The Beginning of "Life"

This week, Freddy, my love and I had a pregnancy scare.

This was not my first pregnancy scare, nor would it have been my first pregnancy, but this one hit me harder than the time I actually was pregnant. Because this time, I let myself think about the "What if...?"

Both the time when I was pregnant, and the one time I thought I was at high risk to be pregnant and had to fight my ob-gyn's receptionist over the phone to get "the morning after" pill (obviously, this was before Plan B was available over-the-counter), I knew what I had to do. It would have been a very bad choice for me and the potential child (and the father, if he chose to stick around - regardless of what he chivalrously proclaimed at the time) to go through with the pregnancy. I didn't let myself think about "plan A" at all - okay, fine, maybe for a second. A Johnson's & Johnson's baby lotion commercial came on TV, the night before I was scheduled to go to the clinic (at this point I had known for two or three days), and for a fleeting second my hand flew to my stomach, which was already slightly swollen, and the tears started. Before the conscious thought had fully formed in my mind I knew I had to get rid of it, because there's only so much a girl can take.

This time around, I let myself think about Plan A. Maybe it's because I'm getting old, and running out of time. Maybe it's because I feel more confident about Freddy than about the other two guys involved; I trust him in a way I never trusted them. Maybe it's because my current ob-gyn's receptionist scared the living bejeezus out of me Monday - two weeks after my Pap Smear - when she left me a message asking to call her back, which I took to mean I had cervical cancer and would need a hysterectomy (if you know my family history, I was not overreacting) and my chances for a baby (the traditional way) would be over forever. Whatever the reason, I did it. Each time I went to the bathroom and still had not started my period yet, I thought about it more.

I would have been due in late December. Terrible time for a birthday - I want my kids to be born in the summer, that way you have your presents evenly distributed throughout the year (I'm a July baby. Yes, it kinda sucks that I've never celebrated my birthday during the school year, but I like having exactly six months between large gift-receiving occasions). It was also a very non-ideal scenario work-wise, but better than others, I guess - I could always quit at the semester break.

Saturday morning, when we took the pregnancy test and only saw the one, solitary, childless purple line, I was sad more than relieved. Yes, I know, the rational part of me started listing all the rational reasons why this was for the best. I kept reminding myself of all those rational, logical, sensible reasons, but it still hurt.

Then I remembered that Friends episode - the one with Monica's wedding, when Rachel found out she was pregnant. The good thing is I was able to channel the pain of my loss to anger at their bad writing.

For those of you who are not Friendsophiles, Rachel takes a pregnancy test and it comes out positive. Phoebe and Monica convince her to take another test, in case the first one was a false positive. She does, in the bathroom at the reception, and Phoebe tells her the result is negative. Rachel starts crying, and actually utters something along the lines of, "Oh, why am I crying? How can I be miss something I never had? Isn't that silly?" Then Phoebe saves the day, telling her the test result is actually positive, but she'd said it was negative so Rachel could find out "how you really felt about it."

Seriously?!?

Now, seriously, what part of "woman nearing 30" made you think she was not going to be at least a little disappointed to find out she was not pregnant? After thinking, for at least a day, that she was? Regardless of all the rational, logical, sensible reasons... you're talking about having a little baby.

The age-old reproductive rights question asks whether "life" begins at conception or at birth. Well, if you look at the science, "life" began way back when with that first brave little amoeba who crawled out of the sea (or whatever it did, I'm not a scientist). My knowledge of science is limited, but I do know a) matter cannot be created nor destroyed, and b) energy can't either, and isn't "life" just matter with energy? Sort of? Life is a continuum - the sperm and the egg were alive before they joined, because they were part of the living parents. So nothing new "began" at that moment, nothing new was created. The cells started dividing the same way they had when they were in each parent's body. Nor did anything new begin or get created when the fetus left the uterus.

"Life," as the pro-life and pro-choice groups want to define it, does not begin at conception nor at birth. It begins at the idea.

The child is "born" when the concept of that child is formed in his or her parents' (or parent's) mind. As soon as that mother begins to think of "her baby," she becomes a mother and that baby becomes a living entity, regardless of the state of mitosis of any mass of cells. Some parents "give birth" to their children way before conception, and each time the stick only shows them that single, solitary purple line, they mourn a loss - even though no cells joined, divided, or did anything else of the like. That child is alive in their minds, in their hearts, regardless of the science.

A woman who chooses to have an abortion is in a completely different mindset - she does not see herself as "carrying a child." There may be cells dividing inside of her (as there were before she got pregnant and as there will be after the pregnancy is terminated, because that's the way living beings work), but she has not given "life" to anything.

On average, a woman will have three miscarriages in her lifetime. This sounds insane, but when you consider the number of women who are not even aware they are pregnant until they are five or six weeks along, then it doesn't, does it? Somewhere in those five or six weeks the egg was fertilized, implanted itself, then for some reason went awry. Was there "life" there, if no one knew it?

If a tree falls in the woods but there's nobody there to hear it, does it make a sound? What's your definition of "sound" - the waves, the noise, or the perception of it? If nobody hears the noise, how can we call it "noise"?

If nobody knows of the existence of this particular mass of cells, can we really call it "a life"?

"Life" as we know it is not a concept defined by science. It is a concept defined by us, the living, breathing humans. A baby can be "alive" before the cells are in place - ask any couple wants a baby but can't get that second little pink line to come up on the stick. Why can't we accept the inverse of that equation to be true as well?

Who says?

(This post was inspired as a response to some of the comments made on this post.)

Moms, friends and marrieds will always tell you, "He's out there, just wait - you'll find Him one of these days."

Who says?

And why do I need "Him" to be out there? What's wrong with me as I am?

Yeah, I would like to have someone to take me dancing on Saturday and then to church on Sunday, someone to cook for, someone to help with the dishes and laundry, someone to snuggle with when watching a movie. Someone with whom to discuss the movie when it's over. Someone I know I can call if I get a flat tire. We just had a three-day "ice storm" (Texas-style, but still bad enough for me) and although I had Indy curled up by my feet under the covers, it would have been much nicer to have a not-so-furry bipedal in his place.

Guys don't go through singlehood looking for "Her" - why do we make that the focus of our existence?

I know I'm a rarity. I'm intelligent, articulate, fun, funny. I can appreciate opera, karaoke, Shakespeare, Beavis and Butthead, Stephen King, Bridget Jones, Harry Potter, Tchaikovsky and Tenacious D. I own my own house and car (paid for); I have a degree and a career (and almost have my first graduate degree); outside of mortgage and student loans (which are just a part of life) my debt is less than $2,000. I have no children. I am a cheap date (unless you want to take me somewhere fancy; I won't argue with you.) I don't smoke, don't drink; I read, I think, I can carry a conversation in a variety of settings. I am healthy and attractive. Why in the world no idiot has snatched me up yet is beyond me.

Yes, I'm sure there's Somebody Out There who's a "perfect catch" just like me. And I'm sure we'd get along. But you know what? I don't think I have the emotional energy to hunt for him. I have life to live, I'd rather spend my time doing that than searching for some guy that, if history is any indication, is going to a) abuse me, or b) dump me because of his own baggage and insecurities.

Why do I need to "wait for Him"? Why do people encourage me to do so, giving me false hope?

"Good Guys" are out there; I know, I've seen them. My sister married one. My mom married two (one at a time, you bums!) However, they are few and far between. I usually meet the ones who can't commit, or the ones who committed but are now calling me behind wife's back (yes, this has happened more than once, with more than one guy). Why do I need A Guy to be whole? To be normal? To be happy?

I don't need a guy to be a mother. Ideally, I would love to have one. But I know I'm better off in the company f my cats than some emotionally unavailable jerk who's going to make me feel I'm not worth his time. I've made leaps and bounds in my self-esteem since I've been alone. I hit bottom and below in my marriage; Nietzsche must have been right, because I'm still alive, and much stronger. Alone.

I want "love" and companionship. Who doesn't? But I'm sick of being lied to, by the guys who've sold me the song and dance, and by all those souls full of good inentions who think they are being helpful by feeding me this false hope. Why am I not good enough as I am? Why am I not good enough on my own? Why am I not good enough by myself?

You mean well, I know. And hey, maybe from where you're standing, smug and married, you do truly believe that there is a Someone for everyone and that I just am not trying hard enough to find my Him, or that I'm trying too hard and I need to let Him show up on my doorstep (big red bow optional). But you know what? I'm damn good enough on my own - and so are all other smart single women out there.

New Year - Bad Karma

At the ripe old age of near-30, I had my first "big" New Year's Eve plans. Courtesy of a friend, of course - if left to my own devices, I would have hung around yet another karaoke bar.

Instead, my good friend Megan came to my rescue, asking me to tag along with her and her friends at a hip and trendy bar in Dallas, Karma. Although it is located in a strip mall, it must be hip and trendy - there was a cover charge (normally it's against my religion to pay to get into a bar, but what could I do?), and we were forced to stand outside, in the cold in our pretty, non-warm shoes and skimpy outfits, until the Big, Scary Man at the door deemed us worthy of entering. At least it wasn't one of those where Mr. Big, Scary Man picks and chooses who gets in and who's not hip and trendy enough; he did go in order.

Waiting outside in the cold was quite irritating and not just for the obvious reasons. As I had mentioned, this hip and trendy place was charging a cover for the pleasure of patronizing their establishment; this cover was $10 if you arrived before 10:00 p.m., but jumped to $20 after 10:00. Conveniently, the line for non-reservations (reservations, I heard through the grapevine, involved not only the reservation of a table but also the purchase of a $300 bottle of bubbly) was stagnant until right about... 10:00 p.m. Hmm... coincidence? Or clever marketing ploy?

Considering how unhappy I was about the initial $10 charge, you can imagine how thrilled I was about being conned into paying twice as much. Had I been alone, I would have turned on my stiletto heel and made a boisterous exit, then promptly headed to my local cover-free karaoke dive. Sadly, I was with "a party," and one I barely knew at that. So I followed the mob and handed over my cash.

I guess, for people who embibe, the $20 cover charge was offset by the $3 drinks. Everything was $3, which at first made me weary (and understandably so, given the events leading up to the bar) - were these punks going to charge me $3 for my Coke with no ice? I leaned in toward the bartender to ask him, but he served the drink before I finished the question. I took the glass and turned around - no, I shall not be paying, and no, I shall not be tipping. The girl at the door took all my money, sorry, Charlie. He didn't seem to mind, though, which was good.

Other than the exorbitant cover charge, the place was nice. I could have done without the colored stobe lights, but all's well that ends well, as I didn't suffer a seizure. The music was typical club music, even though better than most, I think. I'm not a fan of "house/techno" music, I like music with words and with, well, music, not just a synthesized beat. This was still "club" music, with more beat than words, but it did have words and they played a variety of songs, not just the same three popular choices seventeen times over.

I do have to mention the bathrooms. When the line goes down the hall and around the corner, literally... you need more bathrooms. When you charge $20 for ladies to get in the stinkin' place, you can afford to put in some more bathrooms.

The coat check was, oddly enough, also in the bathroom (which was on the opposite end of the club from the bar, don't ask me why). This is not the smartest design choice, fellas - you have a line of small-bladdered, embibed women who already have their panties in a tight bunch because they need to pee and have been standing in line forever, and you're asking other embibed (and therefore less coherent) women to walk past them, cutting in line, to get to their coats and purses? What, do you have cameras set up outside the bathroom to tape the catfights? (C'mon, guys - at $20 a head, do you need the extra income?) It almost got ugly. No, boys, sorry - no catfights, all the girls kept their tops, and their bunched panties, on.

I do have to brag - I stuck it to The Man.

The bathroom contained the lady who handed you paper towels to dry your hands, and a table full of toiletries - lip gloss, makeup, and the like. And, of course, the Tip Jar. Do not ask me why on Earth I would want to borrow the community lip gloss, but I guess I'm just not hip and trendy enough to get it. There was, in addition to lip gloss and cigarrettes, a bowl of mints and Blow-Pops.

While the bathroom attendant/coat check lady was hassling with some girl's coat (which, by the way, were not hanging, but strewn across two chairs. In the bathroom), I snuck a LifeSaver.

I feel I got my $20 worth.