I put on a tight dress and stare at my tummy for a second. I definitely don’t have a retroverted uterus. There was always a little bum; even when I’ve been on my most disciplined behaviour, my lower abdomen has always had a bit of a shape. A good nest. And I know the time will come. Ciprien’s friends have been quite intrusive lately with their questions about our status, but I’ll give them the benefit of doubt. I put my smile on and we are ready to go. On the way there, I check my period tracking app and show it to my husband. It’s my fertile window. He smirks back at me and we cannot wait to be back home.
Anna greets us and Joe offers us a glass of wine. We chit chat and sit down. Before they pop the question, I take the lead:
“Just last week I have taken ulipristal again. The sequence was better, but still not where we want it to be.”
“I am sure you will get there. Just stay at it and you will get the results you are working so hard towards.” Anna adds promptly.
“Yes, we have been both really good with our readiness and fitness scores and are keeping glucose levels fairly constant. Working hard on this.”, Ciprien says robotically.
“Well, we all know what _the_ Renaissance man said. Virtuous children are children of love.”
I try hard to not see this as a backhanded compliment. In the midst of their journey to parenthood, they embarked on more than ten attempts before finally settling on this one. Anna discarded of over ten not-good-enough clump of cells. Skipping the zygote sequencing was something only hippies did, disregarding the greater good and shirking social responsibility. Those people’s unwillingness to work harder, so that we can all live in a better world is nauseating to all of us, so I am not sure where does Joe’s remark come from. Is ten tries a low number? Should we have gotten a better result by now with our eight attempts? Luckily, we change the subject before I get too worked up about his comment and we enjoy the rest of the evening.
Back home we immediately fall asleep and in the morning I wake up thinking about how we should have tried last night. I reach out to the other side of the bed to Ciprien and remind him of our task. He doesn’t seem to be very enthusiastic, until I remind him that I am ovulating. Funny which words incentivise him. As if his little brain couldn’t make the connection between our task and me ovulating. I had to explicitly mention my fertile window. Must be his breeding fetish. I wish he would be more motivated by our common goal, rather than his kinks. Good thing that in this case chasing quick dopamine is aligned with our long term vision.
On my way to work, I pass by Boots and grab some more testing stripes. At my desk, I open the box and as if I have never bought it before, I read the instructions. The piece of paper unfolds into an immense thin map-like document:
This medical device is used for the purpose of early pregnancy detection and genome sequencing of your zygote. The device collects the data, transmits it to the app on your phone and our algorithm provides an approximate score for the viability of your pregnancy, as well as a predicted grade on the curve, considering physical and cognitive traits, as well as health status and longevity. The test is accurate 24 hours after conception. In order to be able to use emergency contraception, such as ulipristal acetate, do the test in the first five days after intercourse.
I have already memorised this text by heart. Rereading instructions and how the test works reinforces the placebo effect, so I glance through it again. This time, one phrase sticks with me. grade on the curve. What does on the curve exactly mean? It rings a bell and I vaguely remember my uni years. Statistics class and grading schemes. And then it hits me. Grading on the curve meant that there was no absolute points scheme, but a score relative to how your peers have performed. Top universities deploy this method in the spirit of healthy competition and to keep their students motivated. Considering that some individuals would intentionally tear out pages from borrowed library books to prevent others from accessing certain content, I question the healthiness of this competition, but it certainly got the best out of us. Some of us got very creative when it came to distracting their colleagues. Great grades meant focusing on studying hard, while deterring others from doing the same. I wonder if the double life everyone one of us was leading took a toll on our inner beings. In a way, if anything, it made sharing notes and helping each other out truly mean something. Everyone had maybe one or none friends they would partage knowledge with and that bond would last. The siblings you acquire through life.
I continue reading: Our algorithm has been trained on the largest available dataset and is updated daily with novel information collected live from around the world. This ensures the most accurate, top notch and best on the market quality of our predictions. It makes sense that they need to constantly feed it, if their scores are on the curve. Is daily a good amount of time, though? I wonder if their results would be different, should the algo only be actualised every week or perhaps even only every month? Would that better account for the natural evolutionary forces? It is only normal that a child born now is less gifted, than someone who will be conceived in ten years time. Innovation and progress compound and all that would show in the child’s genetic make up. I suppose this must work at a granular level, too, hence the chosen time frame. Trusting the science.
As I get on with my day, my mind keeps on slipping back to that leaflet. If everyone wants to conceive a baby better than the others, who are the others? The hippies are not even accounted for since they are not providing their data. Who decides to have the lower quartile or even the average babies? It is unfathomable to me that parents-to-be would not wish the absolute best for their offspring. Putting an human being in this world at a clear disadvantage, even before it is fully formed seems quite egoistic. For what? The satisfaction of becoming a parent? Technology has enabled us to predict and control so many aspects of our lives, it is foolish not to make use of these super powers. In this economy, success is difficult to achieve. We need not think of success, but already survival can be tough. Outperforming others is the only way.
Once at home, I swallow a fist full of supplements and hope this zygote will get all the nutrients it needs in order to score highly.
“Maya, how was your day?”
“Uneventful. I am glad to be home. What about yours, how is the brewing going?”
“Good. Joe was here and we tested the last batch. It’s still not where I would like it to be, but getting there.”
“Maybe focusing on the brand would be good, too. Start an insta page or something.”
“Not sure that is a good idea before having the recipe finalised. Besides, I am more of a product guy. I will get someone for the marketing once I am there.”
Ciprien has been wanting to launch his beer brand for a while now, but lately I get the impression he is content with consuming his stash, which is not necessarily a bad thing, but he continues to blabber about his plans that never seem to come to fruition. When I fell in love with him, I thought he was really hardworking and disciplined. He can be, but the closer we got, the more I realised his motivation is dependent on carrots on a stick. The grater picture and long term vision are never enough to compel him to move a finger. A split of the scores based on which half of the genes are performing well and which half is dragging the baby down would be quite useful. I guess they don’t want to take out the romance out of baby making.
Would I dump him, if I knew it is him the one not contributing? Love is one thing, but then we have the real world. It would be for the grater good to let each other go. I am sure he would find a more appropriate match and it would only be fair to let me find someone who can live up to my contribution to society. For now these contemplations are useless. I am hoping that by the time 46andyou will optimise their service, we will already have our baby. And no matter how much I would like to believe the world is black and white, describable with precise numbers and accurate equations, deep down there is this irrational affection and inclination that I feel towards him, despite all his faults. Or maybe even because of all his faults and quirks. He is like those Japanese vases that were once broken and then mended with gold. Imperfect, but beautiful.
“Ciprien, do you think we would love our child, if it were incomplete?”
“What do you mean with incomplete? Lacking a limb?”
“God no. What if it would not be great with music. Unable to play an instrument. Or really bad at sports.”
“Maya, love, we don’t need to worry about these things. That’s what we are testing for and the reason we keep trying. We will get our baby. Don’t be inpatient.”
“I’m not. But what if the perfect baby is a moving target and we are just never actually taking our shot?”
“Where does this all come from? You sound a bit like those hippies. Don’t you believe in science and technology? Long gone are the days when we need to rely on nature to deliver what we need. Humans are able to engineer their offspring and in this economy it would be foolish not to want the best traits for your own. If we, as parents, don’t make sure they will have an optimal starting point, who do you think will look after them? Why would the world look after them, if they are unable to add any value to it?”
I feel guilty. I do sound like one of those egoistic people who just want to be parents for the sake of it. A strange feeling overcomes me. It weights heavy on my chest and has a grip around my neck. It doesn’t come with any words or thoughts, but it just sits there on me, making it difficult to breathe. I want to cry, but I don’t know why. My body is simply disconnected. I reach to my phone and check my dashboard. As expected, my physiological stress is elevated, but I don’t understand why.
“Are we aligned on this, Maya? You cannot drop these things on me like this and then zone out.” He takes my phone from of my hand and sees my score. “Have you been drinking caffeine or why are you so stressed? You know this is not good. Did you take your supplements?” He checks my sleep score and goes on: “What’s wrong with you? Why have you been so agitated during the night? At this rate no wonder we are not getting anywhere.”
I just froze and am staring back at him, but can’t say anything. Without thinking, I walk to the bathroom and open the drawer where I kept all the two lined stripes. Suddenly, the drawer feels like a little sad cemetery for all the dreams I had, but never actually went for. The perfect moment never came. He follows me to the bathroom and with the most composure I could gather, I tell him:
“It is easy for you. Your body is not being bombed with artificial hormones in order to keep or lose those eggs. I know that’s my natural burden to carry, but it does get difficult at times. I’m sorry.”
He pats me on the shoulder and puts a fatherly smile on.
“You are doing great. Just keep going.”
I turn back to the mirror and stare at my empty gaze hoping I won’t fall into that abyss. I wonder what he sees in my eyes. Does he look into my eyes? Does he see my gold lined cracks? I scroll through the history of our tests and see the ups and downs of our scores. Overall there is a slight upwards tendency, but I don’t feel proud or even content about it. There must be something wrong with me, every other woman would be happy to be in this position. An other wave of guilt washes over me as I think about the fact that I was just criticising his lack of motivation. Or better said, the spring of his motivation. I am slowly losing mine. At least he holds onto his.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but I wake up at the same time we had sex yesterday. 24 hours are gone and it is time to pee on a stripe. Normally, I would jump out of the bed, but the weight on my chest grew and took hold of my whole body. I keep my eyes closed and wait for him to leave our bed. I procrastinate getting up so long, that I am running late for work and there is no time for the test.
“I’ll do it at the office.” I shout while leaving the apartment.
Out on the street, I feel that I can breathe a little deeper. The wind gently blows in my face and as I get further and further from home, I slip into a state of apathy. I reach for the test stripes in my bag and without thinking, I dump them in the rubbish. I don’t want to acknowledge what I am about to do, but I have made up my mind. As I sit down at my desk, I take a screenshot of previous results and send it to my laptop. With a few touch ups, I date it with today and increase the scores, so that it seems plausible, but leaves no room for considerations. Fake it till you make it. I send it to Ciprien and then delete the stupid app. He’ll never know.
Shortly after, my screen lights up and I read his reply:
You are a hero. There was no need for yesterday’s fuss.
And then: Will miss getting you pregnant, though;). Suddenly, I feel like vomiting and run to the toilet. It is way too early for this potential baby to make me puke, but Ciprien’s texts definitely did. Now I can only hope I am pregnant.
