He is between things that summer, in that little flat without carpets. Well, it has carpets, rolled up against the wall, sometimes used as a seat by visitors, but he has never quite been able to afford to fit them. It is surprisingly expensive- once a friend offered to pay then, on seeing the price, quite reasonably balked.
He spends a lot of time in the flat, in part because of lack of money. More than once he walks five miles to an appointment, not quite able to spare the bus fare, let alone the price of the tube. There are a lot of appointments that summer: ultrasounds every few days, blood tests, aside from the other routine ones which are finally coming around.
Later, when the windfall comes in, he buys a travelcard at the beginning of the week. Even if it takes most of the money from his budget it means he can get into town, can go to the university library to which he has temporary access.
It’s a hot summer. The photos which he takes of it show it as blindingly bright- flowers emerging from concrete by the River Thames. The concrete white in the sunlight, the petals too bold,or translucent. The photos of himself, hair too long, squinting into the camera.
He’s 28, which is a bit too old to have such a summer. Its one of a few where most people he knows are otherwise occupied: those with which he has graduated, who are a bit younger, are being subsumed into work, saving up to travel, or are travelling, enjoying a last summer. Those his own age, thereabouts, have their own rhythms they have been in for some time.
It’s not as bad as the last one, at least: the constant calls to government offices, the endless appeal which lasted the entire time, from the very end of his university term to just before it resumed. The dread which came with it. This time there’s a windfall a few weeks in, and he can live on that. Student finance had underpaid him, somehow, over the past three years. He is debating whether he can buy a 99p e-book when he finds out, knowing that he is within touching distance of his overdraft limit. He checks his bank account and sees that, far from being a few pounds away from the maximum overdraft, it is well into the black. He panics, phones student finance who seem quite baffled by why he is concerned, why he needs to have confirmation that it is supposed to be there. He’ll get a letter in time. He feels a mix of panic and relief until the letter arrives, settling into relief. He does buy the e-book, though, one of those cheap dated translations of Plato.
He allows himself to buy a drink after a trip to the library, reading through the reading list he has been sent, trying to cover what he can before his masters starts in the October of that year. He can’t take books out, and often pain doesn’t really abate until about noon, even if he is good at taking his painkillers and resting. And using the pool and sauna in the council leisure center a short walk from the flat. Sometimes it is an awkward trade off, him limping with the stick until he can get into the steam then the water and get the relief that offers.
Back in January, in the small fluorescent lit room at the clinic, at an appointment he had never thought he would reach, he had been asked if he wanted children. He wasn’t sure what to say: the question felt somewhat alien. He had been single for nearly two years and truth be told, he wasn’t sure if the girlfriend before that had really counted- she had never introduced him as her boyfriend, had seemed slightly ashamed. There had been a chap last year, in the summer and autumn, with whom he had lost touch, who had resurfaced with a serious girlfriend acquired in the meantime. The usual stream of Tinder and OK Cupid based dates. Nothing which even led to having to buy a particularly significant Christmas gift, let alone children. If the right person were to come along, if they were to want children, sure, he’d consider it. He doubted right now if they would ever come along.
“You don’t sound sure” said the doctor, saying he would fill in the form for egg freezing. That it would be covered, it would take a few months, and once that had happened they could go further. It would take a few months, he wasn’t sure how long.
Which meant that he had finally been summoned to an appointment at the beginning of that strange, in between summer, in the weeks before his final undergraduate coursework was due. He took a coach to London and sat in the pastel waiting room alone. It was the first of several appointments, before the process began in earnest.
He gets used to the internal ultrasounds, which he always flinches at. You have to make sure to attend with a full bladder and if you’ve been delayed, or the appointment has, the wait is excruciating. The technicians are nice, chatty. They seem impervious to the fact that they are holding something in his vulva. That in another context this would be sex. (Although they are considerate when it comes to apologizing as they press too hard on his bladder.)
He worries, at first, about giving himself the injections, when they are finally prescribed. It is the kind of process which scares him. They are only into the fat, not the muscle at least. While he winces beforehand, and it takes some time to pluck up the courage, he manages.
Then he sits on the slightly battered chaise longue he has had since he moved into the flat, six years ago, and he watches the programme his friend has recommended. A balding man in his seventies, with the kind of plummy voice which even the very posh no longer have, stands by the Seine and talks about the collapse of civilisations. About how terrifying a Viking prow would have seemed, about how close the glory of Rome might still have felt in some post Roman settlement, towards the end. About beauty, too. It becomes a ritual, sitting in his carpetless living room watching this: filmed nearly fifty years ago, when colour, at least for something like this, was novel.
Often he has to pause- his attention wanders, or he feels sore, or he feels compelled to text the friend who recommended it, to make an observation. To be pleased that a work of art or an author he admires has been mentioned. Or to comment on Sir Kenneth Clark’s suits- like his voice, something from another time.
He goes to the library, reads through his reading list. Every few days he has a scan. In the evenings he gives himself his injection and watches Sir Kenneth Clark speak about great men and their works. He reads the memoir of a gay art critic which had caused something of a stir when it was published. The scandalous bits are as expected, but otherwise, he finds it heartening.
He is weepier than usual in these weeks, but he cannot tell if it is the hormones or the state of in between in which he currently is. He won’t be able to confirm the funding for his masters until the end of the summer, he’ll start the hormones, the proper ones, once the eggs are extracted. He’s leaving the country for a week for the first time in decades, soon. It’s all terribly strange.
The knowledge that he is most likely not having children creeps up on him, slowly. Fertility clinics are strange places, full of people who, quite reasonably, want that one mundane thing. He’s never known how to answer the question about whether he wanted children before. He knows people who voice elaborate, excessive disgust, he knows people who talk about an alien feeling of broodiness. He feels neither. In those weeks, as he gives himself his injection, then the ritual relaxation afterwards, whatever his own approach is, a curious lack of desire, begins to solidify. He is doing this so he has no regrets once he starts the testosterone. So he has preserved his fertility. And perhaps, so that he knows it is something that he does not want.
The extraction is delayed slightly by his BA graduation- that is scheduled for the Friday, so the extraction will be the following Monday. He will be relieved by the end of the injections, the end of worrying he will break the vial, or do it wrong. He’ll get his fridge back, finally. He’s told he seems to have responded well to the hormones, that they should be able to harvest quite a few.
He’ll not be allowed to go home alone, after, so he tries several friends, to see who is available to take him home in a taxi. One or two almost are, then aren’t, and then one is. They arrange to meet at the hospital. He warns his friend that he might be woozy afterwards.
He’s awake as they extract the eggs. It’s not as uncomfortable as the internal ultrasounds- the sedatives mean he is distracted, and he can feel the presence, but not particularly bad pain. It is strange, of course, but any procedure where multiple people look down upon you and examine your most intimate places is.
He’s sure, as it finishes, that he’s never having children. The thought that has been coalescing through the last weeks is finally solidly there.
It’s a relief. A start, somehow, of the world opening up a little.
He has to wait, for a while, until they think he is fit to be discharged. He gets dressed. His friend comes to meet him.
His friend buys him coffee and a sandwich, then books them an Uber back to his flat. The sedation and painkillers they’ve given him mean that the pain in his joints has lifted, rather than just being dulled. He’s not as muddle headed as he feared, but he is a bit giggly, in the taxi and as they sit drinking coffee in his flat. After a while, his friend has to go. He goes to bed, then rises after a few hours, and watches some more of Sir Kenneth Clark.
He makes a GP appointment to arrange his first dose, in two weeks’ time.
His world is open, now.
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