One of my adoring fans (ok, one of my "real life" friends whom I swear to God I don't pay to read this) gently reminded me that I never finished with the whole "you get sterilized and I'll come back" story.
So here is the continuation of the "Musings of a Creepy Old Lady" post:
When I signed off on that one, I had just approached Big Daddy on the eve of my sterilization. I wanted to make sure that I wasn't going under the knife in vain, that I was doing my part in making sure that our reconciliation was a joint effort.
"It's all good." He kissed me on the cheek, wished me luck, went outside to say good bye to his four adorable kids and then left. Would it be melodramatic to mention that I had a sense of foreboding at that moment? Well, I did. Call it what you will, I felt something bad, something amiss. But I brushed it off because dammit, my new life was beginning and nothing, not even something like a gut feeling, was going to bring me down.
I felt something even worse the next day. My mom got me to the hospital where I did the paperwork and blood work and was just waiting to be led into the operating room when I felt an overwhelming urge to get up and run out of the hospital. Really. I heard my own voice in my head screaming, "GO! GET UP AND GO!". And for a brief second I saw myself ripping out IV tubes, grabbing my clothes and just running out, running down the halls like a crazy woman. But I hushed the voice. I silenced it, and an hour later I was sterilized. Forever.
Big Daddy returned from his "business" trip tanned and relaxed. He was glad that my surgery went well and I shrugged off his less than enthusiastic response when I told him we could finally have unprotected, no holds barred, down and dirty sex in just a week or so. I told myself, "He's tired." "He is so stressed at work, give him a break." One of the things I had vowed to change in myself was my tendency to over-analyze things. It was just part of me, but it was part of me that annoyed Big Daddy. So like my fertility, my questioning nature was squelched.
One night about a week after the tubal, we were outside on our patio. Just the two of us. He had been acting strange the whole evening, but not wanting to rock any boat at this point, I let it go. Until he asked me to sit down. "We need to talk". For the second time in a little over a year. This was not going to be good, I remember thinking. I was still a little sore and winced as I sat down, but he didn't seem to notice. "I'm not moving back in, Jenny." That was it. No build up, nothing, nada. I asked why. He did this lame fucking shrug thing I hated and just said, "I can't do this. I won't be happy." All I could muster was a choked, garbled "OK." And then I laid my head down on the smooth teak wood table and cried as my husband left me for the second time.
That was that. It was then that I realized it was over, it was time to start movin' on to the Next Phase. Lawyer time.