The first hot flash caught me off guard, but we all know those will come eventually. The flashes of rage were alarming, but there was precedent in decades of PMS. What blindsided me were the Super Sobs. They came out of nowhere. They came all month long, no trigger in sight. Attempting yoga at home, I’d find myself sobbing, mid-cat-cow, onto my mat. Settling into a fragrant bath, I’d sob hard into the bubbles, making half-hiccup, half-hamster squeak sounds. At the sight of a deodorant ad on a billboard, I broke down, mortified by those youthful women hovering over Midtown, each with her bold gaze, creamy skin, full, juicy life ahead of her.
No clue I was in perimenopause, I thought I was broken. The Super Sobs rose like molten grief up out of my heart, blanketing me, carrying me across a sea of tears towards a sunset of failed dreams.
Sure, I had reasons to feel lost. I’d recently broken up with my boyfriend and was living alone in a studio on the West Side. I’d just put to sleep a beloved cat with lymphoma. I was pushing 50 and chasing romance on the dating apps. And I was seeking a literary agent for a collection of essays that, apparently, no one knew how to sell.
Still, my circumstances were not so dire as to warrant soul-wringing sobs.
The world around me was a watery place. Blurry, wet world, I thought, I offer you my sobs, for this is all I, at age 49, have left to give. Little did I know I was approaching an epiphany.
It came around midnight in the bed of a cat sit client. (A single middle-aged woman seeks ways to be of service.) It was an overnight for two kittens down by Wall Street. In the dark, the boy kitten played happy paws on my chest. I embraced him. Up rose the Super Sob. Chest tightening, teeth gritting, slick, thick tears coating my cheeks, I suddenly saw the problem: I’m meant for more than this. I have real love to give. I should give it to a real, human baby.
Motherhood was my destiny. The Super Sobs were my wake-up call. I formulated my life-changing action plan:
Looking into adoption, I discovered its competitive nature. One needs, first, to prepare one’s home. No more studio. My parents got on board and co-signed for a two-bedroom off Central Park. In the new apartment, I joined the waitlist for an adoption agency’s webinar. I soon learned that a single woman could wait a long time for a newborn. I wasn’t a desirable candidate.
I considered donations: sperm, young eggs. The idea of purchasing fresh batches of eggs slightly nauseated me. I took a break to obsess over furnishing my two-bedroom. Measuring the foyer for an entryway table, I noticed bubbles in the wall paint. Workmen arrived, broke the wall, found a leaky sewage pipe. For weeks, the men came and went, leaving a hole in the wall and an industrial dehumidifier to suck out trapped moisture and dump it, through a plastic tube, out of my living room window. I was too distracted to think babies.
Then came two literary agents, one after the other, each suggesting revisions, hanging in there for a while, then vanishing. During this game of agent musical chairs, my downstairs neighbor discovered a leak that required breaking into my kitchen floor. Then came the periodic, screeching rattle from my bathroom. Workmen came to discuss breaking into the bathroom tile.
The walls were crumbling around me. I broke my two-year lease.
My baby reveries were losing steam. I was 51. I found fresh confusion at a fertility clinic: a receptionist informed me that the age cutoff for a woman to donate her eggs was 52, but the cutoff to use my own eggs was 49. None of that made sense. I still showed up for the appointment. All was clarified: My biological eggs were out of commission. The cutoff for carrying a donor egg baby was 52. After 52, go with a surrogate. We were in a rush, the doctor said. If I wanted a child, now was the time.
Observing myself making no more moves towards motherhood, I concluded that a baby was not the medicine I wanted. To quell the Super Sobs, I tried Zoloft. It worked. Then I realized that the baby I’d yearned for was in me all along.
I’m 53. The walls of my one-bedroom neither leak nor rattle. I have an agent who’s committed to bringing my baby — my manuscript — into the world. I’m in a great relationship with a single dad. I still cat sit. When one provides a service, one feels a quiet joy, small pulses of meaning. It’s enough.
About the Author: Nina Camp writes about love, longing, and emotional self-sabotage with honesty, clarity, and just enough humor to keep from falling apart.
With publication of this commentary, Women’s eNews is introducing a new bi-weekly column titled, HerStory, where guest writers discuss topics of particular concern to individuals who identify as female. Please send your submission to HerStory@Womensenews.org for consideration.
