Diagnosed

It’s late July and the plumeria is falling in white, perfumed tears. I clear salty rivers from flushed skin. Rivers of relief. Of frustration. I imagine a small pomegranate pressing into my womb. Eggs encased in sacs of fluid. Flushing crimson in monthly cycles. Or not. Twenty years of knowing. But not. Doctor after doctor telling me I am fine. I am fat. Go on a diet. Don’t worry about it. We cannot help you. And so I stopped seeing them altogether. Barren while I buy clothing from the maternity department. My waistline inflating so quickly it stretched and scarred my skin. The unsolicited advice. Calories in, calories out. The loss of style. Reduced to flowy layers and elastic. To hide. Shops that say we have nothing for you here. Affirmation after affirmation that my body does not belong. Standing in a closet, at the bottom of a swing. Petals when I tell my spouse something is wrong. I feel like a man. I want to be a woman. I’ve lost my femininity. Or did I ever have it? And then the hair fell out. Another doctor after so many years. But my blood was clear. Sometimes we can’t know why, he says. And life moved on. Until now. Right here. Hiding waxy patches of scalp beneath a scarf. Pressing the ultrasound close to my chest like a soured gift. Words printed on a report that finally confirmed what I knew that I knew all along. Today, I wish I could go back and tell her not to give up so easily. None of this was imagined.