The saddest picture in my world

Before I was born my parents bought a chair to rock me in. It was a typical rocker for its time, with a turned spindles to support the back, and curved arm rests. It was painted black with antique gold trim and flourishes of apples and pears and flowers. Over the years, the paint was rubbed off the hand rests and the rockers had to be replaced, but my parents kept that chair. It was for me to rock my own children in one day. It turns out the never-ending visit of Aunt Flo is the result of one of my ovaries miss-firing. This is a relief, considering there could have been more sinister causes, like benign or malignant tumors. In the process of arriving at her diagnosis, my OBGYN performed an ultrasound. There on the screen was a dark gray image of my perfectly healthy, empty uterus. I'd never had an OBGYN ultrasound before. I'd always expected that when I did have one, it would be so I could observe the beating of a small heart inside me, and that I would get a series of little photos that would reveal the curve of a head, the little Hang Ten image of two tiny feet. The first picture in my baby's album. At the end of today's appointment, after my doctor explained her recommendations for treatment, she printed out a strip of images, zipped them briskly from the machine and waived them briefly in front of me. "For your chart," she explained, and left me to wad up the blue paper sheet I'd been covered with, get back into my black and lavender work clothes, and resume my hectic day. I was grateful for my health, but there wasn't time to think beyond that. Now, it's a half hour into tomorrow and I can't sleep. A month ago, when my younger sister mentioned the need to clean out the garage of my parents' house so tenants could park there, I asked her not to sell the rocking chair. "Please take it home," I said. "And rock your children in it."