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The end of those days

Fat Mum Slim /

The nurse placed a robe, socks, and other ‘goodies’ onto the bed and walked out, closing the door behind her.

I broke down. And not like polite little tears falling down my cheeks, but that painful cry that comes from the pit of your stomach.

I tried to get to this point for years. I thought I was there, but apparently I wasn’t.

She gently knocked on the door and re-entered the room, “What happened?” she gasped, “Did someone call you? Why are you upset? Did something happen?”

I sat in my paper underwear, compression socks, booties, standard hospital robe, and paper cap. “I’m OK,” I forced out between sobs, “I’m just sad.”

You see, I love babies. And not just in that normal way that people think they’re cute, and then hand them back. I love babies. I always have. From the age of around ten I could care for a baby on my own. I loved all of it, changing nappies, feeding them, being their everything. I’d care for my baby cousins with great joy. I babysat all over the neighbourhood. I became a nanny telling parents I specialised in babies and toddlers, even though there was nothing special about me, I just loved caring for them. Then I had my own babies, although it was a tonne more work, I loved most of it. Most of all I loved that moment I became a mum and my newborn baby was placed in my arms.

“I’m just sad,” I kept sobbing,“that I’ll never get to have another baby. I know it’s the right thing to do, but I’m just sad.”

I wiped my face, took several deep breaths, and assured the nurse I was actually OK {fearing that she’d march me out of the hospital} but just having a moment. She understood. It’s one thing to make the decision yourself, but to have that decision be final with surgery was a lot to process, and that’s where I was.

I know that my hands and heart are full with my gorgeous girls, and I’m blessed with what I have. I also know that I can no longer go on depleting my body of iron stores {with heavy periods lasting up to two weeks, and having to have iron infusions every 4 months}, so I had to make the decision to have the surgery. My specialist {hematologist} had been asking me to have this procedure for years now, and I’d cried to him too {it’s one of my special talents, crying} and then last year I walked into his office and said, “I’m ready.”

So I had the surgery this week. Which means potentially no, or hopefully very light, periods from here on in, and an inability to safely carry a baby again. And I think I’ll always have a part of me that mourns the baby-bearing days and how magical and special they were. I’m so grateful for the memories, and the blessing it truly was to be able to carry a baby, birth them, and love with all that I am. But as a beautiful friend reminded me, I’ll one day be a grandma and I can smother those babies.

Until then though, it’s time to get a puppy.