This is Part 2 (of sorts) to the family picture saga of last weekend, but I felt like this deserved it's own post.
When I scheduled my laparoscopy, I was thinking ahead. I scheduled it for the Monday before Thanksgiving, a date chosen specifically because it's pretty easy for me to take the rest of the week off from work. The doctor said to plan for a week of recovery time. Perfect.
Despite sharing openly in the blogosphere that I'm having this done, in my private life, I wanted to keep this pretty low on the down low. I'm not ashamed or anything like that, I just prefer to not disclose things like this until after the fact, if at all. I've found that, similar to infertility, everybody has some horror story (alternatively, a story of hope). I've only told two friends and my boss, and I only told my boss that I was having a minor outpatient surgical procedure done and that it shouldn't impact my return to work, but that I wanted to let him know in case there were any complications.
I wasn't planning to tell anyone in my family, especially my mother, because she doesn't have a proven track record of honoring requests for confidentiality.
But sometimes the best laid plans have a kink in them. In this case, the particular kink is Thanksgiving, the epitome of family togetherness. Oops. Forgot about that minor detail. Well, I didn't forget the holiday, I just didn't think my plan all the way through, and how I would explain why we aren't going to be there.
While we were at my parent's house my mom asked about our Thanksgiving plans. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Since it's unlikely that I'll feel up to a road trip 2 days after a laparoscopy, I had to tell her. It feels wrong to tell a white lie to get out of a holiday with family. So I told her. I asked her to respect my privacy by not sharing this with anyone but my dad.
Her immediate response was one of concern. She asked me why I was having it and who was doing it. I shared as much as I felt comfortable sharing and stuck to the facts.
Then she asked if I'd like for her to come and be with me as I recover. I politely declined her generous offer offer as I thought in my head that I'd rather light myself on fire. Before you think I'm a horrible person, I'm the sort of person that wants to be left in a corner to die when I'm not feeling well. I don't want anybody to take care of me. I even told hubs that I only wanted him to take Monday off, which he agreed to, but only on the condition that if needed he would take Tuesday and/or Wednesday off.
But then my mom said something so far out in left field that it completely blindsided me.
She asked if having this done meant that we were going to try to have a baby again.
What the actual fuck?
After I picked my chin up off of the floor I managed to get out that anything I did to my reproductive parts from this point forward was solely about quality of life.
It didn't hurt as much as much as it pissed me off. Without another word I turned and walked away from her, knowing full well that if I didn't, I'd end up saying something that did permanent damage to our relationship.
I went on a long walk and had an ugly cry. Not a single word about it was uttered when I came back to their house.
A few days later, the blind rage has passed, but the hurt and frustration remains.
I've never asked my mom (or anyone else for that matter) to agree with every decision we've made during our infertility journey, but I guess I'm still naive enough expect that people will respect us enough to not second guess our decisions or try to change our minds.
I just want understanding. And empathy. And respect. And if a person can't manage those, silence is the best option. Words hurt.
Oh, and now my grandma's church has me on the prayer chain. Because apparently "please don't tell anyone I'm having this done" wasn't clear enough.