I hate being pregnant with the fire of a thousand suns. I hate it the most that any human can hate anything. I get super depressed. Probably something to do with hormones. I am exhausted and I am fat and I’m just not someone who can be happy when they’re exhausted and fat.
I know that some people cup their hand gently over their belly and smile. Their skin glows and their hair is beautiful and thick. I am not that person. I lay sprawled out and acne speckled on my couch. My belly sticks out under my too short shirt. And my nose grows. It grows a lot.
Marvin and I do this thing every time I get pregnant. I hold the test in my hands and begin to cry. I show the test to Marvin and say, “I’m freaking pregnant, Marvin. What are we gonna do?” and his response is always the same. “We shall raise the child as our own.” He’s so funny (and cute).
You may have gathered by now that I am a complainer. Always have been. Always will be. It’s my gift to the world. There are entire Instagram accounts devoted to positivity and light and love and happiness and glasses that aren’t only half full, they’re overflowing. I am here to provide you with a safe space for our glass to be empty as hell. And, while we’re on the subject, the glass is sort of small, too, don’t you think?
No thank you, Discernment. No thank you.
Because pregnancy is torture for me. And because I have been pregnant 5 times for a total of 50 months (that’s roughly FOUR FREAKING YEARS OF MY LIFE) I have decided that I am unwilling to be pregnant for even one more moment. Not one more. I am so done with being pregnant. Beyond done. So, as you can imagine, when I hear people in the Catholic community use words like “discern” it makes me want to punch them in the face.
Here’s the thing about “punching someone in the face.” We use it hyperbolically. Not me. Not about this. I literally want to punch you in the face when you tell me to “discern” my family size. It feels like you’re saying, “Let’s ask the doctor if it’s broken” as my bone sticks out of my leg. Girl, it’s broken. It’s so broken. It’s shattered. We need not ask. We need not wait for an answer. We need not discern. We know.
I decided that Marvin did not understand the level at which I did not want to be pregnant. He said that he did, but the fact that he continued to want to have sex with my body showed me he didn’t. So, naturally, because I am a good and holy Catholic I got pissed at Marvin for not wanting to have a vasectomy. Let’s review: I was pregnant for four years. I didn’t want to do that, but I did it. What have you done with your body that you didn’t want to do, Marvin? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? Exactly.
I fought with Marvin over this issue for months. He got so tired of me trying to bully him into having surgery that he suggested we go and TALK TO SOMEONE. This man is so introverted he would rather swallow a spider than talk to another human. Talking for Marvin is like being pregnant for me.
Talking to Someone
The someone we talk to gives us a piece of paper to help us DISCERN what the right choice is. They do not say what I want them to say which is “Marvin, discerning things is so stupid. Punch people when they suggest you discern. Have the surgery. Your wife deserves it. Also, she’s really attractive and funny.”
After this meeting nothing changes. We practice NFP beautifully. My cycles could not be more textbook. I still do not want to get pregnant, but I’m no longer at DEFCON 1.
And then, just like that, Marvin decides he wants to have a vasectomy. What the hell, Marvin? Calm down. That’s a huge decision. Let’s discern this for God’s sake. (And ours.) Doesn’t Marvin understand I don’t want him to have a vasectomy? I want him to want to have a vasectomy. Very different.
I text one of my friends the following message:
My friend responds “How could he not understand this?”
Diana Divulges 