A Woman’s Right to Bear by Tasha Bovain

Photo by Matthias Wagner via Unsplash

Before I knew what I wanted to do for a living as an adult, I imagined my life as a mother, reading bedtime stories and playing dress up with my daughter. I come from a family where women don’t question if they will have children but how many. “A woman needs children so she learns to think of someone besides herself,” a family member once said. 

I knew something was wrong when I felt a gush of fluid in my underwear during a team meeting at work. By the time I’d excused myself to go to the bathroom, a pool of blood had formed underneath me on the chair, soaking through a tampon and pad. I quickly wiped the seat and ran to the bathroom, where blood continued to flow from my body like a river.

“Maybe your workouts are causing your discomfort,” the gynecologist said when I explained I had severe pelvic pain, looking at me as if I were a child who had just described an encounter with an imaginary friend. She told me pain and heavy bleeding were common in women who had copper intrauterine devices. I was no doctor, but losing what felt like half my blood supply every month didn’t feel normal; it felt exhausting. 

Six months before my 37th birthday, I was diagnosed with multiple fibroid tumors. While a part of me felt vindicated that my medical condition wasn’t all in my head, I was terrified because the only remedy I knew for fibroids was a hysterectomy, and I hadn’t yet had children.

When I returned to the OB/GYN’s office a month after my diagnosis, she told me not to be concerned because fibroids were common among women my age and to contact her if my symptoms worsened. By then, I’d learned to manage the heavy bleeding through homeopathic treatments I’d found on the internet. I assumed when the time was right, my body would do what nature intended: bear a baby. 

Three years later, I’d moved to a new state and gotten engaged. My partner and I had discussed children before our first date. He said he looked forward to having a second chance at fatherhood, having two adult children from a previous marriage. Five months into our relationship, I scheduled an appointment with a new gynecologist to discuss my fertility. 

I watched the doctor’s eyes roll across the pages of my ultrasound results, looking for a sign that my motherhood dreams were viable.

“Looks like your fibroids are outside your uterus,” she said.

“What are my options?” 

“You can get them removed, but your body needs a year to recover before you can try to get pregnant. But waiting is risky because of your age.” 

I slumped over and hid my face in my hands. All I saw was darkness as I witnessed my dream of having a baby in flames with my hands tied behind my back, unable to run in and save it. 

“There’s no need for regrets,” the OB-GYN said, handing me a tissue. I glanced at my partner but couldn’t find his eyes; his attention had diverted elsewhere. 

“I’m not sure I want to do the kid thing,” my fiancé later confessed in the Chick-fil-A parking lot on the way home. 

“Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” I screamed, banging on the dashboard. 

He said he didn’t want to hurt me and had been trying for months to want a baby. Later that evening, we sat silently at the kitchen table, eating our cold chicken sandwiches. A few months later, we went our separate ways.

Who was I if I couldn’t birth a child? Mothers were all around me—at work, social gatherings, and on TV. Family and strangers alike pounced on any opportunity to talk about their children. I’d see the glimmer in their eyes and a smile stretched across their face that made me wonder if I’d be that happy one day, too. 

It wasn’t until I shared my struggle with fibroids with family and friends that they revealed their own reproductive battles. “I had a miscarriage,” my cousin Sandy blurted out one night over dinner with my mom and another cousin, Pamela. It was the first time she’d told anyone. Pamela then confessed she’d had a hysterectomy due to a health condition, choking back tears and snot. It was the first and last conversation we had about our bodies.

“What about children?” my cousin asked. But I didn’t know how to respond. Giving up on having a son or daughter would be easier, both emotionally and financially. In vitro fertilization treatments can cost up to $30,000, and surrogacy can range between $150,000 and $200,000. These practices were not only expensive but also time-intensive.

My motherhood journey had morphed into a rigorous quest with risks I wasn’t sure my pockets or heart could handle, making me question my motives. I remember asking the women in my family why they became mothers. Most said it was an accident. Others admitted it was what was expected of them after marriage. 

I had valid reasons for wanting to become a mother, like having a child to love and care for and leaving a piece of me behind when I die. There were also solid opposing arguments, such as the financial responsibility of raising a child and not having a partner. 

Now beyond my childbearing years at 45, I rummage through my memories, questioning the long stretches of time I lost waiting for permission to trust my body. I’d suffered for a year with pelvic pain before visiting my doctor and spent several months after that trying to convince her my pain was valid. I’d trusted a second gynecologist who echoed the first doctor’s advice not to worry. Grief took another three years when, during a follow-up visit, the doctor concluded I could no longer have a child naturally.

I may never experience the feeling of a baby kicking my insides – and that’s okay. There are other ways to mother. I’m a mother when I mentor the young women in my life. I’m a mother when I cheer loudly in the crowd at a friend’s open mic. 

But if I have a daughter one day, I will teach her to listen to her body. I will teach her not to be afraid to speak up for herself. I will teach her not to wait. 

Tasha Bovain is a writer living in Matthews, NC. Her work has appeared in various publications, including The Bitchin’ Kitsch and the East Meadow Herald. She is currently working on an essay collection on body image. When she’s not writing, she enjoys lifting heavy things above her head and hiking the North Carolina trails. You can learn more about her at tashabovain.com