Doctors said I was perfectly healthy when we were ready to make you.
Excitement had grown in your father and my eyes, because we just knew you were going to bless us with your presence soon.
Perfect time, our time, any time… we just, you know...did the do.
Close your little ears. You’ll overstand when you get older. Much much older.
One visit, two visits turned into countless visits…
“Doctor, there has to be something wrong with these pregnancy tests…they all say negative, when you were positive I would conceive”?!
Reviewing my files, she overlooked the fact that I had PCOS. Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. Where sacs of fluid would block you from making your way to me.
The dreadful words came out of her mouth: “I’M SORRY, YOU CAN NOT HAVE CHILDREN”. Of course her words were more professional, but…
“What do these doctors know anyways”?!
An entire year went by...little to no hope began to fill the void of the womb that you didn’t exist in.
See, during that year...I was obsessed with the idea of becoming your mother. Whenever my cycle was delayed, I convinced myself that the symptoms I was experiencing was it.
My brain played tricks on me and my body followed its false instructions. Just like that, my eagerness for a positive pregnancy test got the best of me.
Public settings suddenly gave me anxiety. Children’s voices haunted me. I became envious of mothers walking by. Bitter, as if they were personally attacking my insides with the sacs I’ve been damned with. Mocking me for the mother I couldn’t become.