There Will Be No....

My mom and I both save our lemon rinds in the fridge for weeks.  We both multi-task when we are on the phone, organizing sock drawers, ironing, putting address labels on envelopes.  We are both 5’8” and, for most of our adult lives have sat at 128 pounds until she hit her 70’s and got out of the habit of eating lunch.  We each had our left ovary removed, although she was 61 years old at the time and  I was 40.  We both have thimble sized bladders and hop up and down, running in place to stop the flow when we have held it too long .  We shiver easily even in 68 degree weather.  I have her thin wrists, her long legs, her high cheekbones and her tendency to want to keep moving.   We both make lists, organize clothing by color in our closets, write extensive notes in our cook books, care about women in prison and are often touched to tears by kindness, beauty and injustice.  

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A mama Polar bears puts on close to 400 pounds  during her pregnancy.  If she doesn’t put on at least 220 pounds during that time, the body will actually reabsorb the fetus.  She then goes into hibernation mode while sitting around in her snowy maternity den, waiting for baby bear to arrive and often sleeping through the birth.  Her cubs stay with her for 2 years while she tries to protect them and teach them how to survive and feast on seal pups.

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1980

Dear Mom,

Haaaaaaaaaaappy Mother’s Day!  You are the BEST mom in the whole wide world and I’m not just saying that.  Thank you for being patient with me even though I bang on the piano keys and don’t always empty the dishwasher when you tell me.  I’m sorry about that.  I love you so much and will try to be a better daughter.  I hope I can be as amazing a person as you are when I am a grown up. 

Love, Mary

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I remember the first time I used a diaphragm, squeezed out spermicide from a tube and tried to line the edges like the instructions said, getting it all over my fingers, washing, trying again, embarrassed and impatient, while he waited, the heat cooling beneath the sheets.  Another attempt, the rubbery orb slipping from my hands, toppling into the sink and into a clump, picked it up, determined to succeed, placed it where  the sun don’t shine, forcing it to find its spot, feeling like something was stuck, shifting my hips from side to side, shaking my torso. Is it in? Is this going to work? I cannot get pregnant.  Does he still have a hard on?  

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Hi, Mare.  Hi sweetie pie!  I’m calling  to tell you I love you.  We can’t wait to see you.   I wanted to see how you were feeling.  We’re so proud of you.  Have you gone to see the doctor yet?  I’m sending you an article that I thought you would like. We made that quinoa salad you told us about.  You can call us until 10 O’Clock our time tonight. We’re dying to hear about the new job. It’s ok to cry.  Bad things go away, only good things stay.

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I have never wanted to be a mom.  Never cooed over babies or longed to hold infants shrouded in velvety blue blankets close to my bosom.  No desire to be pregnant, give birth, breast feed. Never heard the tick tock of my biological clock.  Yet everything has been in place for me to conceive – all the reproductive parts a go, (minus one ovary)  the cycle in order, the drive intact, the partner there.  I leave homes of friends with young kids, watch meltdowns in supermarkets,  thinking “Thank God that’s not me.”    There will be no maternity den, no Mother’s Day cards, no calls just before 10 O’clock.   My genetic line will end without fanfare and hopefully I’ll be smiling.

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I cannot imagine a life without her.