By Marika Rosenthal Delan
The world was in a state of unrest when fall came.
In my home state of Missouri, people in Ferguson were rioting and burning shit to the ground. The only thing I was burning were hours of sleep and some old notions about the way things should be. Watching the world in complete disarray already had me fighting back vomit as two pink lines appeared on the stick I had just peed on.
Forty had descended on me like a wrecking ball that summer. I was surprised to find myself embracing this milestone, but had long considered a third child out of the question. I had always joked that I wanted three. But that was before 40, before three back surgeries and endometriosis.
Before. It was before my body was breaking. A baby was not on my radar and it showed up like a UFO.
I had been exceedingly careful with my birth control after once getting pregnant with an IUD- what are the chances? I looked it up: 0.8% in the first year of use whatever the hell that means.
I had eagerly signed consent for tubal ligation while undergoing exploratory surgery for endometriosis the previous year. But I hadn’t met the required 30-day waiting period by the day of my procedure. I woke up from anesthesia with my tubes intact.
A plan B wasn’t immediately established. It took months of discussion after which my hubby finally manned up and volunteered for a vasectomy. This was our three-part plan: We would make an appointment right after the holiday. He would have the procedure. Then we would go to the movies. It would be a date, I joked. Continue Reading…