Tonight’s guest post comes from Sarah. She owns Envy salon in Richmond and is an all-around awesome person.
My grandma died. We called her DeeDee. I named her that. I was her first grandchild. She was my second mom.
At the service they said, “The name DeeDee came from Baby Sarah. She would squeal ‘deedeeeedeeedeeeedeeeedeedee’ in her face. So when Sarah started talking, that’s what she called her.” As long as I can remember that’s what everyone called her.
After the news landed and strange forms of attempted comfort started rolling in they started to say “Y’know, I’ve always heard that when you lose someone ya love that means life will bring ya a baby to love.” And then their eyes, like spotlights, were on my stomach. I could see them drawing a picture of my uterus sprouting an alien bean.
“I’m not pregnant. I’m just fatter than I used to be!”
The other night I had a dream that I was pregnant. We were so happy, so uncontrollably excited. We had just found out and had gathered my family to share the news. I can still feel the nerves and joy fighting in my stomach. I woke up and disappointment flooded me; it’s still lingering. The next day I started my period. It felt like a defeat, expected but crushing nonetheless.
I know that if I was pregnant, part of me would be ecstatic, but I’d mostly be freaking out. Money, space, time, money, money, money – all of the usual practicalities of expanding a family. But there’s also the boys to worry about, how would they react, adapt. And me. I have some health issues, both physically and mentally. I’d probably have to go off of several of my medications. I can’t imagine that would end well for anyone. My biggest (to this date irrational) fear is post-partum psychosis – that step past depression that ends with something very very very bad happening. It’s terrifying to know you have that potential locked in your mind.
I get asked if we’re planning on having a baby at some point. I never know how to answer. I say no because it’s easier. The long answer is: I probably can’t, at least without medical intervention of some sort. That was a horrible thing to hear from a doctor years ago, when I knew I didn’t want children. Now? It rolls around my mind continually. And I can’t take birth control. We’ve lived together for a year, not trying, but not not trying and it hasn’t happened, so I’ve dropped that “probably.” It makes every period a reminder that I’m broken in some way, which is a whole other bag of crazy that doesn’t need to be opened right now.