I have a farewell column written and posted on this site. This column is all ready to go, just in case. I dunno, I originally wrote this column last September, I think. There was some concern that my column might have to move to another website; however, this was never deemed necessary, so the column is sitting there... waiting. The problem is, this column is a fucking masterpiece... in my opinion, and being a writer, when I write something of merit, I am anxious for it to be read. Now, until recently, I never thought of using the column, but lately, and especially this past week, it has been difficult to not utilize this column.
Yeah, about a month ago, immediately after my initial session sphincter spelunking with Nick, shit got kinda creepy here, and I felt I should cease writing Maggie on Top.
Instead, I wrote about the ill timed and more poorly thought out sexual interaction with Nick, and the resulting tension in my marriage.
Then, this past week, I scheduled the laparoscopy procedure I have been postponing.
Yeah, an initial visit to a fertility specialist in West Palm Beach consisted of a follow-up laparoscopy and resulted in new drama for me to deal with, and a new addition to my vocabulary…endometriosis.
The visit with this specialist was informative, and he said nothing to indicate I should abandon my efforts to have children; however, that is exactly what I have decided to do. In fact, after hearing his news and assessment of my reproductive system, I immediately shut down any efforts to do or accomplish anything…in any area. My marriage seemed different to me than before, my extra-marital activities held zero interest for me; I did not even want to have sex with David.
And, I did not wanna write.
I suppose that I went to this specialist without David only compounded the situation. David had to spend four days in Houston last week for some job-training thing. Oh, 
Terri consented to accompany me on this fertility quest, but I gotta tell you, having Terri along as a support team is like sending Tim McKernan in the game to snag a couple of key rebounds…you better have a solid Plan B.
Anyway, after several hours of procedures, testing, evaluation, and consultation, I was told my battle to become pregnant would be neither easy, nor conventional.
I cried like a little girl who just lost her favorite doll, all the way home.
Terri was minimal help to my emotional needs during this time; she spent most of her time texting on her phone and flipping the radio stations. I called David and I could tell he was at a loss for words. I blame myself for the poor logistics and planning of this whole thing…I should not have done this alone, but I just did not expect the eventual outcome to be what it was.
“If you are defective down there, it is likely God’s will, and you should leave it alone”
These are the words my grandmother spoke to me a few months ago about my situation, and these are the words I heard repeatedly in my head as I considered my options. Now, taking advice from my grandmother about modern day medical techniques is like taking marital advice from that angst-riddled hack who writes on Mondays, and yet, somehow, before we completed the three-hour drive back home, I concurred with my grandmother’s advice.
Perhaps God knows I will not be a good mother, or perhaps I am gonna die young and not be around for my son or daughter. Or maybe the mass quantities of myriad birth control methods I have willfully ingested for the past fifteen years have taken their toll on my reproductive system.
Oh,
I know…I can still have babies. If I want to invest the time and effort into doing all the things necessary to make my body acceptable for conception, but I will not do that. I whine about my breasts, that is a much easier fix, and still I am a B-cup.
And all this is what brought me back to thinking I should finally use that farewell column I have in the bank.
Yet, here I am, writing about my stupid life again.
Tim has assured me on many occasions that I am welcome to write about whatever I want. I could write about basket weaving, fashion, politics, or even about that heinous cunt on the message board who thinks I am a guy.
Yet, here I am, writing about my stupid life again…it just seems like the thing to do.
Yeah, this is a depressing thing to write about, and I am sure it is depressing to read also. Clearly, it is just another entry on the “reasons TO get back into therapy” side of the page. I do think writing about my life is helpful in that area though. Even back in the days when I just wrote poetry, I have always found writing about my life to be quite therapeutic.
So, I will keep coming here, and I guess you guys will keep reading.
I spent most of last week holed up in my room, reading. I Googled and read anything I could find on endometriosis. I searched fertility forums looking for personal experiences. I perused Web MD type-sites hoping to find something to change my mind. David got home Thursday night, and I am sure he was shocked by what he saw. I had not bathed or showered for days, I had prolly chain-smoked a carton of cigarettes, I was wearing one of his shirts and nothing else, and I had spilled coffee all over that. The dogs’ water and food bowls were empty, and the television was on some infomercial channel.
I am pretty sure I had not eaten since Monday night.
Yeah, this is the stuff great mothers are made of.
Genesis 1:28...and God blessed them: And God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth…
It is too bad he did not say something like: have sex with as many members of both genders as you can, defeat your natural and inherent ability to procreate, and see how many commandments you can disregard in the process. I might have been eligible for some biblical amendment acknowledging my selfless contribution to His divine destiny for all members of my gender, and adherence to vague scripture.
David
was the perfect husband when he got home. He did not say a word about the disaster the house and I both were. He just held me for what seemed like an hour…and we both cried. He ran a bath for me, helped me into the tub, then stayed and just dripped warm water over me with a bath sponge. I do not think I spoke during this time.
As I am writing this, it is Sunday evening. The weather here has been nearly perfect, and David has not played golf once. We have gone out to dinner every night since he got home, and we have watched several movies together.
Neither of us has had any alcohol.
I have not even seen Nick or Terri since last Tuesday.
I will be back next week, and I hope you guys will be here. I love you for reading me, I love your comments, and I love the support you have all shown for me by reading the stuff I write each week.
Bye for now…