Posterity

The Irony Of InfertilityBy Melissa Dash

Clutching my pelvis in pain, I dropped in theatrics to my cold bathroom floor. Whining at a barely audible pitch, I begged for my mother’s comfort. “Is this what giving birth feels like?” I asked her, the irony of my question unknown to me at the time. I had been experiencing tremendous amounts of pain in my pelvic region for weeks but chalked it up to period cramps or the result of a meal that “just didn’t sit well.” That morning, however, the stabbing sensation intensified to a new degree as my constant agony became unbearable.

A brief visit with my doctor ended with her sending me to the ER. I sat in a stiff hospital waiting room chair for hours, restless and frightened as 20+ patients were seen before me. I was nervous thinking about the potential cause of my misery— after a quick WebMD search of my symptoms, I was convinced I had a ruptured ovarian cyst—but slightly more concerned about missing the Juice Wrld concert I had tickets to that night (RIP). I let out a sigh of relief when my name was finally called, full of false hope that my diagnosis was in the near future. That night, however, I traded in my crop top and ripped jeans for a hospital gown, repeatedly reciting my name and date of birth as opposed to the lyrics of an overplayed rap song.

After both urine and blood tests, an internal and external ultrasound, and continuous probing and prodding, my pain was still undiagnosed. Anxiety overwhelmed my body and images of worst case scenarios flooded my mind. I left the hospital as the sun was rising, loaded with morphine, antibiotics, and many questions. Two months passed until I found my answers.

After a relapse of my previous symptoms and the addition of some new ones, I returned to that same hospital on a humid day in mid-July. The stabbing sensation in my pelvis was replaced by fluttering butterflies in my stomach as I stared out the fogcovered passenger-seat window. My butt fell seamlessly back into the grooves of the waiting room chair, and I waited yet again for my name to be called. It wasn’t until the nurses thought to try one final test that we found a positive result to my negative problem.

The moment the doctor told me I had a disease with the potential to cause infertility is one that plays in my head on a loop. At the time I was 18, just old enough to book a hotel room or get a piercing without my mom’s consent. Prior to that moment, I had thought about the concept of having a family in the same fashion as most teenagers I know: something that would potentially happen one day but hopefully not in the near future. It’s the same dual thought process that makes me oddly excited to bleed through a pair of underwear each month but still compels me to play peek-a-boo with any baby I see.

The pressure put on women to fit a domestic role is one I take issue with. I am a firm believer that the expectation placed on those with internal reproductive organs to bear children is archaic and unjust. This belief leads to the objectification of women, forcing them into the singular role of “mother.” When determining levels of attraction, women are often judged based upon their childbearing qualities. Wide hips and big breasts are traits that have become associated with desire but are rooted in ancient practices that determine if a woman is fit for pregnancy. Those with female reproductive organs are objects of lust based on these qualities but are chastised or rejected from society if they don’t use their “assets” to bear children. This contrast causes many people with internal reproductive systems to question their role in society and feel trapped in institutionalized constructs. So, what happens when a person with this reproductive system wishes to break free of these social constraints, by either choosing not to have a child or by being unable to?

This is a question I have now come to face, as a result of my diagnosis. While I am not ready to determine if having children is on my life path, I had always assumed I’d have the option. Being told that this may no longer be a possibility is deeply unsettling to me. In a society where many aspects of women’s health are in the hands of others, I always expected motherhood to be the one choice I had full control over. I think it is important to note that adoption and other alternative forms of motherhood are available to combat this. Yet, there is something about the lack of control over my own body that I struggle to overlook. Along with this abstract feeling of loss, there are true material matters that I must also begin to address.

Given my potential for infertility, I have found myself preoccupied with life choices that otherwise I would not dwell on. Do I want biological children? Are there certain steps I should already be taking to encourage fertility in my body? Should I attempt to have a child at a young age while my body is better for childbearing? If so, should I be looking for a long-term partner?

I am now 19. At this age, some women either want or need to be addressing these questions. I know, however, that is not the case for me. I do not want, nor am I in the position, to be considering motherhood at this age or for several years to come. In the meantime, I would love to live fully on my own with no one to depend on and with no one depending on me. I have yet to experience a life where I am completely independent and need to further discover myself before I am ready to discover another life form. Yet, I fear that when or if the time does come to take that leap into dirty diapers and sleepless nights, my body will not allow me to jump.

The day my doctor sat at my hospital bedside and relayed my fated prognosis, she unknowingly shared years of feeling lost in my own skin. She unknowingly reinforced my previous held beliefs that a woman’s body is rarely hers. She unknowingly uncovered a sad truth about growing up and the responsibilities that accompany age and maturity.

While pregnancy is a concept that I plan to push to the back of my head for the time being, infertility will always sit at the forefront of my mind. When I see a TikTok of a baby trying to do the WAP dance or stumble into the section of Foot Locker filled with sneakers the length of my thumb, a fleeting feeling of uncertainty will wash over my body. What’s important to remember, is that no situation exists where women possess zero agency. Even with limited options, I am proud to identify as a womb-having woman and am fortunate enough to decide many aspects of my life path. For now, I will still roll down my window at every red light to wave at the baby in the car next to me, recognizing that life is full of uncertainties and my diagnosis is no exception. 31

Posterity

By Huda Shulaiba

1. through memory

My great grandfather’s name was Asfour/ /Sparrow. He and his twin brother, Zarzour/ /Starling, were given nonsense names, the kind reserved for children who weren’t meant to live past tomorrow. Maybe that’s the exact reason they did.

Death, so serious in his occupation, overlooked the two little birds on his trip to collect Amir and Mohamed and Ibrahim and Hassan. And so they lived.

Were it not for my great grandfather’s nonsense name, I’m sure he’d have been lost to time. A century separates us. That’s it really. Just one century.

You fly down to find me in the field and show me how to make the world my own. Daughter of daughter of son long gone. This and this and this and this. Your son rests nearby, chest red and beak sharp and eyes watching the father he never had lead the daughter he was never able to meet.

“Salam, ya bitti,” you say. Hello, my daughter. Peace, my daughter. “Sim3i, bitti,” you say. Listen. I listen.

The world is not ours. Our eyes are not ours to rest. The child turned man with the nonsense name teaches me to spread my wings. He scolds me for my form. “How will you ever take to the skies, bitti?”

A bird’s eye is really so very small. You rest on my finger and unblinkingly tell me of the pain of five generations of lost children. “A man with a nonsense name has no claim to the world, but you, bitti, keep your hands outstretched and take what’s yours.”

I greet my great grandfather, the one whose name is committed to history. He cocks his head into my open palm.