We had moved to a new town.
Packed everything we owned to chase a dream of fame and fortune in a desolate area surrounded by dried up lakes that once were tourist attractions. Huge mountains that people came from far and wide to camp and climb.
Head office. Amoungst the farmland. Hours away from anything.
Within days of unpacking, my baby, still a baby, diagnosed with Autism.
Grief for the life I had back home.
Grief for the life he could have had.
Grief for my what my life could become. And that of his sisters, future caretakers.
No more babies MPS. I can’t go through this again. I can’t do this to another child. I need to devote my life to him.
So he did what any loving husband would do. He decided to have a vasectomy. Cause I had been through enough.
Appointment booked, he went alone. No one to watch Boo. The girls in school.
‘Why do you want a vasectomy at your age?’ asks the doctor.
Booked into surgery the next day. It is all for the best. We don’t need the worry of pregnancy again. Of that appointment at the paediatrician. I can’t do that again.
4, 5, 6 years later.
I grieve for the babies that could have been. Their soft skin. Smelling so sweet. That spot at the back of their necks that draws me in every time. I ache.
If the doctor just asked me, he would have seen.
I was not ready to be done.