In My Infertility Era
It’s a glorious spring day in February. The utility company is clawing leadpipes out of the pavement while big magnolia blossoms tumble into thehole. At the doctor, I sit gingerly, trying not to wrinkle the butcher paper.I think of my grandmother, who lived 98 years and never threw anythingaway. Every Christmas, hunched over the wrapping paper, carefullyuntaping it & folding it for next year. A nurse takes my temperature,frowning. She ejects my germs intothermometer out of a drawer, shaking down the mercury. She jams that inmy mouth and goes out into the hallway, arms crossed. Low murmuring.Another nurse looks through the door at me, worried. The doctor comesin. “Your temperature is 21.2,” he says cheerfully. “You’re like a deepfreezer. You’re technically dead.” I nod. This makes sense. It’s an electionyear. A potato is running against a pile of shredded cheese. The billionairesare already making for the moon. “How will being dead affect my chancesof having a baby?” I ask. The nurse has returned. She places a strawberryyogurt under my arm. The fluorescent lights flicker. The nurse takes thecold yogurt out of my armpit. It’s fro-yo now. She marvels at it. “I’m sureyou’re overthinking it,” says the doctor. “Your best bet is to get outsidemore, get some vitamin D, remind the earth you’re alive.” I do as he says.I stand in the parking lot. Cars carousel through a Burger King. I close myeyes. All around me, birds are yelling. I chew an ice cube that turns out tobe a tooth. “I’m alive,” I tell the earth, and wait for my womb to thaw.