Organs Of Donation

No Womb At The Inn

2004: Christmas! I look forward to it: its a blast! Parties with my friends, parties with the family, playing with the kids. My own kids will be joining them, when I marry my boyfriend!
2014: Christmas. I dread it. I dread the parties with my friends, parties with the family, the kids, shopping, all the families out together; Mums and Dads, their children hanging on in the crowds, rosy cheeked and looking like something straight out of the magazines and newspapers with healthy happy families enjoying a perfect life.

So I don't go. I try to excuse myself from the parties with my friends, the office party, the get-togethers with the extended family. I go shopping late at night, when there are few children. But whenever I read a magazine, see an advertisement on the back of a bus, watch television, there are children.

I can't have children.

I have no womb. It was removed.

All I ever wanted was to have children. With my husband.

Have a normal life.

Other people have accidents: they sometimes do foolish things, which they are free to do. Sometimes they get ill.

They, the normal people; the parents, the children, most times can be fixed. Broken limbs, sprained muscles. Organs replaced.

They, the doctors, can't fix me.

People sympathise, they 'Know Just How I Feel'. But no-one does. Only I know how I can feel. Even people who claim to be in the same situation aren't really. I am alone, I cannot be anything else because wherever I go there are children reminding me of what a failure I am.

But here I am, at my company's little Christmas do which I couldn't get out of, down at the local inn. And, naturally, everyone is talking about their children. There are even little children in their push-chairs being pushed through amongst everyone else, their mums getting together and talking baby-talk. I have nothing to contribute. There is nothing of interest to talk about. It all comes back to children.

But now there is hope.

Womb transplants. And babies born.

It's expensive, leading edge. Will I be able to have a baby after all?

Should I feel guilty about all the money and resources being spent on researching and developing this new method of having children? Until it is commonplace it is not possible to say. I believe that any sort of research has the potential to discover lots of ancillary benefits along the way. I am sure that all research is carried out with input from and contribution to other fields. I understand that often this is how the best developments are discovered. If this benefits the thousands of people suffering from disease and accidents that can not be a bad thing.

I lost my womb. Others discover in other ways, that they cannot have babies. They have as much right to have this fixed as anyone else whose body doesn't function as it should. For example, I can understand the need for various cosmetic treatments to be given, especially where someone is so conscious of their body image that it causes them psychological trauma. But no-one can see if a woman is infertile. No-one can see if they have no womb. It hurts.

I don't involve my colleagues and friends in my pain. On the infrequent occasions that I do, they offer solutions and their opinions: each of these usually hurts, without the intention to hurt. The ground will already have been covered, the alternatives discussed. Endlessly.

When the time comes I will gladly contribute my body parts to others who need them. I am all in favour of transplants to help those who are unlucky. It can change their lives.

I just want to make a life. Like a normal, wombed woman.

I open my Secret Santa present, sitting here in this ancient inn. But this Christmas, my best present is hope.