compliance
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Huntington Hospital looked like a hotel, a huge peach building spanning a block, with a turnaround island and two towers connected by a footbridge over the entrance. I don’t remember if there was a fountain, but it definitely seemed like there was a fountain. An easel held a sign outlining maternity ward visiting hours. A big promotional poster showed a new dad cuddling a dark-haired baby. Someday, I thought, maybe, maybe we would be here—or at another hospital—to visit our baby and his/her birthmother . But on Thursday, the day of my ovary-nixing surgery, it was just cruel. I sat quietly with AK in the pre-op room. A blonde, middle-aged nurse named Becky asked me to pee in a cup: the standard-issue pregnancy test they give to every woman of child-bearing age prior to any surgery. It was time for my big performance. “Is there something I can sign instead?” I asked. “I think so, but I’ll have to ask your doctors. They might refuse to do the surgery.” “I mean,