The End of Men(59)



That does weird things to a person, it really does. You go cuckoo. It hasn’t helped that I’ve been a neonatal nurse, but what was I meant to do? Stop working? Stop doing the one thing that kept me sane? One of the feelings I was least prepared for when Daniel died was the relief. I wasn’t relieved that he was dead. Not at all. But as I moved out of the all-consuming fog of grief, I started poking around in my brain a little and, yep, relief was there. Relief that any possibility of being a mother was gone. All I have ever wanted was to be a mom: to get pregnant, finally give birth, have sleepless nights of breastfeeding, complain about the exhaustion, cry as I watched a brown-eyed, serious-looking little girl sing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” up on a stage with other kindergartners. It was all I ever wanted.

And the hardest thing about infertility that no one ever tells you about is the hope. It’s not the going wrong that’s the most painful part. It’s the betrayal of hope that this time you had the audacity to think it would be different. It’s the searing pain of hope as you try again and fail again, and try again and fail again, each time knowing you’ll fail and yet hoping you won’t. Without a husband and with only 10 percent of the world’s men alive, I am not going to be a mother. That is abundantly clear. For the first time in my life, I know for sure. I’m not going to get pregnant and birth my own baby. We used up our last frozen embryo in our most recent round of IVF. There is no frozen sperm from Daniel and I have no frozen eggs.

And then I didn’t have to be a neonatal nurse anymore. That was a different strand of relief. I adored my job. Every time I cared for a tiny baby, born into this scary, cold world far too soon, I had three thoughts: How well is the baby breathing? How well is the baby feeding? How would I want to be treated, as a mom, if I was in this situation? I was a really, really good nurse, and I needed my job. I would have had a breakdown if it wasn’t for my job and the other nurses I worked with. But it was also a bit like a failed artist working as a security officer at an art gallery, or a failed author working in a bookshop. There’s a constant reminder of how close you are to the thing you want, and how far away from it you are. Even though the babies were tiny aliens fighting to survive, they were babies and their moms were moms.

The day they told me I wasn’t needed on the neonatal ward anymore and I was to start the training process for oncology, I cried in my car all the way home. I don’t have to do it anymore. I don’t have to do it anymore. Thank God.

The biggest difference between Susan and me is that, before the Plague, Susan loved her life. She was ambivalent about her husband—that wasn’t a love match for the ages. But to her, her life was perfect. Her husband was out of her hair for most of the year, she had three daughters who were all athletic and popular, she ran the social scene on the base and she was slowly sliding into the kind of bored but bitchy middle-aged housewife her mom before her had no doubt been.

Before the Plague hit us all sideways, I loved my husband but I hated my life. I hated my body for being broken and failing me, even though I had been to nineteen sessions of a support group where I was assured that I wasn’t broken despite all evidence to the contrary. A part of me hated that my job required me to face up to my infertility every single day. I hated how often my husband was away and missed him desperately. And I fucking hated women like Susan who looked down on my life as frivolous and devoid of meaning, as if I skipped out of my house to an illegal rave every night of the week while she toiled away at the altar of motherhood like an underappreciated Mother Teresa.

So, yeah, I’m a little excited about the draft. Bring it on. I’ve been a nurse for over a decade. I’m ready for something different and I know I can handle it. I’ve seen some shit. I’ve seen babies die. I’ve lost eight of my own children. I’ve lost my husband. I can eat women like Susan for breakfast and spit them out again.

The next day, the letter is dropped in my mailbox. It tells me everything I need to know and there, at the bottom, is a magic box. “Tick if you would like to apply for the First Class program. Additional form enclosed.” The army’s in dire straits, I mean, hello. There’s a draft, so it makes sense. They need junior leaders. I can apply to be fast-tracked for promotion and, if selected, as soon as I complete basic training I’ll be a Private First Class. Daniel would get a real kick out of this. I can just imagine him watching me, smiling that lovely warm, proud smile he always had, as I fill out the form and explain why I have the characteristics they’re looking for. Resilience. Good at handling extreme pressure. Unafraid to lead. Fast learner. Physically fit. Experience in a physically demanding role.

I know I’m going to get it, and I do. Another week goes by and there it is. A big, fat envelope full of extra papers telling me about the requirements of the program. I can’t keep the smile off my face for the two days until I have to report for training. Unlike Susan, I’ve spent the last decade working in a high-stress, high-stakes job that involves following procedure, a hierarchical structure and exposure to life-and-death scenarios. It’s the most satisfying day of my life when we turn up for our first day of basic combat training and I go in the door to the right for the fast-track recruits. Susan, face slack with shock, goes in the door to the left.





DAWN


London, United Kingdom

Day 300

God, I love it when things are efficient. At precisely 2 p.m., practically to the second, a call comes in from Jackie Stockett. In the last few months as I’ve racked up responsibilities like I used to rack up air miles, I’ve often been tempted to carry a placard above my head: Were you all raised by wolves? Be on time!

Christina Sweeney-Ba's Books