Backwards Counting (Last Egg Drop)
“Edwina's insides were a rocky place where my seed could find no purchase” - H.I. Raising Arizona
Waking again at night, or more accurately in the darkness of the very early morning, lathered in sweat, the rise of heat flushing through my weary body. Flopping off the comforter, finding the cooler part of the sheets, swiping hair from the nape of my sticky neck, flipping the pillow, poking one foot out to full cold air exposure. All in search for a chill of relief. These are some of my self-care tactics, my private remedies, my way of dealing with the waves of hot that wake me, flash through me, then dissolve without a second thought back into the darkness.
I was late, very late. Backing it all up, counting the days, referencing the calendar. That ever so thought-provoking, panic-filled question, when was my last period? I drove my “62 sunflower yellow VW to the corner 7-11 for a pregnancy test. I was 21 years old. It was 1987. I had stopped in bohemian Boulder, Colorado, a few years earlier on my move from LA to Boston. Originally scheduled as a “drive thru”, a pit stop of sorts. I would call this place my home for the next 35 plus years.
I easily nestled into the hamlet of Boulder, tucked into the base of the Flatirons, the iconic mountain skyline formed between 70 and 64 million years ago at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. The unfinished road trip, cross country move, Boston, was quickly forgotten, left in the rearview mirror of my bug. What would my life have been like if I had completed that trip and arrived in Boston as scheduled? Would the story trajectory of my life have stayed the same, a campy drama in a different locale, varying theatre backdrops and sets, contrary characters and deviating circumstances - would the ending be the same?
A few years prior to my arrival in Boulder a New York Times Sunday Magazine article described the city as “25 square miles surrounded by reality” and where the “hip come to trip.” These statements along with the chamber of commerce guaranteed 300 days of sunshine, who wouldn’t want to live here? From the vantage point of my inexperienced, recently post-pubescent mind, it seemed as good a place as any.
I’m an Army Brat, which means we uprooted the entire “kit and caboodle” and moved to a new place every six months to two years. The lawn mower, the dog, farewells to just-made friends, different, schools, the moving boxes and their scarring sound of packing tape. I have felt very alien in my surroundings and yet at home with where I was so often in my life. The biggest move challenges of all were the foreign countries, foreign languages, and foreign customs. With these, however, I learned that sometimes the toughest spots we get through in life leave the most tender impression upon the heart.
A final farewell party for the family dog being “put down” when dying of cancer
The inevitable relationship breakup, that all know is the “right thing to do” but still tears at your heart over and over and over - for years
The son leaving for war, returning mostly happy, mostly whole
The blood in the toilet, knowing what its form was once intended to be
With the entire world as my oyster, Colorful Colorado was my choice “by chance”.
My father gave Boulder the nickname “Never Never Land” paired often with his commentary “Doesn’t anybody ever work in this town? Everyone is on a bike, hiking, or at a coffee shop”. In retrospect he did have a point and I often think of my dad when I squeeze into my favorite overstuffed coffee shop full of lycra and earbud-wearing laptop-pounding cyclists, entrepreneurs and students. Here, where my dad saw everyone staying perpetually young, not growing up, is where I became an adult. Here I gained my autonomy, experienced all those “firsts” of my early 20s. First “real job”, first apartment, first gay club, first car and … first pregnancy.
The blue plus sign of the pee on pregnancy stick shone back at my like a beacon. A second and third re-read of the instructions from the insert in the box:
“The symbols used to indicate whether you are pregnant or not vary from test to test, so read the instructions again if your are unsure. Most home pregnancy tests use something like a plus or minus sign, a coded color change It's better to familiarize yourself with the symbols used in advance, as you don't want to be anxiously scrambling for the instructions when the test throws up its results.”
I fully checked out. I crawled into my bed for two weeks to cry and drink tea. Paralyzed, petrified. What am I going to do? How can I do this? I can’t do this. I can do this. I am doing this.
At the time there was a mysterious autoimmune disease killing, looming in the background of these years, later known as AIDS. I know now I was probably a bit too promiscuous, too relaxed, too unsure of when exactly I took that last birth control pill.
Counting backwards again through the calendar, it had to be that one night stand, that one irresponsible night, when I left late from a club with an alluring stranger. That one nothing-special-really night. Through the fear, the what ifs, the tears and denial was the brutal fact, I was pregnant and alone. I was going to be a single mother.
Those months of incubation, while difficult, were also filled with small miracles. I discovered then that being a mother is when you first begin to truly listen, to the earth, to your body, to your child. Your ears find the proper pitch of the tuning fork of motherhood.
Despite my “pro choice” beliefs and not because of my Catholic upbringing, abortion never felt like a real option. This non option was more based upon my inner instincts, my inner voice, that maternal listening. When I thought “abortion”, my freshly harmonized ears heard “no”. I did contemplate the option of adoption longer. I played out the scenario repeatedly, the scene:
Young single mother (me played by Meg Ryan) handing over beautiful infant (played by Gerber Baby) to a medical worker (played by Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, queen of haunting one-night stands), adorable Gerber Baby never to be seen again by the Meg Ryan-esque single mother.
This episode made all the more “real life” with the knowing of cells multiplying, and the human form, swimming inside of me, my belly growing daily. The movements of elbow, knees, head, butt, crazy baby jabs from the inside out - all sealed my decision. In truth I know somehow this decision of my life - giving life - was already firmly made even before I had made it. “So it is”, a proclamation. Something greater outside of me or maybe inside of me was making this decision for me - he chose me - I choose him, we chose each other, the cosmos dealing of cards.
Day by day in my tiny apartment with a jumble of hats tacked to the wall a cocoon for our ripening, I took steps for the arrival. My neighbor who smoked cigars and listened to opera on his small balcony - never judged me and my day-by-day bulging belly. Instead I felt his observant watchful protective presence. I never knew his name. One morning I opened my door and found a bundle on my doorstep. A brown bag filled with gently-used baby clothes left on my welcome mat, anonymously. These heart-cracking random acts of kindness spurred me on to continue preparing and planning. I uncovered a moral life tenet during those uncertain days: The universe provides, it always shows up authentic with mysticism and miracles, we just have to open our door each morning to see what is left upon our doorstep.
Backing it all up.
Counting the days.
Referencing the calendar.
That ever so thought provoking
Panic filled question.
When was my last period?
So suddenly it seems, within 30 blink-of-an-eye-years
My last egg dropped.
It comes for all women eventually, uniquely to each of us, though oddly it is not discussed. Once again I was late, very late. My cycle not cycling. I wish I had known that mundane regular day was the last opportunity for creating life. I think I would have had a party, an un-baby shower. We would have served deviled eggs.
I don’t want another child, but the simple knowledge that it is not an option leaves me questioning my existence, my identity, my purpose. It fills me with so much sadness, fear and dread. I often tumble into bed again to drink tea. Who am I if I am no longer caring for children, no longer “the mother”, made all the more confusing by being the mom of adults. So much of my life had been about bringing forth life. I have been a mother now for more than half my lifetime. I have four incredible, beautiful, talented, amazing children. My oldest is now 31 and my youngest, the fourth, the only daughter is 17. We are in the early days of her second birthing as she prepares to leave this cozy nest we’ve built. The final flying of the coop. The imminent empty nest is only a year or so away now.
Hot flashes are akin to labor pains, both are outward signs of metamorphosis. I find that if I can welcome them, breathe through them, lean into them, and release them they are easier to manage. I find myself doing my Lamaze breathing with them, stretching my new precarious wings through the mood swings, struggling to evolve and embody this new body. My stretch marks are my life’s tattoos.
I sleep with Susun Weed’s book about menopause by my bed. The dog eared, tattered and tea stained book with torn napkins as holding markers of the poignant pages I have read and re-read. Filled with underlines, stars and the yellow smear of highlighter. The Wise Woman Years has been my salvation in this time of THE CHANGE. My husband and I affectionately call it “What to Expect When You’re NOT Expecting”. He assures me grandchildren are coming someday and they are advertised to be even better than having our own kids! For now our new grandpuppy is challenge with filling this void.
I sometimes feel I am channeling the hormonal crazed Edwina from the film Raising Arizona and her semi-uncontrollable desire to have children and the craziness that can elicit. I see irresistible babies everywhere, at the park, on the plane, at the store. Bright eyes, always with long lashes, toothless smiles, dimples on the back of their hands. Something in me, a reflex, a primordial longing, Edwina, urges me to reach out and touch their smooth skin, smell their baby head. I resist these impulses and instead watch them from a safe distance. I try and flash their mothers a smile packed with the message “I know it lasts forever and I also know it doesn’t last long at all.