We all know someone who struggles with decision-making. Black or patterned? Indian or Chinese? I cannot possibly choose. Please don’t make me choose!
I am that someone; staring at menus unable to decide, considering each meal cautiously, as if my life depended on it.
The menu is the future of the embryo and as awful as it sounds, for a moment I wish I didn’t have a choice.
Fluctuations between fantasies of motherhood, anger, shame and resignation, I’ve gone through every possible scenario over the last ten days and nights: family life; strong independent single mother; this isn’t the right time; is there ever a right time, giving life for adoption.
It is growing inside me and my flesh is in bloom. So are the roses. Johanna and I go on a walk in Kingsdown. We pick up roses, I talk, and she listens. She understands. I am not alone in this.
I cannot possibly choose.
Give me a set menu.
Anything but beetroot.