Paul and I went to a wedding at Luttrellstown Castle during the first weekend in August, which is where Posh & Becks were married 15 years ago.
I love Irish weddings.
The last one we went to was on the west coast, in County Mayo, in an ancient church, in the shadow of Croag Patrick. It happened to be held in the church where Pierce Brosnan was married, too. So I’ve made my tour of Irish celebrity wedding venues for the year. And Paul and I were just about the only two in the whole church who didn’t rise to take communion. Paul, because he doesn’t. And me, because I’m a divorcee.
This recent wedding, though, was a second marriage. It was held in a Unitarian Church on St. Stephen’s Green, so I didn’t have to pretend like I’d never been married before. Like it was some dirty secret that I once wore another man’s ring, and had a different last name. Sometimes, I even feel like I talk about my divorce so much because I’ve now become so conscious of the fact that I shouldn’t talk about having been married. Like how you find you talk about a surprise when you become conscious of the fact that you shouldn’t blow it.
This recent wedding was an Irish-Paraguayan celebration, filled with warmth and colour and all the beautiful, hopeful things a marriage celebration should be.
The other thing I should mention here is that Irish weddings go on forever. We had arrived at the church at 2pm, and at midnight, when we left the reception, we were among the first to leave.
These days, it seems all I do is go to weddings; send baby gifts. There was a week earlier this summer when I sent off eleven sets of baby gifts.
I love kids. I think I want kids. But sometimes, I feel people forget there is more to a woman’s worth than the hardware on her hand, or the products of her womb. I have friends who have lost children; who have miscarried; who have struggled with heartbreaking infertility, and I see them shamed, and maligned, and peppered with awful, but often well-intentioned questions that imply they are not trying hard enough. That they do not have strong enough faith. That they have done something wrong.
I went through it myself when I had cervical cancer and people said, Can you still have children? Are you still able to have children? What about kids? What does Paul think about kids? Is Paul okay with what you’re doing to make sure you can still have kids after this?
Oddly, most people’s reaction was not, Thank God they caught your fairly aggressive situation by total accident. Thank God you’re alive.
I will tell you honestly: That was my first reaction. I was focused on the practicalities of what I was dealing with, and I was not really considering Paul’s feelings/future offspring. My reaction was fundamentally one of: Oh, thank God I’m not going to die. I was thinking about how bad the cancer was; how much I had to lose; whether or not I would survive; how much tissue would be excised; whether would I need a hysterectomy; whether would I need chemo/radiation, etc.
So now, every time I go to a wedding, or someone asks me about kids, I get a bit defensive/annoyed. Even now, I’m sitting here going: Thank God I’m sitting home on a Saturday night, alive enough to write this blog post.
And I’m still baffled that my fantastic education, my great friendships and relationships, my successful career, my travels, the way I have treated others, and my personal happiness were not enough. At the time, it was as if only my fertility and my partner’s biological aspirations mattered.
With more distance between me and my experience, I still wonder: Am I worth less to you — friends, family, advertisers — because my insides have been hacked up by the surgeon and the only little feet running around my apartment are Roo’s? Every time the Facebook algorithm fills my newsfeed with Amazon Mom ads, and cool kid gadgets that I won’t be buying…I wonder.
Just because I have reached A Certain Age and there is no ring on my finger, and no kid in my arms — it doesn’t mean that I’m invisible. It doesn’t mean I’m not interested in where you are, or that I’m ignorant of the fact that we’re in different stages and seasons of our lives. It simply means that what I am doing is right for me, and where I am is okay, and our callings are each worthy of respect and compassion. That I worked really hard to have the career I have is not…selfish, and my choices are certainly not a referendum on yours. What I’m doing is just…different.
It seems funny that I have to say this; that I have to reassure myself by writing it; by shouting it. That I have to tell it to other people around me: We should all just be supporting each other to the extent that we Feel Okay Doing That and Taking It In, and Minding Our Own Business.
There is a saying that people in recovery use, and I’ll share it here: Take the best and leave the rest.
This year has been an exercise in doing just that.