“Do you even know how much we dream about that?!”
I do. I dreamed it, too. And now, it’s here, devouring its chew toy.
Don't go blindly into the light!
They’re the nicest folks you’d ever meet. A baronial guy, early thirties, curly Santa Claus beard, but still dark. A vivacious wife; same benighted coloration, but otherwise a mirror opposite of the pervasive “dumb sexpot blond” stereotype. For one, not for her is the junior size 0. And therein lies the crux.
They are nurses. Hawking top sellers at the church bake-offs, Chris boasts of a particularly vicious urinary tract infection bringing two solitudes together by a grumpy old codger’s bedside. They even incorporated it into their wedding vows. Too bad I didn’t get to hear those. But the old codger did. The removal of his catheter and the full restoration of bodily functions hasn’t done much as far as the grumpiness quotient. Failed even the plentiful food.
Presumably plentiful, Chris and Vicky are the self-styled Iron Chiefs. They don’t often patronize restaurants; all but cross themselves passing fast food joints; never buy manager’s specials; stack up on the celebrity cookbooks. And their local specialty baker undoubtedly managed to get, at least, one child into private school on their dime.
Why not, the lovebirds heart kids.
Problem there, they seem to heart food more.
In PC terms, the couple is pleasantly plump. At 6′5″, Chris is 325. More importantly for this particular purpose, Vicky is 268lbs — at 5′1″. No less impressive is their cholesterol. At the last reading, Chris clocked out at 317. Vicky’s is a bit more modest 299. They are getting treatment. They homecook. They exercise — once a week. And they crave kids.
But Vicky has PCOS, an insidious condition, amounting to her not releasing her eggs. It can strike anyone — of the female persuasion. Recent research points to diabetes as a possible culprit. At the same time, it can creep up on its own.
Chris and Vicky are medically on-point pair. They did the rounds, aced all the tests. Dollars to doughnuts, her infertility is treatable, pronounced a star ObGyn group. And refused to prescribe her the meds. She’s too fat.
She needs to lose, at least, 70 pounds. And the sticking point, her cholesterol ought to go down to 249. Otherwise, a pregnancy is going to be too draining on both the mother and child. Medical ethics, capice?
“But what if I get pregnant on my own?,” demanded Vicky.
“Then, we’ll monitor you. But we aren’t going to be accessory before the fact.”
Medical malpractice insurance infamously hard-line, all the Ob’s of Vicky’s acquaintance announced they are playing it safe. Vicky buckled down — and proceeded to eat.
“When we’re stressed, we strudel-up. And, of course, Chris’s sausage. Chorizo, you know? Hey, you gotta stop by!”
Needless to say, both the cholesterol and weight didn’t budge. Well, Chris’s went up a bit, but as far as they are concerned, it is not a big deal. To reverse her persona non grata status, it’s Vicky’s being gauged like a ticking bomb.
And sure, she could easily snap up the good stuff online, sold off by successful mommies, mass produced in India, Mexico, Columbia — some, on the very same lines, off which the pharmacy-grade pills drop off — for the barely legal Internet outfits. But having seen her fill of ruptured ovaries, internal bleeding, surgically-relieved abscesses, translucent supertwins (three babies or more) tethered to ventilators to make up for their premature births, so far, she is munching to relieve her worries — and staying away from the medical section of the freegaragesale.net.
So, my question is, should medicine have a say in our procreation? Should government regs? Who is the judge? Is that to be solely the provenance of every physician, just the like the pharmacists these days fight for the right refuse to trade in Plan B unless they are the sole vendor for miles around?
What if we are pronounced too black? Too ugly? What if our IQs aren’t up to par? What if we simply don’t have the wherewithal to temporarily reverse the state-mandated sterilization administered the moment we emerge from the womb?
Er…what? The stuff that Gattaca’s made of? Oh sure! But interestingly, within the constraints of that particular universe, the principle largely worked.
Alternatively, Dr. James Grifo, professor of obstetrics and gynecology at the NYU School of Medicine, commented on the birth of California octuplets: “I am not a policeman for reproduction in the United States. My role is to educate patients.”
I guess we’ll see.
And now, I should probably go rescue the toy from my son. And knock on wood.
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