Recently, I got my annual mammogram (yay being in my 40s!). Medical forms are a bit of a fraught experience for me, and now even moreso since my hysterectomy and the oophorectomy I had about a year and a half later. Questions like:
“Age at onset of menstruation” - sorry, does anyone above the age of forty actually remember this?
“Date of last period” - Um… I threw that period tracking app out. I guess [insert date] before the hystie?
“When did you start menopause?” - Okay, this is easy, just the date of the hystie. Wait, but I was still ovulating so does that count? I guess the date of the oophie, then.
Really, though, those are more just confusing. The fraught stuff is the family history. “Has anyone in your family had breast cancer?” “Has anyone in your family tested positive for a BRCA mutation?” Well, it’d be nice if I knew but the grandmother who raised me is dead and my biological mother is who the hell knows where but I don’t have her number. Having to say “I don’t know my family history, sorry” is part of what comes with not being in contact with your biological relatives.
The tech at this year’s mammogram reviewed my form responses with me and when it came to family history, I gave the standard answer. She asked if it was possible to find out from them and I said “Nope.” She nodded and said “I get it. I was a foster kid.”
It’s the first time I’ve had a medical professional acknowledge that they get that fraught experience.
She did the imaging, placing and squishing my boobs into the machine. I joked that I almost got a tattoo earlier that week on my ribcage and knowing I’d be manhandled two days later was a big reason I didn’t. I got it on my left shoulder instead, and when she saw it, I told her about the Bichon we’d lost in December that it was a tribute to. We switched to my right side and she complimented that tattoo - a yellow rose and hummingbird. I explained that one was for my kind of adoptive mother who died in 2019.
We finished up the imaging, I tied up the gown, she told me when to expect results. And then she said “Can I ask you a question?”
I had no idea where this was going, but I’d already told this woman about my missing internal organs and my dead dog and mom, so I felt pretty open bookish at that point. I said sure.
“I noticed on your form that you don’t have kids and never had a pregnancy. Did not being raised by family factor into that?”
The tech seemed about mid-twenties, at that crucial juncture in life when friends and family with babies are all around you and I could tell the question was coming from genuine curiosity about our somewhat similar situations. So I was candid with her. At first, it kind of was in a way. I had so much baggage from my childhood that I didn’t know if I could be a good mother. Then, it became about whether my partner and I felt we were in the right place (physically, financially, emotionally). Then, yeah, it became fear of the ticking clock — I knew I didn’t want to do fertility treatments after seeing the heartache and emotional rollercoaster that prompted in friends. And then it became a moot point because I got the plumbing removed.
I think, deep down, there was some part of me that really didn’t want kids. Possibly in my partner, too. Before I hit mid-thirties, all of those obstacles were things we could easily overcome and figure out if we wanted to. We could have prioritized figuring them out and actively trying for a baby if that’s what we both really wanted. But we didn’t prioritize it. And when the hysterectomy came around, while I had a moment or two of contemplation about the option being completely off the table, it wasn’t a hard, emotional decision for either myself or my partner.
The tech and I had a great conversation from there. She shared her insecurities about whether she’d make a good mother or not, and her ambivalence about having kids and insecurity about that. She asked if I felt pressured by my partner to have kids ever (absolutely not), and shared that her partner didn’t feel strongly either way about the kids aspect either. We commiserated on the whole “just because I don’t have kids doesn’t mean I hate kids” thing that seems to be the assumption when you’re childfree and of a certain age. Honestly, the opposite is true. I love kids. I love my niblings, official and unofficial. I love the neighbor kids and their blunt questions. I love my friends’ kids. Seeing a four-year-old who’s so shy at the beginning of a party start bouncing off chairs in our basement and give all these strangers at the party a hug before leaving made me almost cry I was so happy about it. I love giving my friends a break from them or tag teaming care with them. I love being trusted by a neighbor or family to take their kid to the theatre without one of their parents. I love when that kid then insists that we all need to go see the Wicked movie together so she can introduce her mom to it.
I also love giving them back at the end of the day. Sleeping in late. Watching Heated Rivalry in the living room without having to wait until they’re in bed. Buying nice things for myself instead of putting money into a college fund. I don’t love having migraines, but it’s nice that I don’t have to push through them to take care of a kid.
I also think it’s really important to kids to know that there are adults out there who are not related to them who will still care about them, treat them as real people with valid things to say. Who will be interested when they want to show off the book they found in a box in their storage unit, their new cat who shares the same name as your dog. That’s backed up in research, too, with multiple studies showing positive developmental impacts on kids with supportive non-parental adult involvement.
So anyway, we talked about that, too, and she told me about her niblings. As we were wrapping up and she needed to get back to work, I said to her “I want to make sure you know how strong you are. I don’t know exactly what you went through, but even with the best of foster families, I’m sure there are still things you’ve had to work through. And you have. You have made a beautiful life for yourself, got yourself to this great job, have what sounds like a wonderful supportive partner. And even though there will still probably always be work to do, you have done so amazing in getting to where you are.”
I saw this meme on Instagram last month and reposted it with the comment “Me, casually dropping the face that my grandmother left me homeless after my first year of college into graduation 🤣” A former coworker (who somehow hadn’t heard this story) replied “WAIT WHAT?” I make light of my childhood often because that’s how I process hard things. And it’s not until someone forces me to reflect on it that I realize - holy shit, I’m kind of amazing for what I’ve turned the steaming turd of my childhood into. But it means a lot to hear that from other people. A former boss would remind me of that often.
The tech and I shared some held back tears and a hug and she went back to work and I changed back into my clothes and left. I’m so glad she felt she could ask me that. I’m so glad I could give her someone to talk to who knows a little bit about the unique position she’s in. I hope I helped her. I hope I said something hopeful, something she needed to hear, something she may think of again in the future when insecurities and doubts rear their ugly head. I hope I gave her a little bit of what people have given me along my journey.
And I hope she goes on to do amazing things — with or without children.
