As Father’s Day is quickly approaching, and I’m drowning the sound of my biological clock ticking loudly in the echo chamber created by my lack of uterus – I’ve been startled, intrigued and then creeped-out by the following story that ran across on my RSS feeds: British Woman Eva Ottoson, 56, is heading towards ground breaking surgery to donate her womb to her own daughter.
It seems Sara was born without a uterus and her mother has agreed to up the ante from surrogacy to donation. As an innocent bystander on the whole reproductive scene, I was astounded to learn that while a woman’s egg-making factory shuts down at a certain age, her “uterus can be cranked back into action with hormone treatment” in preparation for an implantation.
I know I shouldn’t make everything all about me, but I’m still left wondering: “Where’s mine?” But alas, the Powers that Be decided I too was to be born without a womb. This could possibly be because “15 and Pregnant” wouldn’t have been cute in 1992 – or maybe because I’d have had to have more babies pulled out of me than a burning orphanage (and don’t do go all Jezebel on me: I’m just kidding. Be careful where you throw things at me: that joke is an antique!)
