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By Father John Ubel My brief trip to Rome began with a plethora of questions from an inquisitive Jewish woman sitting next to me on the flight from Minneapolis. ” and “But does forgiveness actually accomplish anything?
My simple but comfortable room looked right over a bus stop (if elected to the Italian parliament, I’d immediately sponsor legislation to outlaw scooter horns and pigeons), but the priests and staff were most gracious and welcoming of their American interloper.
My rusty Italian was enough for me to comprehend that it was indeed an expensive fix and I’d be better off seeing if it was under warranty back home. I said a quick prayer they had Wi-Fi at the Domus Paulus VI.
This is the clerical residence for priests working in the Vatican near the Piazza Navona that also welcomes occasional priest guests.
What they also don’t tell you is that everyone deals with this. And don’t get me wrong, I get the whole jinxing thing — this is private and sacred and between you and your person, but what if you want to talk about it? So far silence hasn’t helped me get any more pregnant, or feel any less ashamed. By answering honestly when I’m asked how I’m doing. Annoyed that I have to haul ass to a fertility specialist on the Up-up-upper West Side almost every week for hormone-level checks.
I feel vaguely useless and sorry that my husband has to have blood drawn so often, and I feel like a huge asshole because every time I hear that someone else is pregnant, my heart kind of tenses up and I start to tear and I feel like Carrie Bradshaw in that episode of where she delivers a poem at a wedding and starts to cry because she’s upset about her relationship with Big, but writes the tears off as wet drops of joy. Because as much as I want children — and believe me when I say that no thought is so comforting as the one that finds me communicating with human appendages that are as weird as I am — I can’t picture being a mom.
And then a year passes And every time you have sex — which, when done deliberately, and particularly with a partner you care for, is supposed to feel like the physical manifestation of what motivates humanity: to love and to feel loved — you turn over after the fact and you ask yourself: did I fail again?