Haritha T Chandran’s story takes us through the journey of a pregnant woman replete with drama, thrill, and suspense.
Thirty-five is an interesting age to be in. Blue veins unscrupulously warrant themselves to the surface, small aggregates of melanin manifest into the corners of your skin, and the skin itself starts to pucker up in places. She examined and tallied all the markings of her aging body, on her way to the hospital. Two new spots of discoloration, a small pimple have appeared in the fold of her underarm and is threateningly chafing the skin and irritating it, and her stress line has inched out a bit, nothing too drastic, nothing too dramatic.
The hospital´s fertility clinic looked like a lush spa center. It would be uncharacteristic for it to not look so chic since so much money flew into the department from couples beaming to buy an extra ounce of hope. Besides, the place had to look its part, a cotton candy dream of parental bliss.