Six years ago, while I was in graduate school, I began to notice signs in the hallways of the medical school where one of my classes was held. These signs indicated that the ova of healthy women--possibly my ova--were worth about $2,500. The numbers beamed at me like the neon signs of Miami beach. Two thousand and five hundred dollars, during those very lean graduate school years, would have solved an immediate cash flow problem. On first blush, the inconvenience of screening and the discomfort of the procedure seemed a reasonable trade for the benefits of a financially secure summer. Twice a week for four months I walked past those signs. And each time I found myself pressing questions that plumbed deeper in meaning than my initial utilitarian calculations. What did it mean to sell these of my body? Did it matter that these particular pieces could give rise to life? Would the life created be related in some significant way to me? Would this life be considered a sibling of mine, or even a child of mine? Would I some day in the future, pregnant with my own child, regret having made the decision to sell my eggs? I was struck by how seriously I was considering the value, symbolic and otherwise, of my eggs. Never before had I placed much value on my body's reproductive capacity. In fact, I had always viewed it with a sort of trepidation, a dangerous capacity to be kept in check and under my careful control. My monthly shedding of tissue--a cyclical reminder of my capacity to bear children--passed with little notice, occasionally begrudged, certainly never celebrated. So why not just go for the money? Why was it that I, who had never before expressed much sentimental attachment to these pesky ova, was unwilling to sell them? The answers that slowly surfaced over the months are not entirely satisfactory, lack syllogistic clarity, and remain somewhat meditative. I think that for the first time in my life I experienced the mysteriousness of reproduction. For the first time, I began to appreciate my body's monthly offering: twenty-three chromosomes, bound tightly and efficiently in a tiny fragile shell. That this fragile package when united with its gametic counterpart could survive a rigorous meiotic and gestational journey was, well, compelling. The biologic potential of this human material to throw into being another singular human, an entity that would transcend its material origins, began to give me pause. Complex and unique individuals were born out of this highly improbable, chance event, and this suggested to me that these precursors to life deserved my thoughtful stewardship. But did stewardship preclude selling? After all, people sell all sorts of things that are importantly a part of them. We are encouraged to develop and maintain personal and professional capacities and talents so we can do just that: market them. People cultivate and hone their analytic capacities, their athletic and musical talents, their entrepreneurial know-how, even their physical beauty, to earn a fee, make a living. Why not my eggs? My eggs seemed importantly different from any capacity, talent, or quality that I possessed or could cultivate. Ova, after all, came with my female package, the result of plain luck. By virtue of my being born as a female, with intact and functioning ovaries, I ovulate once a month. Aside from occasional cramps, no work, sweat, or toil was invested in this feature of my being. I did not earn them. They did not seem mine, in the sense of ownership. I own my car, a 1999 silver Beetle; I own my couch, a 1949 silk chartreuse number; I own my collection of no-longer-in-print Peanuts books. These things were available for purchase, which allowed me to attend to their quality, fabrication, design, and rarity. My payment for these things permits me to judge their functional, ornamental, and sentimental value. If I wish, I can reject them at any point for failing to meet my standards or replace them when newer, better models come along or when my tastes change. …