A Space for Life to Grow

The fertility specialist smiles and tells me I have the kind of healthy-looking uterus she likes to see, and then tells me I’m probably generating only a couple of good-quality eggs each year. It’s not until a few moments later I feel the impact of this blow, feel it make contact with my heart, then bury its weight in my womb. I am still back at the positive news about my nice uterus. Two eggs, maybe three. That’s it, that’s all, in a year.

The office is set up so that my chair directly faces her, the corner of a desk between us. Arun has to sit on a couch behind me; I can’t reach out to him unless I extend my arm back at an awkward angle and dislocate my shoulder. It’s like being offered up to a judge who will decide my fate. She reads the information we have supplied back to us in a careful, neutral tone: “Michelle, you are a 40-year-old woman.” There is a short pause, and I think more is coming, but instead she swivels in her chair to face my partner: “Arun, you are a 33-year-old journalist and physiotherapist.” It appears that my career has no relevance here; I am a vessel only. I am the sum of my parts: a visually pleasing reproductive system and more low-quality eggs than good ones. While she talks, I feel the room stretch out of shape, and warp to fit every woman who has sat here before me, and who is