35

On Tuesday, May 19, 2022, I woke up 35 years old. Technically, having been born shortly before midnight, I still had several hours of 34 ahead of me. I hit snooze one last time and sighed at the sheer existence of the new day. Another day, all the same.

Once they heard my breath change, and felt my body move, Jack and Temperance awoke in stark contrast to my feeling of defiance toward the dawn. They haphazardly attacked my face with their tongues--which I wasn't sure was genuine excitement, or if they had just trained themselves that doing this both elicited pets and activated the human to transfer the food from bag to bowl. Either way, I sat up, gave quick cuddles, and moved through the house to the kitchen. Food. Bag. Bowl. Water. Dump. Refresh. I would shower while they ate. Another day, all the same.

Showered, I primed myself for the day. Toner. Lotion. Hair detangler. Breakfast completed, I leashed one slobbery chocolate lab and his snooty sister, to their sailor navy and princess pink collars, respectively. In a button-down blouse and pair of boxers, I slipped on my sandals as we flew out the door. I have been great at many things in my life; training dogs has never been one of them. We walked, they sniffed, my wet hair slowly drying in the sun. Back inside, the beasts commenced their morning routine--napping on the couch--as I continued to get ready. Although I am quite indifferent about my own birthday, I decided to do a decent job in light of the occasion. Dry hair. Style hair. Face color. Eye stuff. I slipped into a pencil skirt, tucked in my blouse (both black), and slid into a pair of red heels.

Swinging by the kitchen table and shouldering my purse from its place on a kitchen chair, I floated to the front door. It's funny how heels make such stark steps, yet I have never felt like I was floating across a room in slippers. I opened the door, directed my attention back to the living room, two furry faces raised off the couch momentarily, and told them each to have a good day. I'll be back soon. At my reassurance, their heads lowered back onto the couch in unison. Another day, all the same.

Press unlock. Beep. Purse on passenger seat. Keys in the cup holder. Clutch down. Push to start. Left turn signal. Leave the curb. Merge into the day.

Park. Elevator up. Office floor. Exchange pleasantries. My office. Close the door behind me. Sit. Stare into the black mirrors that are my multiple monitors and contemplate what in the absolute world I am doing here. Another day, all the same.

I am not quite sure how I got here. Literally, yes--but when I recount the steps that led to my arrival in this ceilinged cubicle of glass and steel and computer screens and pretension I cannot recall with any clarity anything about the person in those shoes. I had come to Sacramento to settle down. I'd brought along only the necessities--a fiance named Jason, a dog named Jack, and a dog named Temperance. I worked at a desk out in the middle of an office, where no one knew my name, and I made little money. I came home to an apartment that greeted me with too much love at times. For all of my past misstarts and missteps, I had finally found my place in the universe. It was here--in these few hundred square feet, with the dogs I loved like children, and the man who would soon be an incredible husband, and eventually an exceptional father. I had everything I needed. But that was years ago.

Now, today, on my 35th birthday, I can say I have not had another human in the home I share with my canine kids. I sit in this office, doing nothing, and stare out into the sea of cubicles. Of people working. Their eyes darting from desk to keyboard to screen to keyboard to screen to desk, endlessly. For little money. I open Spotify. I lament over which station will soothe me through the monotony today. I make a lot of money.

Sometime mid-morning, an unknown number appears on my phone and I leave it be and wait for a voicemail. One arrives. "Hi, Emily. This is Camellia's Women's Health. We have the test results in from your recent bloodwork. Please give us a call back to arrange a time to drop by and discuss."

[For the record, I think all medical test results (but for a few exceptions) should be provided over the phone. When everything is great, they let you know. When everything isn't great, they ask you to come in. No one is being spared bad news delivered over the telephone; they're simply being deprived the details.]

I returned the call, and agreed to come by the office around lunch. If I am honest, I was glad to escape my glass castle, even with a vague idea of what I might learn. I parked along the curb. And in shiny red heels that were blindingly bright in the direct sun, I sailed across the sidewalk toward the tower. I grabbed the cold steel handle and swung open the oversized glass door. Unlike the sidewalk, the marble floors make my heels sing. They were crisp, curt, and spoke of independence and power. But somehow, time and space seemed to be constricting inside the building. Up the three marble stairs. Down the hall to the left. Take the elevator up. Step off on the floor. It was as if the closer I got to the information I sought, the duller my senses became.

At my previous appointment, a routine blood panel had been requested, and my physician proceeded to check all the pertinent tests. Out of curiosity, and surely some intuition, I asked if any of those little boxes had the ability to give us any insight into my fertility. She laughed. "Yes, but you are so young, and so healthy." I asked if it would cost more, or inconvenience anyone, to check the boxes anyway. She reassured me how unnecessary that would be. Although I am paid to be an advocate, and am excellent at my job, I am terrible at advocating for myself. Surprisingly, that day, I insisted. "If it's all the same, I would like you to check them, please." I received a light-hearted eye-roll as she traced her pen over the additional boxes and then turned the order to me, as if to say, 'There you go! Happy?'

When she walked into the examination room this time, she portrayed a more serious physician than I had previously met. Her heels made a similar sound to the one mine had made on my way up here, but this one echoed hollow and cheap. It did not sound powerful, but weak. I wondered if it was the sound or my inner ear that was different. As she sat, she set her eyes straight on me; I couldn't even imagine them rolling. I wondered why she made her hair look so flawless for work in a gynecological office. The only reason I looked halfway decent today was because it was my birthday. Maybe it was her birthday, too.

Hormones. Eggs. Referral. Fertility clinic. Pre-authorization. Ultrasound. Eggs. Hormones. Eggs. Harvest. Freeze. Storage. IVF. Adoption.

Down the hall. Elevator down. Across the lobby. My heels no longer make a sound, as if they've padded the ground while I was occupied just a few floors up. In fact, the entire space is silent. And the red I walked in on no longer feels powerful to me. I think of McDonald's. And then the ball pit. And children laughing. No.

I walk slower on the sidewalk. I need the fresh air. Fresh air is good for you. For your body, and your brain. But I suddenly feel exposed. Mere blocks from downtown, in sweats and an old hoodie. Unwashed, unkempt hair spun into a bun at the top of my head. I'll die if any of my colleagues see me like this. I reach my car and see a strange, yet familiar woman. She is standing tall, the top two buttons of her black blouse highlighting her collar bones, and a black pencil skirt that puts her slim waist size on display. Bright red heels, at least four inches tall, punctuate her lean, but muscular legs. She is adorned with professional accessories--like a watch with a leather band and diamonds on her hands and around her neck. Even though I can't know for certain, I am sure her long, intentionally tousled hair is a golden blonde and her eyes are an unnaturally bright blue. She is beautiful. I feel envy.

And then I feel a stronger recognition than slight familiarity, and I realize I'm standing beside my Jeep, staring at my own reflection in its slick black surface. I feel disoriented. How am I standing here on the street in complete disarray while I see myself, for the very first time, as a strong and beautiful woman? I look down at my body. I was wrong; I am wearing the clothes I see in the reflection, but they look different. They feel like sweats, and an oversized hoodie, and even though I only have to raise my hand to my chest to reach the strands of my hair, it feels knotted atop my head. I close my eyes to gather myself and glimpse once more at the woman in front of me, before I open the door and she disappears.

The day unfolds and by evening I have returned home. I open the door to the only two souls who know the sound of my arrival, and even they look a bit different. I do all the same things that night as I have done for years. Yet it is no longer another day, all the same. I retire sometime after 10 o'clock.

Only much later did I realize that I wasn't experiencing a mental break that afternoon, being fully aware of two versions of myself simultaneously. I was simply allowing myself to say goodbye to one. As I walked into that building as many women (as we all are), I walked out one less version of myself. I lost the self of endless possibilities, but I knew each of the others magnitudes better.

On Tuesday, May 19, 2022, at 12:34 p.m., one of the many versions of myself died. She was 34.

On Wednesday, May 20, 2022, I woke up to the first day of the life that I would choose to create. I was 35 years old.