Last week I woke up and pricked the pad of my finger with a lancet and sent it off in the post, paying £29 for the pleasure. A test to spook myself, to decipher my blood, a test which can’t actually, definitively, answer the question: can I have a baby? I think these tests exploit our primal anxieties in a way that’s very distasteful, but there’s no denying that for a second it gave me a fleeting feeling of being in control, which I welcomed.
It used to feel like there were many things wrong with my life, and a baby might cure them. This might still be true. There are still things wrong with my life. My longings have a different flavour.
(I used to think of it in terms of having a baby very specifically, but now I think in terms of having a family. I imagine many people around me, dressed in bright colours.)
The test came back and there was little explanation for the results, so I relied on Googling, guessing, asking strangers on Reddit. This is always a mistake. I became depressed at my body, which has always served me well. It allows me to run fast, come extravagantly, and eat well. Why am I always annoyed at its perceived failings?
But also this week I was sent to hospital by my doctor because I became dizzy and breathless, because my chest hurt and I coughed up a little blood. In the X-Ray room the technician let me take a photo of my illuminated lungs. They were beautiful, like fragile snowy trees, and of course I immediately started searching healthy lung X-Ray, which ruined it.
Before I went to hospital, knowing I would be there for the rest of the day, I cooked myself what I call a tender little omelette. I used to make these for myself when I lived alone in Prague for two months, in a state of newness and sometimes distress. They were so comforting. A tender little omelette is just a simpler, snackier omelette. Cheddar and ham. Comte and crispy sage. Chopped spring onions and sesame seeds. As flat as a pancake, almost; not a tortilla, not overloaded with charred vegetables, the way I used to joylessly make omelettes. Tender little omelettes put the fun in functional! They slip down in three mouthfuls, but they’re so quick to make it doesn’t matter; you don’t feel cheated.
On holiday recently in Marrakech we ate omelettes every day for breakfast with three kinds of bread and cake. To my friend who does not like eggs, but who we think would like omelettes, we described them as gateway egg. She went home without trying an omelette.
My self-deciphering of the tests suggests I’m running out of eggs. I’ve known this for a while. Anyway, technically I’ve been running out of eggs since I was born. But now when I do anything that’s not healthful to the body I imagine a tiny, dancing, tadpoley egg stubbed out as if by a cigarette. Zip! Zip!
You actually only need one egg to make an omelette, is something I saw online when asking the internet Can I have a baby. You actually only need one gateway egg.
<3 xxx
🤍🤍🤍 tenderness to you always