...When my cellphone rang a week later I was already crying, driving to the airport to attend my aunt’s funeral. My boyfriend had dumped me suddenly that morning via e-mail after I’d just flown 3,000 miles to visit him and his family. When my doctor said, “I have bad news,” I pulled over.

“You’re in premature ovarian failure,” she said. “It’s causing early onset menopause. I don’t know how to tell you this: You won’t be able to have children.”

“O.K.,” I said. I was waiting for the next part of the sentence, the medical way around the problem. I had low thyroid function; I took a pill. I suffered from depression; a few drugs made it bearable. In my experience, medical lemons were almost always followed by a prescription for lemonade. I felt strangely calm, detached, as though we were talking about characters on television.

She said, with believable regret, “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this.” ...

They pitied me, blamed themselves. They had always assumed there would be grandchildren, just as I had always assumed there would be children. They were suffering a loss as well. They were disappointed, however much they tried to disguise it. It felt like they were disappointed in me.

Labels: infertility

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