They told me when I was pretty young that I’d never be able to have a baby. And that was that. No therapy, no consolation, no nothing. I was given the knowledge and left to my own devices to deal with it. They wouldn’t have to see me crying at night. Every night. For years and years. I kept it all under wraps, despite hating myself inside. Hating my failure. Hating my parts that didn’t work. Hating the jealousy I felt for the women who had that gift and squandered it. I needed to try something. Anything.
It didn’t take long before I was ordering fertility drugs online. Diethylstilbestrol. Clomiphene. GnRH. I took them all. Then I had to get sperm. A few quick ads on Craigslist, a couple pictures sent back and forth, and a meet up. An hour later, I’d have a condom full of what I needed.
I gave the drugs a week to kick in before doing anything else. They made me dizzy and nauseous. It was a small price to pay, I guess, and less invasive than my next task, which was to inject the sperm into myself. I had to try lots of spots; I was aiming for where I thought ovaries would be. I figured an ectopic pregnancy was still a pregnancy. And maybe the doctors could fix it if I was lucky enough to encounter that problem in the first place.
In the time that passed between my self-medicating and material gathering, I’d find myself drifting off to sleep and imagining a baby — my baby — warm and soft in my lap. A little bundle of warmth capable of melting the impossibly-cold center of my being. Of my identity. A precious life who would love me as much as I loved him or her. My hands would travel over my belly and I’d dream of a life growing inside. I swear, I could almost feel the kick.
Waking from those dreams brought both a renewed sense of purpose and a renewed sense of hopelessness. It was the latter that threatened to end my quest entirely. The impulse to sleep forever with the hope I’ll be joined by my newborn was almost too tempting to pass up. Reopening old scar tissue on my arms and legs did little to quiet that voice. I had to stop waiting.
The needles were long and fat and the contents were cold from the refrigerator. In that week, I’d been with 30 men. My body ached and my self-esteem was gone, but they’d given me what I required. I carefully dissected the abdomens of the two homeless women I’d lured up to my apartment and exsanguinated earlier this morning. Organs look so different in person, but I found my way around. I did some damage, but I’m sure whatever ova I was able to suck into the syringe had to be healthier than what my body — the body of a failure — could produce.
I injected myself with all of it, sperm and eggs, over the course of the day. My belly was a hole-filled, leaky wreck by the time I was done. The medication left me dizzier than I’d ever been. But it’s all going to be worth it when this works. When this works, I’m going to have a beautiful baby of my own. One who will be loved. One who won’t be told he can’t follow his dreams just because he’s a boy.