Uncensored

Part 12

My husband looked at me mischievously and grinned, while he wrapped his arms around me and asked quietly: "Do you think you're pregnant?" He would ask that question many more times to come.

We had considered having children for a while now. But not until more recently had our actions actually become purposefully directed towards promoting that goal. I would have preferred getting pregnant late enough to be able to graduate with my Master's before I'd have a child. The thought of having to finish the last stressful, high-stakes weeks of my Master's with a newborn gave me a headache. My husband, on the other hand, was done waiting. For a long time he had emphasized his desire for me to start working fulltime and thus becoming a dual-income household; something he had been dreaming about for more than ten years. He couldn't quite decide which one he wanted more: having a working wife or a child. I had made it clear to him- the only thing I was ever really, uncompromisingly clear about- that I would take a year off once we had a child. Being from Germany, where mothers enjoy much more time off and are taken care off and protected by the government so much better than in the United States, where many mothers have to return to work only weeks after giving birth and where they do not receive any part of their salary during their absence, one year was really only the minimum compromise, because I knew that the two or three years that I would be able to take in Germany were not an option. For a long time, my husband's desire for a dual-income household was stronger and I felt uncomfortable being pushed by him. But there was a slow change, as he became not only older, but apparently also more aware of his age and his declining health, so that he didn't want to wait any more.

At 27 years old I was ready to be a mother. I wasn't in a rush. But ironically, 27 had always been the age at which I wanted to have my first child (which would not happen anymore because even if I got pregnant immediately, I would be 28 years old by the time I'd give birth), knowing that I wanted two children (ideally), not wanting to be too old of a mother, and considering the age difference of more than a decade between my husband and I. Being ready didn't mean I felt some sort of ready (which I didn't, but I also think you never quite do until you actually get there) but I was in a place in my life where it made sense: I had been married to my husband for six years, we had bought a house, were financially secure, and I was going to be finished with my education soon. So I enjoyed the thought of him finally being ready, too.

When he looked at me, all the times he looked me in the eyes with this blink of hope in there, my heart suddenly stopped for a millisecond and I couldn't breathe. I forced myself to smile when suddenly I caught myself thinking: I hope I'm not pregnant. Or do I?

I wanted a baby and yet I suddenly found myself hoping not to be pregnant, as a matter of fact, the thought of being pregnant put me into a state of anxiety and despair. I knew what being pregnant would do to her, and potentially could do to us, and I was so, so scared that it would break us. Suddenly, there was no thought more painful than the thought of losing her.

One day, in light of my being not pregnant, my husband jokingly asked if I was secretly taking birth control and I caught myself thinking: Oh, I wish I was.

I thought if only I could slow down time, because I needed more time, more time to grow stronger with her, more time to figure out if and how we would survive this- the inevitable.

Eventually I talked to her about it and we landed in a place where we both knew that it would be incredibly hard but no impossible, doable in fact. She told me she'd need time, once I'd tell her, time to react and be okay with it. She promised to be okay with it, but of course she'd need time. And I understood. But it didn't take my fear away; as a matter of fact, it got worse.

I spent hours and hours imagining and worrying about the moment I would know I was pregnant. I was imagining the scenario; how could I tell her, knowing the pain that would, initially, follow? I knew it would be like having to shoot her. Not into the heart of course, not lethally, but still having to shoot her, and it would be entirely on me to not only decide when, but to pull the trigger. I couldn't imagine doing it, I just didn't see how.

I imagined how much I would need her, need her to reassure me that we would indeed survive this, that she was still there, that we weren't broken, in a time when she would (completely justifiable) have to pull away. It wouldn't just be shooting me, I would knowingly deprive myself of what I needed: her, thus shooting myself at the same time. And the worst part was knowing that all of that responsibility was on me; the responsibility to be honest, and the responsibility for the pain I would cause her.

I don't scare easily; I have a deep faith in life and the human ability to survive almost everything. But now I found myself scared of the one thing I had (always wanted) wanted for years. Something I still wanted. Any mother would probably say that you cannot abandon or ignore the wish to have a child, if you in fact feel that desire. And even if my husband and I, for some reason, would not have children, I would still be married to him for the exact same length of time, except much less happy.

So each time I got my period, and my husband looked disappointed because I wasn't pregnant, I felt relief. I had to fake a smile and tell him we would keep trying, and we did. And maybe human biology is this incredible that an intense desire to not get pregnant can have physiological effects. But really, I don't believe that. And despite all the relief I felt, I still felt the pull towards motherhood just as strongly. The fear began to change into dread. I refused to be fearful of what my heart knew it wanted and needed. But I dreaded the consequences. I wanted so badly to be happy when I found out I was pregnant. I had always imagined being happy. And now I was in a situation where I would be happy with one person, and devastated with another, for the same reason. And I dreaded the moment I'd have to face that.

But maybe that's the point, maybe this is just the way reality turns out. Not the way we have dreamt up as children, not the way we imagine in our dreams, but overwhelmingly complex: harsh, painful, hopeful, amazing, and sobering all at once.