Unbeknownst to you (the reader), this is probably my sixth attempt at writing blog number four. I only have one very valid reason, and ten rinky-dink excuses, as to why I continue to delete paragraphs daily and make cups of coffee (that I don’t even want) in a bid to avoid writing and essentially remain in denial of what I am facing. (I am actually going to make a coffee now, but that’s only because I intend on sitting here and be nakedly honest with myself and not flounce around the ‘must write blog today’ task which has appeared on the last sixty days’ worth of to-do’s).
My journey commenced, through writing, some six months ago. For those who have read my story, you will know that when I refer to my challenges, I flip back in time to when I was a young gal on the brink of a very big and messy road ahead. Usually (and I use this word loosely), life does find its way back to some sense of tailored normality. I’ve previously mentioned the awkward conversations and the stares amidst confessionals but, for me, MRKH went back in its box. The fact that I reflect with so much humility and humour is a testament of my acceptance, or so I thought. How cocky I have possibly become. I have spent so much time looking back, not only have I walked bang into life’s door, I have stubbed and broken my big toe in doing so. I wouldn’t say I am old; granted, I am too old to join the Olympics or study ballet at a professional level, I am too old to stay in bed for days and wonder how electricity in the house just appears and, I am way too old to stay out until 3AM and not expect to feel it the next day. Thankfully, I am too old for boob-tubes, seesaws (so I was told) and hand-outs from dad (which I promise to pay back at Christmas), but there is still a massive part of my mentality that believes I am still twenty-one.
I have time to toy with careers, and homes, and be non-committal to marriage and mortgages. I can travel the world and bask in yoga and the exploration of my spiritual self with no fear of debt or over-draft. I am actually very grateful. My excitement comes from Christmas and cuddles with my parents and what fad or freedom I can schedule six months from now. Then one morning, eight weeks ago, life happened.
My world and perceptions were shortly to change and be shaken up like a fizzy can of soda. More worryingly, so did my anxiety and fears. I was faced with a phone call which took me on a twenty-eight hour journey across the world to be by my mum’s hospital bedside, with nothing more than a randomly packed suitcase of neon coloured tights and a handful of woolly jumpers when landing into an unusually hot British summer. As a side note, with gratitude, thank you God for not taking her that day and allowing me to see her courage and willpower to make a full recovery. You didn’t want her, but I do.
It was then; whilst sitting neatly folded up in the throne like chair of the hospital ward, pensive and quiet, I had this wave of fear. No, not fear. Fear is too placid. It was as though MRKH was a bare-knuckled boxer adamant to go the full twelve rounds with me and I just stared, searching for saliva, into nowhere.
Oh. My. God. Who is going to be here for me when my time comes? Who will bring a carefully drafted list of questions for the doctor’s consultation and a clean pair of flannel pajamas? Who will pay my bills when I can’t and who will know my ‘look’ when I’m tired and need quiet? Who will kiss the tip of my nose and provide a comfort that no nurse or friend can? I cannot envisage my children’s heads poking around the curtain, smiling and hopeful. For the first time in nearly a decade, MRKH had found its way back into my world and now I have so little time to choose or change the course of my future, if indeed I know what that future should be. The concept of loneliness and the probability that I will likely experience such loneliness, when at my most vulnerable, is confronting and jammed.
So, this is why I have not been able to write? I by no way negate the role of a husband or partner but I am certain, that because of my anatomical make-up, unless I fill my life with exception and magic, I will have to accept a life without children; a reality and void that is going to be very hard to fill. And boy oh boy, that was very hard to type. Please, please, please don’t think that I am not for one minute happy and thrilled about those who are so blessed to have beautiful children. My best friends are wonderful mothers and it is a joy to see them tinkering through family life. The birthday’s, Band-Aids, first steps and snotty noses are sweet and delicate. My niece and nephews, perfect. Equally, my freedom has become one of my most prized routines, with holidays in heavenly locations and evening meals edging on disgraceful, unhealthy and simple. My continued journey and practice of yoga is enlightening, purposeful and bliss. But what if all of this is not enough? I’m sure I would have pretty babies, although I probably shouldn’t be so shallow as to say it (but I do have nice eyes) and I also know that I have an abundance of love which frankly, not even ten puppies could use up.
MRKH is not me, not in the least. But this realization is as frightening as the day I was diagnosed; I still harbour the same instincts and expectations as any other woman. I often wonder, is it because I drop a teaspoon so easily; is this nature’s way of telling me to avoid handling humans? I am serious, I don’t know why that person is able to and I am not. They say you grieve for the family you can never have, perhaps I need to plan for the one that I know is possible? Do I even want a family?
Perhaps I am just one of those people who tap into anxiety and fear more easily than others.
But, with a sneaky suspicion and a glint in my eye, I feel this life is going to be okay!