Fly Me To the Moon

The air outside is still. Not a single cloud hangs above in the dusky sky.

My right hand grips the steering wheel at 12 o’clock, navigating the car on autopilot.

The world outside passes at 30 mph, but it seems quiet, almost
still.  But inside my head, thoughts race.  Turning over and over,
faster than the tread on the tires. Every rumination spins quickly,
gaining momentum.

If only I could brake and slow them down.

“Mommy, can I go over dere?” my daughter yells from the backseat. Momentarily yanking me from my stupor.

“Where honey? We’re just driving around right now. I don’t think we’re stopping anywhere, okay?

I had to leave the house. I just had to. My gynecologist called in reference to my latest biopsy results. I already knew what they were. However, I could hear the urgency in her voice this time.

After assessing my situation, she does not want to perform another LEEP
procedure on me yet. She is reluctant to remove anymore of my cervix in
fear that it will be too weak to sustain a pregnancy (which I agree).
She suggests that until I become pregnant and deliver a child, it would
be in my best interest to hold off on the procedure. Until then, she
will monitor my precancerous dysplasia cells every 4 months.

It is a risk, but one with no better alternatives.

I have no idea how I got here. What turn led me down this dark, awful road?

Before me lies two options, but both appear to be dead ends from here.

Veer right, and risk health issues worsening.

Veer left, and risk never having another child.

If only there were a soft shoulder, a place along the road to slow
down and think things through. If only I could flip a bitch and find my
way back.

Back to where we used to be.

But I can’t.

“Over dere, mommy. To the moon! Dat’s where I want go? Can I?”

My eyes glance from side to side outside the windshield. Scouring
the skies, only to find the moon directly in my view, right before my
face. It was there all along.

The pressure to become pregnant is now more significant than ever.
But after nearly 12 months of failure, the chances of reaching that
destination seems further than the moon.

“Maybe in your lifetime, honey. Maybe.”

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