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This Woman's Work

We take it for granted. At some point, between the ages of 10 and 15, we get our first periods, and for those of who avidly read Judy Blume, we begin counting down to that day from an early age. When it arrives, we quickly come to the conclusion that the nickname "the curse" was aptly given, and begin to wonder disdainfully if Margaret (of the Are You There God fame) was a little out of her mind for her eager anticipation.
Our mothers either alert the media with fanfare about their babies becoming women, or they are like my mother, who simply said "there's some stuff in the cabinet." I prefer Claire Huxtable's approach, taking Rudy for a carriage ride in the city, allowing her to play hooky, and if I were only a little more liberal, would appreciate the symbolism of the sip of red wine discussed in How to Make an American Quilt.
As we get older, we learn to swim while we have it, how to dodge messy situations, and how to buy tampons without furiously blushing and repeating the mantra "they are for my mother, they are for my mother" in our heads, in case we are somehow asked by the pimply faced checkout clerk at the supermarket.
And then we reach childbearing age, and what was once a curse, has become an elusive jewel of a grab bag gift. Each month becomes for some, a crapshoot, a russian roulette of sorts, for others, an eager calendar watch in the hopes that it has done its job, and for some of the latter, a heartbreaking and frustrating reminder of just how truly elusive it can be.
My own has been reliable in every sense of the word. After that initial hump, we eased into a routine, for better or worse, and when it was time to bear me fruit, fruit it bore. With our first, it produced a gorgeous 9 pound, 2 ounce baby girl after 25 hours of labor and one hour and 45minutes of pushing. We conceived her on first try, and Old Trusty held strong throughout the pregnancy. Then we tried for number two, and again, conceived the first time, and even left time to watch Dawson's Creek afterward. Alas, despite our valiant efforts, babies two and three lost the fight, and we were both left empty and achy.
Almost immediately, we counted down the weeks till a safe ovulation and our husband, who wanted so much to mend our broken heart, obliged and after one try, we produced a rotund and healthy 10 pound, 14 ounce baby girl. The void had been joyously filled, and the ache forgotten by all.
Two years later, the first boy arrived on the scene, all 8 pounds, 7 ounces of him, and despite gestational diabetes and a prior back surgery, Old Trusty came through and held that boy till he was perfectly baked.
Three years later, our husband, who had adamantly insisted two, then three, were perfect for a family, approached us for baby four. We hesitated. We were both feeling our age, and regaining our stride, but our heart won out, and we dove in. And I think both of us were confused as we felt random movements, and we both grew so very quickly. But our curiosity was quenched when the sonographer showed us our twins at week 19. "aaaaaah", we said together. "we can do this." And do it, we did. We stretched in all the right places, and glowed when necessary. We made it through insulin dependent diabetes, and thyroid complications, and an unwanted cesarean, and patted ourselves on the back when they gracefully pulled out twin A at 6 pounds, 1 ounce, and then a very squirmy twin B at seven pounds, 2 ounces.
And now, 19 months later, we see the CAT scan, with the tiny white spot where there should be none, and our bravado has begun to sink. We may not have to part ways immediately, the doctors say there may be other options, but realistically, our road together will not be much longer.
I have so much more to say to you, my friend. So much gratitude for your gifts. I would be lying if I said I hadn't considered coming to you again for more babies. You have been my Giving Tree, and I never knew it till now. So please know, Friendly Uterus, you will be remembered long after your strong, beautiful trunk has fallen.

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