Another Blog About Mis Huevos
I wrote this as part of a longer piece on Sri Lanka that I queried to a publication two months ago. Hell. My blog is lonely. I hate waiting on queries. Once it took Hana Hou over a year to reject a query. In the meantime between rejections… enjoy.
I am philosophically against the reproduction aspect of sex. I am also poor, and am willing to go against everything I believe in for a quick ten grand and a plane ticket. So I sold my eggs. It wasn’t the first time. I hate the hormones, hate feeling as though it’s the only way I can make immediate money, hate disappointing my sister, who says, “What if your eggs turn into a baby that gets abused?” To which I can’t say anything without saying everything, such as–everyone who has a child is selfish. We are all abused, some by our own door-knob shaped fists, some by peers, by strangers, or anyone who doesn’t understand the Acme-anchor-from-the-sky crush of unhappiness.
But anyway, this is not something I’m really passionate about.
I had the operation to retrieve my super-sized eggs as soon as I got back from Sri Lanka. But before I left Hawaii, I went to an IVF doctor to make sure my ovaries were ready for grotesque manipulation. The doctor turned out to be the father of my classmate. While maneuvering the condom-covered ultrasound wand around my cho-cha, he gave me the Asian-father inquisition, which added a new dimension to the clichéd exchange:
Why are you donating your eggs?
If you have no money, why are you going to Sri Lanka?
Credit card debt is very bad.
Why are you working as a baker if you went to Harvard?
Why don’t you get a real job?
What do you mean, now you’re a writer?
What do you write?
What does your father do?
What does your mother do?
How did you turn out so smart?
Why don’t you have a gynecologist?
Planned Parenthood? You go to Planned Parenthood?
You need a real doctor.
I don’t care if you move a lot.
You don’t have health insurance?
My daughter is graduating from an Ivy League medical school while mothering her infant daughter.
My daughter has a gynecologist.
I can’t find your uterus.
My daughter has a uterus.
You probably can’t have children.
If you were a supermodel, you could make $100,000 on your eggs.
Your egg donor agency is taking advantage of you.
You’re too naïve. People must always take advantage of you.
I drew a pyramid depicting the various levels of condescension involved in the 10 minutes we spent together, folded it into a paper airplane, crumpled it into a paper airplane trash ball, and threw it away. I am all those things—naïve, a not-supermodel, an egg donor with an MIA uterus.
I have no witty comeback for the truth.
This leap outside the box–quitting my job, leaving the country–landed me on an operating table, legs spread in stirrups, wondering if Sri Lanka was worth it’s weight in ovum, and why do people always say life is worth it, without defining the it–but I never figured it out. The IV hurt and suddenly I slipped into the peace of nowhere.
Filed under: Angst, egg donation, Sri Lanka, Travel Writing | 1 Comment
Tags: Freelance Writing, Missing Uterus