You sigh a little bit as you sink into the chair. You're in the waiting room at the hospital, and it's crowded with other patients. Mostly women, but there are a few men here as well, and though there are plenty of other women for them to look at, you can feel their eyes on you more often than not.
It seems like everyone has tried to talk you out of this. Your mother was horrified when you asked about it. Your father tried to talk you out of it. Your brother looked weirded out when you asked him what he thought. James - the handsome boy who sat next to you in math class - said that he thought it was a bad idea to do anything like that, especially since you might change your mind later, when your 'biological clock' starts ticking. You didn't ask for his opinion, but he gave it anyways. "You don't really know what you want," your mother said. "I won't let you do something this foolish, dear. You'll understand when you're older." But you don't live at home anymore. You've got your own income. You're going to save money, and go to college, and have a life and a career, and none of that will happen if you get pregnant.
Even the surgeon won't do it. "I don't think you really understand what you're asking for," he'd said. "You're young. You're eighteen years old! You've got your whole life ahead of you, and while you may not want babies now, I'm certainly not going to perform a permanent procedure for you that would end that forever. Why don't you just forget about getting your tubes tied, and just use reversible birth control?" ... You didn't even bother to correct him, to tell him that it's actually only 99.5% effective, and that you'd still have to be careful afterwards. It's not like you could have told him "I'm under a curse to become the slave of the first man who impregnates me, and I refuse to be exploited and victimized for being female," right?
Tubal ligation.
Such a small word for something that will, if you're careful, let you live a normal life, and not be at the mercy of some petty old bitch who thinks you deserve to be someone's mind-controlled baby-bucket fuck-toy for the crime of being a hot girl.
... OK, maybe you're feeling a little bitter about that. It doesn't help that every single fucking person you meet thinks they know better than you do about whether or not you actually mean it when you say you aren't interested in having kids, ever. Not when it will cost you, literally, everything. So here you are, in the waiting room. Surgeons at three different hospitals have refused to perform the procedure on you. This place, with its crowd of anxious women and dour-faced men, is probably your last chance to get this done. Just another hospital, and your last chance.
It seems like it takes forever for your name to be called. Nobody calls you by your last name, and you almost don't recognize it when the nurse calls it. ... And then she repeats, "Emily?" She's an older woman with a kind, unlined face: her graying hair is the only real sign of her age. "The doctor will see you now," she says.
You stand up. The nurse smiles warmly.
You walk through the door. |