One afternoon I mustered the courage to call my advisor’s gynecologist. I explained the situation and asked for an appointment. The doctor was very kind and saw me that same day, fitting me in between patients. I remember that his office was on the fourteenth floor of a skyscraper that didn’t have a thirteenth floor. Everything was white and obsessively antiseptic. The relaxing melody of the background music only worsened my nerves. It was a struggle to wait my turn and not run into the street, but I managed. Once inside I let the nurse put me through the routine exam: height, weight, blood pressure. Afterward the doctor I’d spoken to on the phone came in. A man of about fifty who reminded me, god knows why—maybe for the white coat or because my advisor had recommended him as well—of Greta’s veterinarian. With a smile on his lips and that paternal sweetness those in his profession often possess, he explained the procedure to me. And at the end he added:

“You have to come on an empty stomach and with someone who can take you back to your house. Even though I don’t use general anesthesia, you’ll be drowsy and weak.”

As I listened to him I thought of Greta, who at that time must have been lying on the armchair in the living room, soaking up the afternoon sun. I wordlessly nodded a few times, including when the gynecologist took out his appointment book and suggested a date for the procedure. I paid for the visit and went out to face the most desolate evening of my entire life, an evening of sweltering heat, and no matter where I was it was hard to breathe.

When I got home, Greta was there at the door, expecting her normal session of cuddling. This time she let me rub her belly, already considerably swollen. As I did I asked myself if I also had some mission in life. I didn’t come up with an answer.

That night I tried calling my advisor to tell her about the visit to her doctor and that, despite his friendless and general kind disposition, I had decided to forgo his services. I would not be going to Princeton. I also decided not to go forward with the paperwork for the grant or worry about anything besides my pregnancy. Later, maybe in September, I’d start working on a doctorate. But here, at the same university in which I was currently enrolled. However, that night Marisa’s phone rang again and again with no answer. I had no choice but to leave a message asking her to call me back.