How fast life can change. How quickly can my best laid plans go to waste. On Monday I was looking forwards to life, looking forwards to the future. I was to go on holiday. I had several suitors at my door. Now, on Friday, I sit here, alone in my flat, wondering if there is a future, and what it will bring.
The worst part is that I knew it was going to happen, I'd known what they'd say. 3.30pm, I strode into the hospital with all the confidence of youth. It never happens to you. It never happens to you.
The young blonde nurse saw how I was trying to overcome my nerves, and talked to me about the procedure. I didn't bother telling her I already knew the procedure like the back of my hand, that I had sent others down for the same procedure, talked to them like she was talking to me. In the back of my mind, I knew. I kept telling myself that it didn't matter, that what I was about to be told wouldn't affect me.
The procedure room was quiet, and I lay down, complient and quiet. The doctor was clicking furiously on the computer as the scan built up images. I knew doctors didn't click on the images unless they wanted to save them, unless there was something to save, something to look at, to investigate, to diagnose.
She looked at me, and I explained I knew what was going on, and could she show me the images? She kindly obliged, and I could see for myself the bad news in full black and white image. I didn't need to have her tell me what I saw.
The rest of the week has been spent in self inflicted disaster, a mixture of my destructive nature and people's lack of reaction to my news. "Well, you knew already," said one friend. "You've been trying to get a doctor to listen to you for five years."
Does that make it any better? Does it?
"Well, you never wanted children anyway," said my sister, in youthful ignorance.
I've suspected since I was eighteen that I wasn't able to carry a child. Since the first miscarriage. My entire family being incredibly fertile, and with my terrible behaviour at the time, I had thought it would only be a matter of time before I fell pregnant.
It seems that every time a child begins to form, it realises where it is and jumps ship, sometimes before I even know it. The last time was the most painful though, because I had wanted it, and I had known about it, and I had loved it, even though it was only a ball of cells in a mis-shapen uterus.
It was always easier to pretend it didn't matter, to pretend I didn't want a child, to pretend that I didn't care.
It led me to this. To the terrible truth. That I had not only one malfunctioning ovary, but a twisted uterus as well, making conception and gestation a serious improbability. A genetic quirk, a bad luck. Not only did the malfunctioning ovary mean problem eggs, it meant my hormones whipping up a storm, making me not only be less female, but appear so as well.
I feel like crawling under my duvet and never emerging again. I function only because I know I have to, because there is no other option. Now I'm officially living a half life. My purpose as a female is now gone, and I don't quite know where to go from here.
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