At some point, I started narrating my life. In my head, I mean. I don't really think of myself in the third person, but rather as though I was reading a book, where I would be the main character. The story of my life, told by me, inside my head.
For some reason, resulting to this default level allows me to remove myself from it all. It's as though what's going on in my life is actually happening to another person and I'm just reading about it. Others might call this living in denial. But it helps. And, like you've never imagined a soundtrack accompanying your life.
Right now, at this chapter in My Life, the main character would be at the point of the story where the plot just begins to thicken. The song accompanying the newly encountered twists and turns would be "Breathe Me" by Sia. Note that my story starts at the beginning of the book.
So, enter me. Up until the point my story begins, I've been a relatively normal person. I live life, work hard, love my husband, and spend time with friends and family. There isn't much there that is different from anyone else. We've all pursued the American dream of a house in the suburbs with a mortgage, an SUV, and 2.4 kids. And that's when my story takes a screeching detour.
Kids.
You see, up until now, my reproductive plans had been carefully laid out. Get married and remain childless for two years, enjoy time with my husband, work on my career, travel, spend Saturday mornings sleeping in, and lounging over long Sunday brunches. And of course, make sure there's a baby on the way by the time I turn 30. I've got six months until my 30th birthday...or, more precisely, 23 weeks and five days. Not that I'm counting.
Poet Robert Burns once wrote, "The best laid schemes...oft go awry...And leave us nothing but grief and pain for promised joy." Or perhaps the Stones said it better when they told me I couldn't always get what I wanted.
By now, I've danced around the subject enough. So, you might as well know that my doctors don't believe I'll be able to have children. And it's the only thing I want. All women assume that they'll be able to conceive and carry children. It's what we, as women, are literally built to accomplish. I've got all the right parts, it just doesn't work. Kind of like that Leksvik coffee table you bought from Ikea. It's like God forgot to throw in one extra bolt or piece of laminated cardboard when he made me.
And again, I suppose I'm getting ahead of myself. There's a chance I won't be able to have children. No one has told me to forget the possibility of bringing giant-headed Storms babies into this world. Yet.
So, next Wednesday, I'll be going in for surgery. I'll put on my serious hat just for a minute. I'll be undergoing three procedures - three surgeries for the price of one. Not really though, because what insurance company would ever let you get away with that? I'll be having a laprascopy, a cystoscopy, and a hysterscopy. They're going to take samples from my endometrial layer, clean up the cysts, take a look at my bladder and cervix. Anything that they encounter in the surgery will be fixed at that time.
For some reason, resulting to this default level allows me to remove myself from it all. It's as though what's going on in my life is actually happening to another person and I'm just reading about it. Others might call this living in denial. But it helps. And, like you've never imagined a soundtrack accompanying your life.
Right now, at this chapter in My Life, the main character would be at the point of the story where the plot just begins to thicken. The song accompanying the newly encountered twists and turns would be "Breathe Me" by Sia. Note that my story starts at the beginning of the book.
So, enter me. Up until the point my story begins, I've been a relatively normal person. I live life, work hard, love my husband, and spend time with friends and family. There isn't much there that is different from anyone else. We've all pursued the American dream of a house in the suburbs with a mortgage, an SUV, and 2.4 kids. And that's when my story takes a screeching detour.
Kids.
You see, up until now, my reproductive plans had been carefully laid out. Get married and remain childless for two years, enjoy time with my husband, work on my career, travel, spend Saturday mornings sleeping in, and lounging over long Sunday brunches. And of course, make sure there's a baby on the way by the time I turn 30. I've got six months until my 30th birthday...or, more precisely, 23 weeks and five days. Not that I'm counting.
Poet Robert Burns once wrote, "The best laid schemes...oft go awry...And leave us nothing but grief and pain for promised joy." Or perhaps the Stones said it better when they told me I couldn't always get what I wanted.
By now, I've danced around the subject enough. So, you might as well know that my doctors don't believe I'll be able to have children. And it's the only thing I want. All women assume that they'll be able to conceive and carry children. It's what we, as women, are literally built to accomplish. I've got all the right parts, it just doesn't work. Kind of like that Leksvik coffee table you bought from Ikea. It's like God forgot to throw in one extra bolt or piece of laminated cardboard when he made me.
And again, I suppose I'm getting ahead of myself. There's a chance I won't be able to have children. No one has told me to forget the possibility of bringing giant-headed Storms babies into this world. Yet.
So, next Wednesday, I'll be going in for surgery. I'll put on my serious hat just for a minute. I'll be undergoing three procedures - three surgeries for the price of one. Not really though, because what insurance company would ever let you get away with that? I'll be having a laprascopy, a cystoscopy, and a hysterscopy. They're going to take samples from my endometrial layer, clean up the cysts, take a look at my bladder and cervix. Anything that they encounter in the surgery will be fixed at that time.
It's an easy procedure and all the scars will be "bikini friendly." And I know this because I asked. Hey - if I can't have kids, I might as well make sure I can rock a bikini for as long as possible. So, universe, wish me luck. Send fertile thoughts my way.
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