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10/28/2004

Rave on, John Donne

Yesterday one of my entries garnered this rare sparkling gem of a comment:

Just a thought, but why don't you just adopt a child? If your body is resisting every bit of scientific treatment for infertility and you can't have a child naturally, maybe you weren't *meant* to conceive a child.

There are so many children, from babies to pre-teens, that desperately need homes. You spend so much time and energy having doctors inject things into, x-ray, poke, prod and generally just plain fuck with your reproductive organs. Simultaneously, you post an online diary with every gory detail of your treatments, putting just as much time and effort, it seems, into the site's layout, updates, links and internet correspondance.

Why don't you change your priorities? Squeezing a baby from your vaginal canal isn't really that big a deal. The effort and love you put forth in raising a child is.

— J, 32, diagnosed as infertile in 2001, wife, proud mother of 2 beautiful adopted boys, 8 and 3

Much to my shock and wonder, upon reading this I suddenly found myself filled with the spirit of a long-dead Metaphysical poet. Here, then, is my answer:

A Valediction: Forbidding Asshats

As barren women mourn because
Their urine stick tests yielded naught,
Self-righteous drive-by posters pause
To kindly offer "just a thought."

Dull and brutish posters' tries
— whose one-off sallies seem intrusive —
To browbeat women under guise
of caring feel a touch abusive.

They pepper us with sage advice —
No more procedures, no more shots.
In case we hadn't yet thought twice:
"It's meant to be! Now just adopt."

Thank you, thank you, nameless troll!
Thought we never once of that!
We're lucky that your flapping hole
Enlightened us, you smug asshat.

"Why push a child from your vagina?"
Reasonable question, yes,
When paperwork and trips to China
Bring forth children to caress.

We each have answers, different all,
For why our stubborn souls insist,
For why our hopes remain in thrall,
And why our efforts still persist.

So shall we melt, and make no noise,
No protest, no indignant foam?
Shall we swear off dreamed-for joys
And bring those "needy children" home?

In part, we may — we may decide
To swear off needles, to pursue
Adoption, which we don't deride —
But not because we're swayed by you.

Yes, foam we will, for foam we must
When a troll doth dare presume
To preach that our desires aren't just,
To "just accept" an empty womb.

No matter where our paths may wend —
Adoption, cycling, moving on —
Each choice will come from deep within,
Not from your clumsy rants, Anon.

It's not for you — for anyone
To scold, to hector, or to scoff
At how we build our families, hon.
We decide that. You fuck off.

(Yes, I am sure noted cleric John Donne laced his every utterance with obscenities. Why do you ask?)

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