I can’t predict how this year will end. I can’t predict how this week will end. I can’t predict how I’ll feel an hour from now.
What I do know is that I am packing my house – shoving books in old paper boxes, filing records in carriers not meant to hold them, driving bag after bag of clothes that no longer fit to the donation drop – and after all that I’ll be painting and cleaning and moving into the garage behind my parents’ house until I have my own place again.
I also know that I spent more than a year on drugs that ruined my hormones and made made me gain (a lot) of weight. At the end of February, despite everything, I had an early miscarriage, and in April I had first the “typical” endometriosis surgery, and two days after my birthday I had my left ovary removed. The only one I had left.
Have I written about this? About the holes the disease has eaten through my peritoneum? About being menopausal at 32? About being at work with a newly pregnant coworker, with a woman who has a brand new granddaughter, with a supervisor whose son was just born?
I don’t think I have. I don’t know what to say. Jealousy isn’t the right word for it. It’s just difficult to be happy for someone about something I will never, ever have for myself.