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There was only one more test being offered to us, a diagnostic laparoscopy in which my pelvic organs would be examined in a minor surgical procedure under general anesthesia to look for any other physical causes of our infertility, such as endometriosis. We agreed to go ahead with that step, but in the weeks before it, we played, "what if." What if, once again, nothing abnormal were found? What would we do? We knew that if the laparoscopy turned up nothing treatable, we were going to keep riding the 28-day cycle of hope, failure, and despair.
That left adoption to consider. This question was much more difficult for us to answer. We went through times of strong feelings both ways, usually out of sync with each other. We finally came to the mutual conclusion that adoption was not for us. Our choice was based on an unequal mixture of logical, realistic concerns - such as the very short supply of adoptable babies and doubts about our suitability as adoptive parents - and completely irrational considerations. The important thing is that we talked about it and kept talking. Neither of us allowed the other to play the role of dictator. And as we talked, we were able to bring to light some deep-seated fears, doubts, and needs that may have nothing to do with logic or the way life really is but are no less strong for that.
So we began to ask ourselves some questions. Could we be happy without children? Could we accept a life as nonparents? Could we choose it and affirm it? Could we change childless to childfree?
Soon, in the fall of 1983, it was time for the laparoscopy, and once again my being a doctor was both an advantage and disadvantage. I was able to get the surgery done by the best person in the area, but I had done the procedure many times myself and knew precisely what to expect. Sometimes a little ignorance could be relatively blissful. My position as doctor-patient became especially pronounced as Mike and I were waiting nervously before the operation in the pre-surgical holding area. First an I.V. technician came in to put the preoperative I.V. line into my vein, but when the nurse introduced me as a doctor, he blanched slightly and eased out of the room. Then the resident came in and the same thing happened. Then the chief resident. I thought for a moment that I was going to have to talk an unwilling Mike through another medical procedure, but finally the attending anesthesiologist came to do the job. Fortunately, he had no trouble.
© Jean W. Carter and Michael P. Carter
Credits: Perspectives Press
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