Splice

RJ is having a vasectomy on Tuesday. For me.

He has three sons from his first marriage and, as he put it, shortly after we'd met, "[does] not need more children", but, since I had none, would gladly conceive one with me if I so desired. I thought it was mighty considerate (and brave!) of him at the time. Doesn't change my opinion, the fact that he doesn't recall the conversation today.

The first three or four years I was on Depo shots, no one warned me of the risks of long-term use. Because no one knew then. The major one is a woman is more susceptible to bone fracture later in life as the drug gravely affects calcium retention.

By the time I learned of the facts I was too comfortable with the convenience and affordability to quit anytime soon. Didn't miss the menstruation that had ceased altogether. Besides, old age seemed so far away.

Took me a couple more years before I'd even be willing to start taking a calcium supplement. I defy reality that blindly.

After RJ and I got married, I started to seriously look into birth control options. Then once-and-for-all solutions. Because I knew full well I was never gonna have a child. It was clear as day. For one thing, we can't afford one. Besides, given our age, that would be downright irresponsible. Not to mention there are lots of things I'd rather not give up.

I came across a meme somewhere in this time frame. It read:

You're having a baby?! Congratulations! I will continue sleeping through the night and spending all my money on me.

It made me laugh. I showed it to RJ, deeming it hilarious. And true.

Last but not least, these are not very good genes to pass along. I'm doing the world a favor.

I investigated tubal ligation. The latest and allegedly most popular methods are devised on the formation of scar tissues by introducing a foreign object. It sounds highly intrusive. With no anesthesia. (I've had my cervix meddle with after anesthesia administration and trust me, that was still no picnic.) Testimonials on the internet include some from enraged women in disbelief, citing that their doctors have grossly downplayed the pain level and long-term adversary effects, including painful intercourse.

"No, you're not doing that," declared RJ. And that was that.

Every woman I have revealed the news to has congratulated me for having a husband so empathetic and selfless.

"It only takes ten minutes!" They exclaim in joy, apparently having done homework on the female counterparts.

As the vasectomy appointment nears, though, I am grappling with guilt. RJ's swimmers will never see the light of day again. They'll get reabsorbed into the system. In some men, a sperm-killing antibody could develop so that, even if the individual opts to reverse the procedure (it is largely irreversible to start with), his sperms will never survive.

A couple of weeks ago, when I brought this up, a concerned RJ asked if there was a smidgen of a chance I may still want to be a mother. I assured him that there wasn't. I had had no doubt in my mind for a long time.

And now, two days away, sadness nibbles at me.

Sunday is the loneliest day of the week. Or can be.

As I reveled in the relief that it was near the end of what can be a long day, I was aware what Sunday meant to me, as it probably does a lot of people: family.

I feel again today, as I have felt many times before, that I have no family. Sure, physically, I do. But nothing to show for it. No parents to take to dim sum, no hanging out in a lazy afternoon, no dinner parties.

RJ reminds me kindly that he has even less family, which may be true. But my predicament is different.

All I have is RJ. When one of us is gone, there will be no "us" anymore. No biological evidence that binds us forever. (Doesn't help knowing this is foolish romanticism and egotistical nonsense.)

I have cringed at the word "legacy", especially coined when someone is dead. As if, by having produced offsprings, you're automatically a valid person. Your flesh and blood live on. You are thereby immortal.

Whereas others leave such an indelible on the world with the work that they do that, when they're gone, they're never forgotten, as the cliché goes.

Neither applies to me.

It hit me, the knowledge: wow, this is it. I'm REALLY not going to be a mother. Ever. Not in this lifetime.

The finality seems so brutal.

RJ is having a vasectomy on Tuesday. And I'm mourning his baby-makers already.