I love babies, I love toddlers, I love elementary school children… I even have a special soft spot for the 11-14 year olds, going through their petulant phase.

Life is a series of paths and choices; each one leads you down another road.  My personal “road not taken” was that of motherhood. 

I believe deeply that I would have been a good mother, had I gone down that path.  I would have loved the child deeply, and they would have known that every day.

Instead, my life went down a different path; a path full of travel and adventures that I would not change for anything in the world.  I’ve been so blessed to have memories and experiences from 14 different countries so far, including Malaysia, Austria, Singapore, France, Thailand… 7 trips to the UK in the last 14 years…and friends; friends everywhere.  It’s a charmed and happy life, and I couldn’t be more grateful for it.

There are women who feel that their lives are not complete if they are not a mother.  My own mother was one of these women.  I am in awe of these women, and completely respect that calling as one I would have enjoyed; but I myself am not one of these women.  While I would have found great joy in that life, I don’t need to be a mother.  I often wonder, however, if perhaps the way I feel about travel is similar to these women’s feelings about motherhood.  I think if I was told I would never see another new country, I would shrivel up, or break down.  It’s my life’s calling, my passion and my achievement, and one I cannot live without.

I came to the conclusion a couple of years ago that I would never have children.  Yes, I know that adoption would have been an option, but part of the great appeal to me was the experience of pregnancy, giving birth, and breast feeding.  It seemed most likely that I would never even have sex – so not bearing a child was a foregone conclusion. 

That being said, I had determined that even if by some miracle I was able to have sex, and then by some miracle I actually fell in love and married, I would want time with just my husband – time to enjoy him; time to enjoy us.  I reasoned that if I ever somehow got to that place, I would have gone so long without that sort of close relationship with a man, that I would be entitled to enjoy it for a long time prior to changing the dynamic as dramatically as a baby does. 

I will be 37 in January.  At this point, I am no longer prepared to start a family.  It’s my choice not to do this.  I own this decision completely and unapologetically.

Still, I suppose some part of me still thought about children.  There is a song by The Innocence Mission, called “Someday Coming”.  The first verse says:

“My someday coming child,
I name and I re-name you.
I make up memories for you
of melodies and friends
and books I want to give you
and horse and buggy sounds outside…”

The last verse of the song states,

“Because I can be very strong.
Say I can, say I can.
There is so much to believe in…
There are angel words to teach you.
There is hope, my daydream child.”

I always loved that song.

I decided to move forward with the ablation – it was something I desperately needed for health reasons, and quality of life as well.  At least 4 mornings a month I was waking up to a scene out of a horror movie, with so much blood covering myself and the bed that it looked like I’d been stabbed in my sleep.  I was taking changes of clothes to work with me – and I was dealing with all this without the benefit of tampons.

Yes, I needed the ablation.  They would put me under general anesthesia, fill my uterus with salt water, and then proceeded to heat up the water to 194 degrees Fahrenheit – just short of the boiling point. 

They would cook me for 10 minutes.

Obviously, this means that I wouldn’t be able to have children; there is nowhere left for them to grow.  I could however conceive a child; but it would always result in a miscarriage.

To me, this was completely unacceptable; I was fine with not having children, but I was not fine with miscarriages.  I’m sure there is not a woman in the world that would be comfortable with this.  I told myself I was being silly – I was never going to have sex anyway, so why worry about this?  But I couldn’t stop the little voice in the back of my head whispering.   “This is a mistake!” it repeated, over and over again. 

Then, I had the dream.

I was in a huge body of water, although it appeared to be man-made; a type of ocean-sized swimming pool.  I was deep, deep under the water, with my eyes closed.   I was in the middle of an underwater current stream that was propelling me forward at a fast rate.  I had the sense that I was weightless, flying.

It was a wonderful feeling; until I bumped into something, and stopped moving.

Opening my eyes in the water, I saw that I had bumped into a baby.  I didn’t know how it had gotten so far under the water; I could only assume it had fallen in from high above.  The baby had a blanket; the kind all babies and newborns seem to have, with the shiny satin finish around the four edges.  The blanket, it would seem, and been sucked into one of those leaf filters (that in reality you find on the top edge of a pool) and had gotten stuck.  The baby had refused to let go, and it had drowned.  It’s tiny little perfect fist, with each of it’s tiny little perfect fingers and precious little fingernails, still clutched at the last corner of the blanket, as if it had refused to let go, or give up the fight. 

I took the dead baby in my arms, and suddenly, in a way that only occurs in dreams, I was at a hospital, trying desperately to get a doctor to help the infant clutched in my arms.  The doctor made it clear to me that it was too late, and it was somehow very clear that this was my fault; I alone was responsible for the dead baby I held to my chest.

It was hours later before I realized the significance of the water; I was, in fact, going to flood my uterus.

I called my doctor that same day and said I wanted to be sterilized during the surgery.  I wanted no chance of miscarriages, should my secret hope that the operation would help me to have sex come true.

So, after flooding and scalding my uterus, they made two incisions in my belly, burned both of my tubes, cut them in half, and then burned each of those halves an inch in each direction.  There would be no failed pregnancy.

I thought this would put me at peace; and consciously, it does.  My brain is satisfied; I am completely equipped now; not only to have sex, but to have very safe sex; no risk of a child when I choose not to start one at this late date, and no miscarriages to scar my heart or my soul.

The problem is, the dreams won’t stop.

On a regular basis, they present themselves to me in the night – one innocent little dead baby at a time.  Every time, I hold them close to my chest in horror – and every time, it’s somehow clear that I am responsible for their death.

I wish I knew what these dreams were trying to say to me.   I feel like if I could have some sort of revelation on that, perhaps they would stop visiting me.  I wake in the morning trying to justify my life, my choices, and my feelings; not to myself, not even to society – but to these infants who seem to feel I’ve stolen their lives.

I know that I haven’t.  I am as sure and as comfortable with my decisions now as I was before; and if there are people who would judge me for choosing an ablation over motherhood… well those people wouldn’t understand that the ablation was a medical need – and if I hadn’t had it, my misdiagnosis would not have been discovered and I would have never had sex anyway – so either way, there would never have been a child.

Still, my someday coming child will not forgive me. Perhaps it’s the part of me that loved the daydream; I did name them and rename them. I did make up memories for them; the books I would read to them, the maps I would buy them, the songs we would sing.  Perhaps my someday coming child just can’t understand that I wasn’t trying to murder them – they are simply a daydream - and who doesn’t enjoy a daydream?  I was just trying to avoid the reality of a baby; or rather, the reality of a miscarriage.

If I had ever had a little girl, her name would have been Hannah Elizabeth. 

If I had ever had a little boy, his name would have been Simon Becket.

So I say to them now, officially and publicly - I’m sorry. 

I’m sorry, my someday coming child, that you are lost to me.  I am sorry that there is no chance at all of us meeting.  I’m sorry I was sick, and I’m sorry that getting well meant I couldn’t have you.  I’m sorry I was given bad information for so long, that made me believe I couldn’t try to make you a reality at an earlier age.  I’m so very, very sorry.

But mostly, my someday coming child, I’m sorry that you can tell that I’m not sorry enough to satisfy your hurt and confusion.  I’m sorry that even if this hadn’t happened, I may have ended up on the same path of choosing traveling over you.  I’m sorry that in the same breath I use to morn your loss, I thank my lucky stars.  I’m sorry that it is a relief not to be afraid of an unplanned pregnancy as I near 40 and no longer desire one.

I’m so sorry.  Please know that there really were songs I would have taught you.  There really were books I would have read you.  I would have made sure that there really were horse and buggy sounds outside.  We would have laughed, and caught fireflies, and made ice cream sundays.  We would have been blessed.  I would have made you happy.

My beloved, beloved someday coming child.  I’m so sorry I didn’t want you enough.

I live in the desert, and it’s a rare treat here.  I’ll always be an East Coast girl in my heart, but I will say there is a smell in the desert after the rain that is one of the most delicious smells in the world.  If a smell could be life affirming, this would be it.  My biggest complaint about living where I do is the lack of rain and cold weather, something that I deeply love – but I do take comfort in the rare storm we receive.  This is supposed to be our rainy season, but we haven’t gotten much rain – I’m hoping for a repeat of last night’s storm, at least once, before the season ends.

You may have noted that I’m discussing the weather. 

This is because I’m at a loss of what to say today.

I started this series all piss and vinegar; scared to death - but with things to say.  I had just gone through the surgery, gotten the news, and it appeared that if I wanted it, there was a new life out there for me – not just sex, but a chance to start over, wipe the slate clean of the past, and make a conscious choice to be braver.  A chance to take this autumn and deliberately go through steps that would lead me to a metamorphosis of a woman instead of a girl; someone prouder of themselves, less apologetic, less timid, and less scared of having their heart or spirit broken.

I’ve already shared with you so many of the steps I have created while working on this – the makeover, the therapy, this blog… so, especially in the beginning, as these steps were being put into action, it provided me with very clear topics for the blog entries – and I decided that I would only write an entry when I had a specific topic in mind, and enough to say about it to be worthwhile.  I wasn’t going to put in entries for the sake of just adding them.

Not every day, however, is going to have an earth shattering step towards my goals; some days are just days; long, difficult, and full of way too much thinking and self doubt.

I can tell you that on Saturday, I met with Stacey, who will be the professional photographer that will take my picture at least once a month throughout these coming days.  We will be starting the pictures soon.

I can tell you that I have finally hired a professional tutor to learn Italian.  I begin working with him in September, and he will take me through the normal class work for college Italian 101 and 102.  Hopefully I can be at a decent place on my Italian when I arrive in Italy.

I can tell you that I had a very emotional scare yesterday; I began to bleed again.  It’s my second cycle since the surgery, but the first involved no bleeding at all.  Even though I had read all the literature and knew that the first 3 months can involve any level of blood or lack thereof as your body healed, I was still hoping there would be none, and was terrified when I saw it – frightened that the surgery hadn’t worked, even though it was barely enough to be considered spotting.  It’s incredible how quickly and easily you can fear that these new gifts will be taken away from you, when they are so incredibly important.  Hopefully it’s not going to get worse through the months?  I’ll have to wait and see.

…I’ll have to wait and see.

How often I find myself repeating this line these days.  In my head it echoes constantly; in conversations with friends it’s typically the end conclusion to any topic.

How much Italian can I manage to learn before my trip? 

I’ll have to wait and see.

What will be the long term results of my ablation?

I’ll have to wait and see.

Will the pain of going through this process of having my picture taken be worth what I gain from it?

I’ll have to wait and see.

What will Lo’s feelings be?

I’ll have to wait and see.

…and with each and every one of these “wait and see’s” I find myself hating the phrase more and more; and liking myself less and less.  Other people just take each day as it comes – what’s my problem?  Just don’t think about it all, right?  Buck up.

Unlike most people, I’ve always enjoyed turbulence when on an airplane.  While many can’t understand this, to me it’s reassuring – when we’re jostled, it indicates movement; proof that the plane is going somewhere.  When there is no turbulence, it’s just so…still.  It drives me crazy, because I can’t tell that we’re making any progress.

I have 120 days left before I leave for Italy.  120 days before questions are answered – how much weight was I able to take off prior to departing… how much Italian I was able to learn… by then enough months will have gone by to tell where exactly this ablation put me.  I’ll know all that.  And then I’ll arrive in Italy, and I’ll find the rest of my answers, whatever they may be.

120 days.

I don’t have 120 projects. 

This means there will be days, like yesterday, like today, where there is no movement, no turbulence… just my own desperate voice in my head asking “Are we really moving??”

I’m not sure what to do about this voice.  I can’t live with it for 3 months.  Not every night can be Christmas Eve, with the expectation of a great payout the following morning.  I need to either grow up, or toughen up, or… what?

Years ago, my beloved cousin sent me a card.  We had a small misunderstanding, and while we weren't in a fight, I hadn't made a move to call her since; a typical move on my part to avoid any issues.  I opened the card, to find a beautiful picture of a woman sitting by an open window, in a lovely dress.  The quote on the card read,

Love Understands, And Therefore, Waits.

Even now, after all these years, just the thought of the card moves me.  Love understands, and therefore, waits.  It holds a peace, a grace, a dignity.  It expresses the type of woman I've always wanted to be.

Perhaps I need to be the woman in that card. 

Perhaps the woman in me, who sits waiting at that December window, already understands this is not an immediate process. 

Perhaps the woman in me, who sits at that December window, already understands that the girl in me, who is struggling so desperately to get to that woman, won't have updates every day - some days just...pass.

Perhaps I need to be the woman in that card - perhaps I already am, but the child in me can't see that.  Perhaps this waiting is what brings that grace, that dignity, and in the end, peace.

For now, I’ll try to focus on the rain.  Who knows, maybe we will get another storm before the season ends.

I’ll have to wait and see.

While preparing for our trip to meet in New York City, a large focus for me was making sure that Lo had fun – he was spending a great deal of money to do this, and he’d never been to the United States before.  He didn’t know anyone besides me there.  It was incredibly important to me that he have a fabulous time.

Try as I might, however, I couldn’t seem to get him to commit to any of the things I thought he might want to do.  It's not that he wasn’t agreeable; on the contrary, he was overly agreeable.  No matter what I suggested, I received the same response, over, and over, and over again:

“Whatever you like darling.  I’m on standby mode – whatever you like!”

It was not until we arrived in New York that I began to grasp the full weight and power of Lo’s “Standby Mode”.

All decisions would be made by me.  It wasn't that he didn’t have opinions, or that he couldn’t have made a choice; it came down to the simple fact that he knew that this would drive me insane, and Lo is someone that loves to play and tease.  Standby Mode, he had decided, would become our new game, and it was a game that amused him to no end.

With a twinkle in his eye, he took it to the next level by refusing to order his own food.  No matter where we were, or how many of my friends we were with, it went something like this:

Waiter – “And for you sir?”

Lo (in his most helpless voice) – “Ohhhhh I don’t know – SHE knows.  I don’t know, I’m on standby mode, I don’t know….”

At this point, all faces at the table would turn to me with great amusement; with the exception of the waiter, who clearly thought Lo was the most ridiculous man on the planet, and Lo himself, who was determined to keep his mask of helplessness pasted to his face.  He was unable, however, to hide the glee in his eyes, as he looked at me as if to say, “Your Move”.

The waiter directed his gaze to me, eyebrows raised, waiting for my determination of what food another capable adult should be putting in their mouth.   Hiding whatever traces of amusement I could from my face, I began my part of our dance.

Amanda – “Ummm….  He’ll have a cheeseburger?” I said in my most unsure, reluctant voice.

Waiter – “And how would he like that cooked?”

Amanda – “Ahhhh… medium?” 

The chuckles from others around the table began to grow more audible.

Waiter – “And what kind of cheese would he like on that?”

Amanda (after a pause, now appearing to have a headache from the entire experience) – “American??”

With this, the waiter would depart, my friends would laugh, and Lo would just lean back in his chair, with a pleased look on his face.

I have made it quite clear to him that turnabout is fair play.

When I arrive in Italy, I will be on standby mode.  He will determine what we do, when we do it, and yes, dear friends, what I will eat and drink.  I’m curious to see what his choices are.  There are some things that have already been established – such as my deep and abiding love of Prosecco, the Italian version of champagne.  Prior to leaving, I’ll work into our conversation my current fascination with risotto, and my timeless love affair with cheese plates.  Other than that, I won’t say a word.

There is a balance to find here however; because ultimately, we are all responsible for our own fun, our own mood, and our own happiness.  That means, while we play our game, it’s still up to me to give myself a great holiday in Italy. 

Part of the reason I’m embracing the standby mode is that I’ll be on standby mode whether I like it or not – this trip will be how I learn more clearly how Lo does and does not feel.  So why not make it a game, and just accept the fact now that I have less control over some of the outcomes of this trip than I normally would?  I feel it’s a good exercise for me - the slight control freak - to go through.

On the other side of this dichotomy, I need to have my own goals for this journey; such as:

• Practice Italian
• Time visiting with my other friends
• Drink a glass of prosecco every evening.
• Take at least 3 “frame worthy” pictures.
• Read at least one fabulous book.
• Enjoy the flirting of Italian men.
• Take at least one walk in the rain (by myself).
• Enjoy great Italian coffee.
• Sit in an empty church, and listen to the quiet you find there.
• The luxury of one afternoon nap.

These things belong to me - and me alone.  They are some of the small interests and desires that make me a unique and interesting person.  They are the things that allow me to recognize myself.  I believe that we need honor our hearts’ small requests, such as the ones listed above.   

Lo is not my trip.

Italy is my trip. 

Italy is my journey, my joy, my current adventure and a goal unto itself.  To pin the hopes, responsibilities, and success of a trip on any other person causes damage to both yourself and the individual in question.  No one can provide these things to another.

With this in mind, I look forward to finding out (when the time comes) where I will be on a given Tuesday afternoon, or what dinner will consist of the following Friday, or where New Years Eve will find me. I can state with absolute certainty, however, that the trip will hold a solitary walk, some photography, great coffee, prosecco, a church, a fabulous book, old friends, and the flirting of Italian men. 

When it comes to my individual happiness, I will no longer be on standby mode.

For anyone.

Perhaps I should start over. 

I am a firm believer that words matter.  What we say, and what words we use to say them, affects the way we think about things – can actually form the way we think about things.  I also believe that actions and visual cues are powerful mediums for changes in thinking.  With this in mind, it was time for me to make changes to my external self that reflected the changes I hope to see in my future internal self. 

This meant changing the way I look in several areas, starting with a groundbreaking concept; makeup.

Yes, of course I’ve worn make up before – and I wouldn’t put myself down as a complete failure.  Sure, I was a bit afraid of eye shadow but I don’t walk around with a big orange line around the bottom of my face either.  What I wanted was to have good quality supplies, in the right shades for me.  I wanted to get a solid understanding of the best application techniques.   I wanted to start using the makeup on a regular basis, not just birthdays and the rare night out.  I wanted to feel more mature, more feminine.

My process began on Friday night.  I left work and headed with resolve to a local branch of a large beauty supply store.  I had decided that while it was a bit more expensive, I wanted to take the fool proof approach of sitting through one of the makeovers offered, so I could look at what they did, confirm on the spot that a given product was the correct shade for my complexion, and buy exactly that one.

An hour later, I walked out of the store with a large bag, hooker eyes, and three hundred less dollars.  I had purchased virtually everything they threw my way, but in lighter tones than they had applied in most cases.  I opted for soft brown mascara and eyeliner instead of the jet black they had covered my eyes with.  Eye shadows were selected in shades of peach, as opposed to brown.  Still, I had bought the whole package.  I knew I was a complete sucker, but I was hoping the fact that I knew I was a complete sucker and had willfully decided to be one counted for something. 

I’m still hoping that.

I went home and was feeling pretty good until, due to the cold I’m still recovering from, I blew my nose and found that the black eyeliner had somehow traveled from my tear ducts to my nasal passage, and come out onto the Kleenex. 

I sat there marveling at the odd bits of information that can pass you by.  Did others know of this strange phenomenon?  I lurched to my laptop and headed for Google, typing in “eyeliner” and “nose” and found that yes, this was a factoid known to many, just not to me.  I determined that I really am a woman now, since I have joined the sisterhood of ladies that knows this. 

My pride is immense.  There should be a greeting card for this situation. 

The next morning, I was ready for step two; a manicure.  I never wear sculptured nails, but I felt the time was right.  I work at a desk all day, and type a great deal.  I felt that looking down and seeing hands that clearly belonged to a woman rather than a girl could help reinforce this idea subconsciously – so on went the nails, French manicure and all.

From there I headed to a salon where I had appointments set up for the rest of the afternoon.  I had made the decision to share the very basic, abbreviated story of why I was there to the two women I would be working with.  It’s hard to justify now, but the whole goal had been to look as different as I possibly could, and as attractive as I possibly could.  I needed to be different, new, and as pretty as possible to help boost my confidence in the coming months.  Somehow, I felt that if they knew the rudimentary facts, they would understand how important this was to me. 

I began by getting my eyebrows done, then moved on to have my hair dyed from dark brown to blonde, with a jaunty new haircut.  I found that when I looked into the mirror, I was looking at someone else; someone that held a strong resemblance to me, but was most certainly different as well.  It was exactly what I had hoped for.

From there, I headed back to the waxer for the first bikini wax of my life.  I had decided that since I was trying to think differently about the functionality and options for that specific area, that it might help me if it looked different as well; sort of a visual signal of the change that had taken place. 

I had always gotten the impression that a bikini wax was incredibly painful; now I’m not sure where I got that.  It really didn’t hurt at all. I expressed my surprise to Kerri, the woman doing my wax job.

“I always thought this was supposed to hurt – you know, you see jokes in movies and things” I commented.

“Oh yeah, all the time” She replied.  “Like ‘The 40 Year Old’…”

I saw the connection register on her face between her client and her film of choice.  The silence hung in the air for a minute as her eyes widened and her face reddened.  I felt bad for her – there was no reason to feel awkward.  I smiled back.

“…Virgin.” I finished for her.  “Yeah, I saw it – I thought they managed to make it sweeter than I expected.”

“Totally.” She responded.

The moment passed.

So here I sit – new blonde hair cut in a sassy new way, good brows, bikini wax, fancy nails, and sophisticated makeup.  There is an extra “clicking” noise as my manicured fingers tap at the keys of my computer all day.  As I hear it I remind myself, repeating the words over and over in my mind;

Things are changing.

A great deal of the time, however, at least one of those other parts of us is saying "No way. Not going to happen."

When I started this series of blogs, it began with the fact that I had spent 20 years misdiagnosed; I was told I would never be able to have sex, and found out last month it was untrue. 

Some of you have already commented on this and I thank you for your kind thoughts.  Through this process of writing about it, I realized a wonderful thing; I was never the victim of a misdiagnosis; I made all my own choices, each step down the path that has been my life thus far.

I did believe the doctors when they said it was impossible.  I'm sure I used it as an excuse, a crutch, and a reason to set myself apart.  It's so wonderful to have reasons why you don't fully have to enter the world if you don't want to.

As I've already shared, things changed for me in January.  I realized that for the first time in my life, I cared about a man more deeply than I ever have before.  For the first time in my life, no part of me disagreed.  Mind, heart, body, all in tune.

As soon as that occurred, I decided that regardless of what I had ever been told, I was going to find a way to be a full person.  I started out by having my ablation; as I've mentioned previously, I never dreamed it would fix my problem, but thought it could be a small start to improving my situation.  Instead, my problem was removed during that surgery, 100%.

So what to take from this?  The choice, the power to change things for myself was in me all along.  The moment I made a decision that the fate I had been handed was unacceptable, I was able to get a new one.  It just required me caring enough to do something about it.

Granted, I never knew the power was in my hands; but does that matter?  The bottom line is that if some other man had inspired me at 24 to break through these barriers, I would have been able to remove this issue then.  None of them did.

Just like Dorothy, I was wearing my ruby slippers all along.  I may not have known they'd take me home, but it doesn't change the fact that the very first time I decided to click my heels together, I was taken where I wanted to be.

It's such a wonderful thought - no victims, no bitterness, just the knowledge that I waited these years because obviously, that's what was right for me.  When I wanted it, when I cared, all my options lay out before me. 

I wonder how often that's the case and we don't realize it?