"The female body is a very complex organism", said the man in the white coat as he haphazardly pointed to the anatomically-correct diagram of the female reproductive system. "It is a well-known fact that only a small percentage of women can actually get pregnant, contrary to the popular belief that they are as fruitful as rabbits. You see, the process of ovulation is controlled by the brain and through the release of hormones from the pituitary gland. Not everyone can ovulate for one reason or another. We cannot determine why that happens, although we can hypothesize. Fertiliziliation of an egg is an exact science. If something is not functioning precisely, just at the right moment, pregnancy will not occur."
When I was a little girl, perhaps 5 or 6, Nana and Pop-Pop took me to the grocery store during a weekend visit. I skipped along the food aisles while my grandparents made their distinctive selections. The goose pimples prickled the tiny hairs on my arms as we got closer to the refrigerated section. I watched with wide eyes as Nana opened several pink cartons so as to determine which container would hold (12) satisfactory unbroken shells. While seated in the car, Nana placed the rigid styrofoam carton of eggs in my lap. "You're in charge of these," she hissed. "We don't want any of them broken on the ride home."
I cradled the delicate commodities the entire way, watching them intently while Pop-Pop's ol' jalopy sputtered its way to our destination. I could feel their movement as they jostled back and forth. My lips moistened as my tongue moved across them in hunger. I clearly imagined early breakfast the next morning after church...Nana tossing the fluffy yellow yolks in the sizzling buttery bottom of her cast-iron pan. "Sunny-side up or scambled?", she'd gruffly ask. Perhaps MY chosen hen fruit will reveal a double sunny center! Oh, how my tummy growled with anticipation...
As Pop-Pop pulled into the driveway, I smiled. Nana would be so proud of how I sheltered the fragile cargo. With each sudden stop and winding turn, the eggs were always nestled comfortably, free from harm. Nana suddenly opened the passenger door and snatched the package from my hands. I grinned as she carefully opened the lid to double-check their condition. "3 broken!", she snarled as the carton dripped gelatinous goo. "How disappointed I am in you, Sarah. It was such a simple request."
To this day, I honestly do not know how those god-damned eggs got broken. It is an utter mystery to me. I did all the right things and still, my tenacious efforts proved futile. How could this have happened? Was it really meant to be?
Now. 25 years later, seated patiently in a physician's office, I find myself asking the very same questions related to the very same principle objects...eggs.
Illusive ethereal eggs.
Copyright ©2008 Sarah B. Paquette