I had a wonderful Fathers’ Day with you and your parents. I’m so grateful they don’t feel like in-laws, just extended family. I totally admit I was kind of bitchy all day Sunday. You thought it was because I didn’t sleep well Saturday night and wore (as usual) inappropriate footwear to romp around the city all day or that I was annoyed at the huge mass of people in Mike’s Pastry while trying to order a damn cannoli.
In truth, I was grumpy about it being Fathers’ Day and my inability to make you a father of your own this year. I want nothing more than to make you a Dad.
I wish my ovary hadn’t conspired against us. I wish I could go back in time and catch this at the pass. I wish we had it easier.
But then again, I suppose that wouldn’t be any fun, would it?
I know you’ve assured me that you’re not disappointed in me, that you love me no less, that it’s okay because there’s always next year. You’re a phenomenal husband like that.
It still stung this year. It hasn’t in years past, but just like Mothers’ Day this year, I felt that little tug in my chest, the hesitation in my breathing.
That pause -
- of knowing how this all was supposed to be. We fell in love at fifteen, for Pete’s sake! We had a swooning, epic, teenaged love affair with a dramatic break-up, only to be followed by a “this may as well have come straight from a rom-com screenplay” reunion, and then seven years of an amazing relationship, followed by a (very long) engagement and one helluva wedding.
Next stop: kids.
Let me clarify. Next stop: genetic kids. Little half-you half-me babies, crawling around with their luscious black hair, their pale, soft skin, and their giant noses.
This was the way it was supposed to be.
Like I said in my tear-soaked semi-meltdown Friday afternoon: those children will never exist. We have to live with ourselves knowing that Those Children we dreamed of one day will not exist.
I know it doesn’t necessarily upset you; I know you’re just happy to raise a family with me, no matter how we build it together. But it hurts me to know that I will never meet Those Children.
I put on my big girl pants and my brave face all the time but I think as we really start to get closer to treatment, all the feelings I’ve pushed aside in the name of advocacy have begun rearing their ugly heads. Mothers’ Day was just a warning shot really. Fathers’ Day has all but confirmed this for me.
I love you so fucking much. And even though I want nothing more than to be able to create what I consider one of the most ultimate expressions of mutual love with you – I can’t.
And it kills me to know that I can’t do that for you.
I could give you everything else you’ve ever wanted, but I can’t give you That Child, our half-you half-me baby. I would give my life for you and yet I can’t give you Children of Our Own.
So it wasn’t that I was too sun-kissed or that my allergies were a nightmare on Sunday. I was a beast all weekend because I’m struggling again with self-esteem issues in the wake of some otherwise very confident happenings in my life. Because I feel like a failure in the face of so much accomplishment.
And no matter how strong and beautiful and loved I may be, I carry this on my heart. It’s a heavy burden.
And I’m so grateful to have you carry this burden with me, to lighten my load and gladden my heart.
When we broke the wishbone leftover from Passover on Friday, I’ll tell you my wish, since I didn’t break off the bigger end:
I wished with all my heart this was the last Fathers’ Day we celebrate without a child.