Where's My Accident?, Jess Wygle [chapter books to read to 5 year olds TXT] 📗

This wasn't the first time I'd sat in this seat. To be accurate, it was the sixth time. Each time was harder than the time before. I shifted my weight nervously, crossing one leg over the other, sighing heavily. Devon's knee bounced. We caught each other's gaze, smiled weakly, and turned away quickly.

The office was cold, or was it all in my head? I looked down at my forearm and discovered I was covered in goose bumps. I rubbed them with my palms, generating heat and diminishing all signs of a chill. I eyed the large certificate perched in the middle of an impressively expensive frame, hanging proudly like a coat of arms behind the desk. The office was not like the other rooms on this floor. There weren't diagrams or models or overly dramatic pictures hanging on the walls, comparing normal to abnormal, healthy to unhealthy, taunting me with false hopes and the unknown.

"Whatever happens, we'll get through it, ok?" Devon said, demanding my attention. He grabbed my hand, squeezing tightly. He tried to smile, but I could still see the fear in his eyes. He too could certainly see the same in mine.

I wanted to agree. I wanted to take him seriously, but I didn't know what would happen. I hadn't thought that far. Maybe I had avoided the idea all together, worried dwelling in those thoughts would turn ideas to truth. I didn't even attempt a half-hearted smile. What was the point?

The door opened and Dr. LaBarge swept into the room. The middle-aged man had a kind face and an inviting voice. He spoke to me like a person. He looked me in the eye. He gave it to me straight. He didn't try to sugar coat it. I appreciated it. I didn't need to be treated as broken as I felt.

Dr. LaBarge dropped a file on his desk, sighing as he took his seat. He looked at the two of us with tired eyes. I held my breath.

This was month 35. I hated knowing these things. I hated the reminder; the reality. I didn't work right, that's what it came down to. Devon, he was fine. He'd been tested and evaluated and was given the green light, but me, there was something not right. What it was, we still didn't know. Would we find out today or would the search continue?

Is it because I got comfortable in my marriage of five years and gained a few pounds? I'm not obese, probably wouldn't even be considered fat, thanks to my height, but I could afford to drop a few inches off my midsection. The fact that I don't normally exercise makes matters a little worse. If you consider climbing up and down two flights of stairs at work each day and the mile or so of campus I walk for classes, then yes, I exercise. Outside of those rigorous activities, no.

Is it because I don't eat well? I'm a picky eater and I'll be the first to admit it. I know my distaste for certain foods, which includes most vegetables and most fruits, is all in my head and if I can overcome the textures and consistencies of these dreaded foods, I could have a pretty well balanced diet, but at the moment, my mental strength is diminished by the other subject at hand.

Is it because of the stress? It's not easy being a wife, a student, and a full time employee. Marriage is hard and has only gotten harder since adding a mortgage, two car payments, a puppy, lack of attention and free time, opposing ideas, and now the medical issues. I've never been one to stress over things I can't control. I've always been able to easily get over the things I can, but that was when I was the only person I had to consider. I've accumulated a cluster of school-girl zits, scattered like a constellation on my forehead. I've also developed a wicked case of insomnia and the stress certainly hasn't helped my waist band. I find myself eating simply out of boredom.

I try to tell myself not to think about it. I try to relax and let nature take its course. It's not easy when I want it so badly. When I think about it long enough, I feel an ache in the depths of my soul. It's a physical pain I can feel brewing like a tropical storm approaching the shore. I just want to scream, sometimes I just want to get up and run. Sometimes I just want to cry, break things, lash out. Even if I had given in to each one of these temptations, it wouldn't have solved anything. I would still be right where I am now. I've never wanted something so badly. I didn't know I even possessed the vigor needed to desire something so insatiably.

Every decision I make is taken into question now. Is this the reason why? Could this have something to with it? What if I tried this, or that instead? Could it be the occasional energy drink? Could it be the spanx? Maybe I shouldn't think so negatively. I'll jinx it. You can't jinx science, can you?

I love my husband, in the purest most honest sense of the word, but our incomparable coping mechanisms create tension and leave me with something more to be desired; feeling a bit of emotional neglect. Of course learning that good friends of ours have achieved the very task we've been fighting for will upset me, annoy me, or frustrate me to the point of tears. That's given. You can't get angry with me for feeling that way. You can't tell me to stop thinking about it. I can't. I need you to hug me. I need you to tell me we're next. I need you to encourage the positivity before the darkness sets in and I'm lost. I know you're hurt too, but one of us has to be strong and I can't do it. I just can't. Please, be strong for me; for us.

All of this started out of the belief we were too inexperienced; that it takes time. Then they questioned my thyroid. Next they examined my hormone levels, endometrial consistency, fallopian structure, and my cervical strength, as well as a slew of blood tests. And now, we sit and wait for post-op results of the biopsy after doctors found a mass on an ultrasound.

If it hadn't been that Human Biology course I had taken, I wouldn't have understood half of what they were testing me for. I understand better than Devon does, which aggravates him and only adds to the rift growing between us. I know the science behind it so I understand how the littlest thing affects the process. And sometimes, like in my case, it's like looking for a needle in a haystack.

I am a woman

This is what I was made for.

This is my purpose and I say that in the most unchauvinistic way.

I am the vessel.

I have the ability to create life.

Strip away the breasts, the long hair, the ruby red nails, and the feminine wardrobe and I'm still a woman. Take away my uterus and my ovaries, what am I? Take the honor and privilege of procreation and what other purpose do I have in life?

Getting pregnant is the most selfless thing I could ever do in this lifetime and I can't even manage that. I want to feel life grow in me. I want to hold the child I conceived. I want to gasp at my own eyes looking up at me the first time I hold my newborn. I want to kiss Devon and I want to feel that unfaltering sense of unity and unconditional love surround the three of us like an early morning fog.

What have I done to be denied these guilty pleasures? Aren't I a good person? Won't I be a good mother? Don't I deserve it? Teenagers and co-eds defy the science with their one night stands and unprotected promiscuity to become accidental parents. I want that. Where's my accident? The only result of a drunken night I've had is a debilitating hangover. I want the 'oops', the 'what have I done', the 'my mom is going to kill me'. If good things happen to bad people, do bad things happen to good people? When does that change?

It isn't fair. I am one in millions who struggle with infertility, but in moments of weakness, I feel so utterly alone. I have to smile for my loved ones who welcome a new life into theirs and pretend that I'm not jealous, but I am. I smile like it doesn't hurt, but it hurts. "When are you going to have a baby?" People ask Devon and I all the time. I want to scream at them. YOU MAKE IT SOUND SO EASY!

Options, oh there are always options, but they seem to be dwindling as the days grow short. As Dr. LaBarge sits in front of us, steadily flicking the side of the manila folder in his hands, I wonder what our options are now. I fear nothing more than to hear that our fight is over. I fear the idea of never feeling life move inside, never feeling that bond, never fulfilling my need to nurture and love.

Dr. LaBarge sighed, avoiding our eyes, scanning the document as if he hadn't read it before; as if he didn't already know what he was about to tell us. It was bad news. I had a feeling. He hated telling us as much as we hated hearing it.

"How are things looking?" Devon finally asked, growing impatient.

"It doesn't look good," the kind doctor's voice stayed firm and determined. "The tumors were malignant, cancerous. We have two options. We can try to shrink them with chemotherapy and radiation if need be or we can perform a hysterectomy, but either way, you won't be able to carry a child."