Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Speed demon?

I don't speed. Ever. If the speed limit is 55 then I'm that one crazy driver going 55. I set my cruise at 55. Not 57. Not even 56.

Imagine my co-workers surprise then when I bought a chevy cobalt ss turbo. The speedometer says 160 and feeling the "get up" under the hood, I believe it would do it.

One c0-worker leaves work right after me pretty frequently. And he passes me on the way home every time. He is a speeder. He passed me on the way home yesterday and then came in the lab today. He was jokingly teasing me about the SS in my car name standing for Super Slow. He was jokingly teasing me about my car only needing a 3 speed transmission. He said I should go ahead and speed because even though it's a red car, I'm a woman and wouldn't get a ticket because I have boobs. He was kidding and I took it as a joke. I replied that I only have big boobs when I'm pregnant and that I'm not currently pregnant. That is all I said. And then, out of the blue, this man who I have worked with every day for four years, this man who I thought was my friend, crossed the line that so many think it is okay to cross. He said, "What are you going to do when you want another car in a few years? Have another baby for another fag?" I was dumbstruck. I wanted to bite back. However I attempted to maintain my dignity and merely said that that comment was not okay.

I am tired of this. I am tired of being judged. I am not a saint. I am also not the devil. I do not cure cancer with surrogacy but I also don't cause pain or suffering. I help make families. Why is that so bad? What is it about surrogacy that makes others think that rude comments are okay? I spoke with my boss about it because I feel like if these comments are still coming at 5 months postpartum, when I never speak of surrogacy and my c0-workers have no idea that I'm planning another surrogacy, things are never going to die down. What did my boss say? My Christian boss said, and I quote, "You are doing something immoral. You can't expect people to treat you well when you are doing something that is so wrong." And she walked away. I was speechless. I ranted to my c0-worker for a moment and noticed that she was not answering. I looked in her face and could tell she was on their side. I don't talk about surrogacy at work and never will, but really? Really? I feel so alone sometimes. I wish I lived in a big town. I wish others understood why I feel compelled to be a surrogate. Is it just the money that others find offensive? No one in my town knows what I get paid and the few that have been crass enough to guess have greatly overestimated the amount.

I dream of taking a job where no one knows I'm a surrogate. Perhaps I will some day. For now, I will hunker down and hold my head high. These people, who I think of as my friends, will not make me cry and if they do, they will not see the tears. I am doing what I feel is right. I stand behind my decision to help create families. I know in my heart that my choices on this matter are right. I just wish that I was not so alone. I wish I had one good friend to stand by my side, to stand up for me on this issue. I wish someone other than my husband and children had my back on this. When I started down this road 5 years ago I had no idea how lonely surrogacy would be. I have online surrogate friends and I treasure them but somehow, when standing in a plant full of men, trying to prove myself in a male dominated field, those online friends seem so far away. My husband seems so far away. It feels like it is me against them and even though I know I am right, there are more of them and even though each mean word of theirs only inflicts a small wound, those wounds add up over time. Note to self: surrogacy number four is going to require some thicker armor.

2 comments:

  1. Wow, that is terrible. So sorry that you have to deal with that. Some people will never understand! Keep your head up and do what you believe is right!

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  2. OH MY GOSH!!! I would've wanted to punch him in the face!! Deep Breath . . . Deep Breath . . .

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