Sixty-eight years old?
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I’ve gone out of my head.
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Robert always wanted a large family. After the children had grown up and left home, loneliness weighed more than he recognized.
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In recent years he began to talk about modern medical procedures, assisted fertilization, and women who had become mothers in old age.
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I always told him that we already have a beautiful family.
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But he was still looking for information.
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Three days before he died, he was convinced of me to go to a consultation.
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The doctor had explained that a pregnancy at my age would involve extraordinary medical risks and that he did not recommend such a procedure.
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I hadn’t started any treatment.
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Then Robert had a heart attack and died.
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I’d never talked to anyone about that visit.
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Why did you hide this from us? Daniel asked me.
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Because I was ashamed. I was afraid you’d think we’d lose our minds.
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The doctor intervened gently.
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“I understand why this memory disturbs you. But the consultation of twelve years ago cannot explain for itself what we see today. We need to know what the party is.
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That afternoon I did the tomography.
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Daniel stayed beside me, holding my hand in the waiting room.
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When the doctor came back with the results, his expression was serious.
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Mrs. Margaret, you are not pregnant.
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I felt such a great relief that I almost started laughing.
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But the doctor continued:
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— You have a very voluminous cystic formation that seems to start from the right ovary area. Contains a large amount of liquid and presses on the surrounding organs.
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At 80, my belly had grown so much that doctors were left shocked
