What “infertile” means
Last month, someone important to me had a baby. I’ve known people who were procreating before, but this was different because the new father was a very close friend of mine growing up. We don’t talk much anymore, but something about the birth of his daughter threw me in a way that I wasn’t expecting.
I happened to be at my parents’ when news came and, at some point during the day, I had a bit of a break-down about my infertility. My mother tried to console me by reminding me that my partner and I hadn’t even tried to have a child yet. I furthered her argument by telling her that we weren’t even sure that we wanted to be parents.
Still, I was sad. Illogically sad, but sad nevertheless.
In retrospect, I see what was—and is—going on for me.
While it may not be proven that I am sterile, everything having to do with lady bits and procreation and children is colored by my endometriosis, the disease that might make me unable to reproduce. Sure, my body may be perfectly capable of making babies, but, when it’s a challenge to have sex that isn’t at least a little painful and when I rarely go a day without aching and fatigue, it’s hard to feel fertile.
This month, I’m writing about infertility and disability a bit more since I’m participating in A Somewhat Secret Place, a show focusing on disability and its status in art and in society. For more information about the exhibition, visit its blog or go see the work in person!
939 NW Glisan
Portland, OR 97209
Open: 7 through 30 July
Hours: Monday through Saturday from 11 AM to 5 PM
Closing party: Saturday 30 July from 6 to 9 PM
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