Infertile women can only dream…

Sometimes my dreams jolted me awake at night, sweaty palms pushed the blankets away, jaw clenched, mouth parched, and heart beat pummeling my chest while I waited for my eyes to adjust in the dark. Another stress dream where either someone else adopted the boys or I’d given birth to Rosemary’s Baby. I struggled to wake up from those dreams where my newborn weighed more than a Sumo wrestler and had a set of metallic jack o’ lantern teeth. In another I cradled a baby without a face and was told that an older mom couldn’t be picky. Some I scribbled in my journal, others I tried to forget, but once in a great while my dreams revealed the magic portal, and I rushed in.

Chapter X – February 1998

“…In my dreams, I was fit, showing, and mother-magazine radiant in a hip earth-toned maternity outfit with a youthful hairstyle and a stylish backpack. No diaper bag for me. My dreams showcased the pregnancy I never had the chance to have. Me, swimming at four months and eating tubs of ice cream. Me, assembling a sustainable wood crib, at seven months, a crooked smile splayed across my chubby face. My favorite: me barefoot, and waddling around at nine months. I even dreamt I had a toddler and was thirteen months pregnant in another. A colossal relief to wake up from that one.

I complained and whined about being sick, but was slyly grateful. Sick equaled sleep. Sleep equaled dreams. I could carry on a divine affair with a fetus: a second and third trimester pregnancy. It was luscious. My dream world whisked me away to a brief but gold-leafed past. I’d gotten pregnant before. Three times actually, but never made it past the first trimester. I miscarried twice and the third time a weathered and spent fertilized egg ran out of steam on its way through my right fallopian tube. Like a firecracker dud, it didn’t blossom into a baby, but had enough power to blow through my tube. Messy. Very messy.

The intense desire to turn my body into a factory never wavered, I just didn’t vocalize it any more.”

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