin words. The first, ambi, means “both or on both sides.” The second, valentia, means “strength.”

Put those words together and you have ambivalence. It means caring too much on either side of an issue, and being unable to choose because feelings are equal on both sides. You want and don’t want the same thing.

That’s where I was on the day of my mother’s organ transplant. That’s where I am now, nearly a year after my miscarriage and seven months into antibiotic treatment for late-stage Lyme disease.

If you asked me last summer whether I wanted a baby, I’d have screamed YES. I was so ready, so certain, so sure by the time I got pregnant, incidentally the first time I tried. At 36.

What great luck I had! How dumb my doctors had been! So glad I’d used birth control pills and insisted on condoms all those years! Phew.

The gynecologist who did my first ultrasound raved about my uterus. She used the word luscious. I did everything I could in that moment not to laugh until I peed the pants I was not wearing. But I also took pride in her comment. Despite how mysteriously ill I had been, despite the sudden autoimmune thyroid disease that depleted my once boundless energy, my body could do something right.

Until it couldn’t.

________

I did three things when I realized I was miscarrying. I apologized profusely to my husband, who was asleep because it was 1:19 a.m. He did not think I had anything to apologize for and did his best to console me in his half-sleep, half-shock state.

But my body had failed in the worst way it could fail. And I was guilty, because it was my uncontrollable body that had rejected a pregnancy we both wanted. So I said I’m sorry over and over again, until I finally went downstairs and did the second thing. I made myself a cup of peppermint tea because that was all I could do to keep myself from screaming.

The third thing I did was call my mother-in-law once the sun came up. I told her my miscarriage made me realize how very much I wanted to be a mother. No more second guessing. No more doubt.

Why wouldn’t I want a child? I had an incredible mother who mothered me in lasting ways that allow me to be generous and patient and kind. My students even tell me I’d be a great mother. I know I should hear that comment as sexist, but I take it as a compliment. Because they’re right. I have all the qualities needed for masterful mothering. Anyone can see it.

And yet, there’s another side of the choice.

There’s the body that doesn’t seem to work the way it used to.

There’s seven months of antibiotics and no end in sight and arthritis in my hands.

There’s relapse.

There’s the 30 pills I take per day.

There’s my thirty-seventh birthday that passed in February.

There’s thirty-eight on the horizon.

There’s the choice to wait.

The thing about waiting is that it’s the closest thing we have to purgatory on earth. Torture, and not quite torture. When we’re waiting, we want the waiting to be over, and we focus our attention on an end. We believe the end will be better than the waiting. But after an end is reached, another waiting will come, and the next waiting after that. And on and on.

Our lives are thousands of days of waitings.

And yet, I’ve chosen to wait. I’ve chosen to be ambivalent. I’ve chosen to say the word I now understand at the core of my heart: ambivalence.

I take the word the apart.  Let it enter me. Leave me.

________

I’ve told all my doctors not to discuss pregnancy with me, and I’ve found an endocrinologist who will treat me during pregnancy with the medications I need, but that no other endocrinologist will prescribe in pregnancy. Incidentally, he is the endocrinologist who treated my mother and recommended her for an organ transplant.

The day I sat across from him at his desk, I was all grown up. A college professor. A woman with health insurance and a home of her own. He didn’t remember me as the little girl who used to wait in his lobby or run down the hallways.

He remembered my mother. Of course he did. How could anyone forget her? I saw him on June 6, 2018, a detail that was coincidence but felt like magic.

I am happy as a childless woman just as I could be happy as a mother. How fortunate I am that happiness awaits me on either side of my most difficult choice. Hey! Wait!  Two opposite things ring true. Like on the day of my mother’s organ transplant. Like right this minute.