I love children. 

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.