The Missing Morningstar by Stacie Shannon Denetsosie

Author:Stacie Shannon Denetsosie
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Torrey House Press

CONCEPTION

Low sperm mobility. Dr. Canning diagnosed it in one breath— half sigh, half apology. He said it casually, as if we were socializing at a backyard barbeque. Matthew’s paper gown crinkled as he unstuck his bare thighs from the vinyl patient examination table. Bed, as the doctor called it. I’ve never called a vinyl bench a bed, but when you’re a doctor, your pay grade is above diction.

I didn’t understand Matthew’s diagnosis. Could the doctor not see the chest hair curling out of Matthew’s hospital gown or the thick layer of hair that extended from Matthew’s thighs to his ankles? Not once, from the day I met my husband, had I doubted his testosterone production. His European ancestry had given him a narrow nose to warm the air before it reached his lungs, and a dense Scottish beard that budded centimeters long every morning. Matt’s mom was into genealogy, found royal blood in their family tree: Mary Queen of Scots and her son James the First, who steadfastly ordered minsters to reorganize the Bible, creating the King James version, and paving the way for killing innocent women via witch trials.

When we first started trying to conceive, we were lighthearted. Giggling under the covers, making jokes about forgetting to buy condoms. After twelve months and a couple UTI’s later, I wondered if I had an “unhospitable environment.” Were my antibodies torpedoing his swimmers like a game of Battlestar Galactica? Or maybe I was so dedicated to decolonizing that my Navajo body rejected Matt’s Euro-sperms. No, apparently my cervix, uterus, and all of it was fine—in great running shape—and I’d already come to terms once we married, that we wouldn’t have a full-blooded Navajo baby. Although it did not plague me as much as it did when we were dating when I’d had this reoccurring intrusive thought where my blonde haired blue eyed great-great-granddaughter would casually mention to her freshman college roommates that her great-great-grandmother was a Navajo princess. I accounted for this. I accounted for all of it. Tribal papers, CDIB’s, a cradle board, tiny sterling silver turquoise rings complete with mini squash blossom set. Low sperm mobility, I hadn’t accounted for.

“Do you have any questions?” Dr. Canning had asked, his two gray pale hands clasped together.

Matthew’s eyes bore into mine.

I sat back in my chair, sucked in a breath between my teeth and exhaled sharply.

“What are our options?” I asked, although I knew our options.

Weeks before, from the comfort of our mattress, Matt and I had discussed the options at length. My chin rested on his bare chest, my fingers interlaced with curly dense hair that grew there, he brushing my shoulders gently with two fingers as his brows knitted.

“I think we should adopt.” His lips parted momentarily so that I could see the shiny inner pulp.

“I want to adopt, too, but that could take years.” The idea of not having a baby sooner than nine months ached within my empty womb like the disappointment of a menstrual cramp after a month’s attempt to conceive.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.