I stand in front of the mirror, my hands pressed lightly to my stomach. My hands are cold; the skin of my stomach is warm to the touch. I run my fingers lightly over the curve and swell, over the light hairs and the freckles and the indent of my belly button. My hands trail lower, to the sharp bone of my hip and there, just there. I inhale sharply as I press down. That shouldn’t be there. That shouldn’t hurt. And for the first time, I’m afraid.
Multiple trips to a&e. Doctors running their hands down my sides. Nurses with sympathetic eyes. Long waits in sterile rooms, my boyfriend clutching at my hand. They don’t know what it is. They said I need a scan. They say it could be nothing. Or it could be everything. I watch their eyes widen as I tell them it runs in the family. It might not be that. But it might be.
If it is, my insides will attack themselves. Tissue will grow where it should not. Every month, that tissue will shed with the lining of my womb. I will lie in agony as my body tears itself apart. It scars, every month. Those scars build up. Left to its own devices, my body will become a prison of pain and scars and infertility.
Do you know what I’m talking about? It affects around 1.5 million women and girls in the UK. 10% of women worldwide are estimated to have it, but the figures are likely to be much higher.
My mum has it. My sister has it. It runs in families.
I look down at my stomach again, stroke the skin. I close my eyes, and I hope. My body is my rock. It’s mine, my solace, my fortitude. It is not the most beautiful, not flawless or perfect. It is perfectly imperfect. It is scarred and ridged and mine. And it has been my fortress, my hide away from the world. Even in my darkest moments, the nights I have looked in to the mirror and seen nothing but fat and ugly, it has always been strong. And now it turns out that that strength might be an illusion.
I’ve never wanted children. It’s true that I don’t especially like children, but that’s not the reason why. When I imagine my life, when I fantasise about who I might be and where I might go, it is wild and varied. My career spans across reckless possibilities. My mind fills with the food I would like to taste, the baking I want to achieve. I picture the man I want to be holding my hand. Sometimes, there’s no man at all. I picture mundane things like the kitchen units in my dream home, friends growing older and getting married, my little sister having her first child. I imagine the places I want to visit, where the climates are hot and animals I have only seen in zoos roam freely. Never. Never in any of those dreams, have I ever seen children, my children, held in my arms. Not once. I don’t picture it. I don’t dream of it.
Infertility doesn’t scare me. What scares me is the thought of a body that is beyond my control, that hurts indiscriminately and cannot be cured, only slowed.
I’ve got a scan in two weeks. I hold the hospital letter in my fist, let my other hand drop again to my belly. It might be. It might not be. We’ll have to wait and see.