Cherished memory p. 48

Cherished Memory pg 48

It was a bright, Central Oregon Saturday in February.  Pete and I went hiking at Smith Rocks State Park in shirt sleeves. We would occasionally stop and sit on a rock to bask in the winter sun like lizards and watch some hardy rock climbers.  I remember what I was wearing, I remember how my black shirt intensified the warmth of the low angle sun, I remember the deep blue of the sky and the bright yellow rock and patches of snow.  More than that I remember what I was wondering.  

Pete and I had been married for 10 years and believed we would probably remain childless.  This Saturday was different, this overdue cycle was different.  I had had surgery 2 months prior to this outing and had a cancerous tumor and the affected ovary removed.  Earlier that week I had met with a friend for coffee and I had told her I didn’t think I was recovering from the surgery like I should.  I was tired, queasy, tender and food didn’t taste quite right.  She had asked if these symptoms had been there all through my recovery or had just shown up.  When I told her they had just  recently appeared, she covered my hand, leaned in and said “Those are the symptoms of pregnancy.”  I withdrew my hand from under hers and leaned back quickly rattling the coffee cups on the table.  I took a breath, composed myself and began my objective, well rehearsed explanation of why I don’t get pregnant adding, a little too forcefully, that now I had 50% less ovaries!  She just smiled at me.

I had long ago walled off all maternal feelings and longings to protect myself from disappointment.  I didn’t even hold babies. I had wished and hoped too many times and consequently shed too many tears.  I was so good at denying that part of myself that pregnancy had not even crossed my mind.  I had unfortunately not leaned back fast enough because that thought, voiced by my friend Kim, had now infected my mind.  Driving home from the coffeeshop I toyed with that thought some more and it found its way into the “Things that could be Possible” file in my brain.  Against my will and best efforts I allowed a tiny, anemic wisp of a hope to take root. I don’t remember how long I alternately affectionately petted then threw down and kicked at that thought but within the week I had purchased a pregnancy test.  I would not allow myself to see Kim again and have her smile that “you might be pregnant” smile at me without definitive evidence to the contrary. I hadn’t told Pete about any of this because there was no need for both of us to ride this familiar roller coaster again.  Pete seemed fine with not having children.  He had some harsh rhetoric about not spawning any more consumers on this earth along with some personal fear of passing on the learning disabilities that plagued his own family. Perhaps some of this was his own coping mechanisms for being childless.

So we went on a hike. I was now strong enough to hike after my recent surgery.  The sun reminded us that spring was coming. I felt expectant, excited and happy.  I was now a cancer survivor.  Would I have yet another unexpected title soon? I let myself think about carrying a child in my body. I lifted my head towards the sun and let it warm my face and smiled remembering my homegirl Sarah when she laughed to herself in her tent.  Shall I too have this pleasure now that I am an oldish thirty three year old?

When we got home I went upstairs and took the test.  Pete came up the stairs just at that moment to use the restroom.  I showed him the test.  We dug the directions out of the trash can and rechecked the results.  Pete sat down on the toilet and cried for joy.