—Amanda Furrer—

I sat in the fertility doctor’s office—white walls, bare wooden desk, opaque window—alone. For a time, I imagined this moment would go exactly like this. I always knew I wanted to be a mom, with or without a partner. That is, until I met Paul two and a half years ago.

I had expressed concern to my primary care physician about turning 35—the benchmark age for “geriatric” pregnancy, according to the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists—and asked for a referral to a reproductive facility in our area. Despite having a partner, my original vision—sitting in a fertility clinic by myself—came true. Paul was called away on an extended work trip. So there I was, merely wanting to assess that everything was in working order, given my age. The fertility doctor asked about my hobbies. I didn’t contain my excitement when I told her how I spend my free time. Like a kid expecting a reward for getting straight As, I rambled about how I started running in high school and that I run marathons every year.

I expected a “good for you” for engaging in a healthy activity or a request for a shoe recommendation. Instead, she asked if I had a history of eating disorders.