I imagine my overies are a cross between a factory and bowling alley. The ovary office(s). First period. The team are Fresh faced girls in white coats and hair nets. They giggle and chat as they become familiar with their ‘charge’ – eggs stacked in incandescent rows like soft pink bowling balls.
The factory opens and one of the girls is given the privilege of bowling the first egg down the fallopian ally. She makes her selection, checks for imperfections, holds it aloft before sending it down – praying for a ‘strike’ with semen like pins.
The next room over is the ‘Womb Room’ where workers prepare the ‘bunker’ with food, water, blankets and entertainment – ready for a potential vip who will stay for 9 months.
The signal from head office is received that no guest will be arriving and the team swill out the bunker – and patiently start the process again.
516 periods minus 18 months where my two son and daughter occupied the bunker to begin their life’s journey. 498 shifts where loyal team members worked through the fertility ritual. Their faces aging, their muscles tiring, the eggs getting older and drier and flawed. Yet the womb room continues its shift as before – in vain hope that a another guest may arrives.
It’s over! signals head office. In the Ovary offices, the girls take a last look around. Tired and nostalgic. Not an egg to be found. Job done gals. Hang up your coats.
In the womb room – a final sweep and its lights out.