“Amara thank you for your cooperation.”
I nod. My mouth is too dry to answer.
He holds the chart, sits on a stool, and wheels himself to the foot of the table. “Let’s review the markers before we begin the ultrasound.”
“Height, five foot six. Weight, one fifty. Blood pressure, stable. No prior surgeries, no birth control, no STDs. Menarche at twelve, cycles every twenty-eight days, no complications. Family history: one maternal miscarriage, no known genetic disorders.”
He flips to a new page. “Partner: Roth, Julian Elliot. No contraindications. Highest compatibility in the cohort. Both lines clear for the full protocol.”
He turns his attention to me, but his gaze is clinical. I am an object, a specimen, a checklist.
He wheels his stool closer, then snaps his gloves on.
“Lie back, I am going to complete the examination now. Just relax,” he says, without looking at my face.
I swallow the lump in my throat and lay back. He pushes my feet back into the stirrups.
He pushes my knees apart even wider, then peers at my labia. I feel the cold air, the tremor in my thighs.
He takes a long cotton swab and parts my lips with his gloved fingers. The swab is cold, rough; he swipes it along the opening of my vagina, then inside, twisting as he collects his sample. Heslides it out and sets it in a tray, then repeats the process with two more swabs, each time probing deeper.
The nurse returns, standing at the side of the bed, watching with cold eyes.
He narrates as he goes. “Collecting for PCR. HPV. STD.” His tone is bored, impersonal.
The nurse jots notes on her clipboard, then looks up and says, “She has very fine epithelial tissue. Fertility will be excellent.”
The doctor grunts. “Good, good. The Board has a special interest in this pairing.”
I want to sink into the table, disappear. I fix my gaze on a crack in the ceiling tile, follow its jagged path from one corner to the next.
The nurse murmurs, “Cervix is healthy. Os is closed. No visible abnormalities.”
The doctor chuckles, “Perfect breeding stock.”
He looks down at my vagina with a wistful sigh before turning his attention to his notes. He speaks to the nurse again, voice low. “They’ll want the follicular count.”
The nurse nods, grabbing another tray with a mobile ultrasound machine on it. then turns to me. “Relax your stomach.”
She picks up a cold plastic probe, coats it in gel, and slides it along my pubic bone. The pressure is intense, but she’s fast, tracing a path from left to right, pressing down at intervals.
She watches the small screen, then records numbers.
“Sixteen follicles, left ovary. Eleven, right. No cysts, no adhesions.”
The doctor nods. “Outstanding.”
I try to count the seconds until they finish, but I lose my place every time the nurse annotates something, or the doctor speaks.
He pulls off his gloves, drops them in the trash.
The nurse wipes between my legs with a cool towel, then tucks the paper gown back over my lap.
“You can sit up now,” she says.
I do, clutching the gown to my chest. My hands are slick with sweat.
The doctor looks at me, the first time he’s met my eyes since I walked in.
