Inside a tiny room in the back of my gynecologist’s office, there’s a small cork board covered with inspirational quotes. As you’re sitting in that cramped nook having vials of blood drawn, you can crane your neck to the right and absorb the evergreen wisdom of Maya Angelou, Pema Chödrön, Oprah, and 50 Shades of Grey. Scoff at her choices, but my doctor knows her audience.
And that little room is a prime panic attack zone, so the quotes are actually helpful. I imagine that a few women actually did experience panic attacks in there, which prompted my doctor and her staff to grab some scissors and start snipping quips out of O Magazine and Real Simple on their off hours, in an effort to make the space a little more Zen. The combination of needles, blood, rubber gloves, and fertility anxiety is never pleasant. A 50 Shades of Grey quote can feel like a lifeline even if you can’t stand the book.
The first time I visited this gynecologist, I didn’t know she was also considered a fertility specialist. She was referred to me by another doctor for a basic yearly checkup, but when I strolled into her office that first day I was immediately terrified—not because there were posters illustrating declining egg count lining the walls (which, for the record, there weren’t), but because it was the fanciest doctor’s office I’d ever seen. It looked like a W Hotel spa, complete with a chandelier, cushy taupe seats, two flatscreen TVs, an espresso maker, and real orchids. “Are you sure you guys take my insurance?” I asked the receptionist, as I signed in. Visions of two thousand dollar medical bills floated through my head. After a quick check, the receptionist assured me that I was covered, so I sunk into one of the elegant cushioned seats and relaxed.
My name was called within minutes, and I headed to an exam room to strip down and toss on every woman’s favorite outfit: a pink paper “gown” (which looks more like the world’s saddest crop top) and matching pink skirt, which is really just a giant paper towel you drape over your lap to avoid maximum mortification. I spent a few minutes contemplating the barbaric metal stirrups at my feet, and then Dr. Miller—not her real name—breezed in. She was young, energetic, and confident. She asked me a few basic questions, and then, when she asked if I had anything to add, I blurted out my usual disclaimer: “Just so you know, I only have one ovary.” It was something I always felt the need to confess when faced with the dreaded speculum.
Dr. Miller wasn’t thrown by this admission. She didn’t give me one of those pitying, woeful looks I usually get when I’d shared this information with people—previous doctors included. She nodded, settled in for the exam, and said, “OK, of course, that’s something to consider if you want children but I’ve had several patients conceive with one ovary. We can do an ultrasound if you like, to check your egg supply.”
A wave of panic passed through me. My eggs had never been tallied, and since I was over 25 (way over) it didn’t seem like a pleasant way to spend a Tuesday. We’ve all read the articles warning that women over 30 are doomed, reproductively speaking, if they haven’t had kids. I knew the risks, what I was dealing with. I just wasn’t sure I needed them to be drilled even further into my psyche right that second. Knowing I only had one ovary all throughout my twenties, hoping that at least there were a few eggs coming and going, had long been enough anxiety—tinged with an anticipatory resignation—for me.
I’d had it removed in an operation. In junior high school I’d had an ovarian cyst so painful it felt like someone was twisting a dagger, slowly, in the general vicinity of my left ovary. The first doctor said it would dissolve on its own, but two weeks later when the dagger came back, my parents got a second opinion. And that opinion was: If we don’t get this grapefruit-sized thing out of your daughter right now it could rupture and she could die, so… let’s do this. I was so young and inexperienced and free then that my biggest worry wasn’t that I was about to undergo major surgery and have half of my reproductive organs removed. My major concern was that I’d have to miss the rest of the volleyball season.
As I got older, ditched the volleyball, and realized that I might like to try and have kids one day, my long-gone ovary became more important to me. I didn’t spend my college years reading fertility books or anything, but the missing ovary nonetheless became a part of my identity, like a phantom body part. I was lopsided, lacking, less likely to conceive. That was my reality. It was who I was—or so I thought.
At the time of my first visit with Dr. Miller, I had recently ended a long-term relationship. Being single and alone in your thirties is one thing, but being single, alone, and sans ovary in your third decade is a whole other dilemma. That is, if you want kids. And I still did.
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