Shawnee Barton
Our doctor blocks off time at the end of each week to deliver bad news. As my husband Mike and I wait, a train of normal-looking women and men go in his office and emerge deflated.

When it’s finally our turn, the doctor coldly tells us that based on a measurement of a hormone known as FSH, my 30-year-old eggs are no better than those of a 40-year-old. Then, he draws a picture on his whiteboard repeating what he just said. “Thanks,” I respond, “I got it.”

Clenching my jaw allows me to hold it together through the toughest conversation of my life, but once I reach the parking lot, I start heaving. The doctor’s demeanor and condescension crushes me as much as our situation does. The next day, we request our medical records and start looking for another doctor.
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