“Hold very still now,” one of the attending nurses told me.
She didn’t have to. It was our fourth IVF attempt, and I knew better than to fidget around.
To stop myself from contemplating the inherently bizarre nature of the transfer procedure, I pondered our chances of success instead. Which then led me to think—in a mental somersault that I am sure was just as common among fertility patients as it was gloomy—that I would have quite liked it if the whole world would just collapse. After all, the chances of the Earth’s collision with a meteorite or the chances of a good old alien invasion had to have been better than my chances of getting pregnant. So that was something I could reasonably hope for, right? We all have our fantasies. How was I to know that mine would come to such horrifying fruition?
“And that’s it.” The doctor extracted the catheter gently, and I heard Petr breathe a sigh of relief as I unhooked my legs from the stirrups.
As the doctor peeled off her rubber gloves, I saw there was gauze wrapped around her right hand.
“What happened there?” Petr asked, beating me to the question.
“Oh.” The doctor rubbed her hand, flustered. “Well, a patient bit me during a follicle scan if you can believe it. I’ve never hadthathappen before.”
“Well, those stimulation hormones can be a lot,” I said mildly. “Perhaps the patient just had a more extreme reaction?”
I rolled down my shirt to cover my nether regions. As if there were any point in such a pretence of modesty. After all, the room was full of people familiar with my private parts. Taken out of context, this could make me sound like I led a more interesting life than I did. And yet, sadly, the only person present that I had shared a bed with was likely the one least acquainted with my reproductive anatomy.
The doctor bid us goodbye after galloping through instructions for the next two weeks: no alcohol, no heavy lifting, no baths, and generally no to all the things that a potentially pregnant woman should not indulge in. After our first transfer, I followed these religiously, but with each failed try it was getting harder and harder to convince myself that these were anything but an utterly useless exercise in self-restraint.
Even the doctor went through these notes somewhat unfocused, giving me the impression that she saw little point in them. Not that I blamed her. She knew even better than I did just how much the odds were not in my favour.
“Reaction to the hormones?” Petr hissed out of the corner of his mouth as soon as I had re-emerged from the changing room. “What the hell, Renata?!”
“What?” I asked quietly, knowing he wouldn’t want to be overheard by the other patients, who sat in the bright orange chairs along the wall, awaiting their turn.
“Nothing, just the way you always seem to excuse unwarranted violence.” He shook his head disapprovingly. “You cannot honestly think that medication side effects are an excuse enough to assault your doctor. It sounded like you were having a laugh.”
Anger bubbled up inside me, and I barely managed to suppress the urge to point out that, unlike me, he had no first-hand experience with said medication. As tempted as I was to chew him out, I was too drained for a row.
As we passed through the airy corridor, I tried my hardest to ignore the testimonials on the walls: stories of happy outcomes of the clinic’s treatments accompanied by pictures of delighted couples with their babies. Still, I could not help but wonder sadlyif maybe, just maybe, this time we would finally be able to join them with a picture of our own.
Balling my hands into fists, I counted to ten before replying as levelly as was humanly possible, “I never said it was an excuse. Only that, perhaps, the patient had an extreme reaction. The doctor didn’t seem bothered either way.”
But even so, uncertainty crept into my thoughts.DidI offend the doctor? I hoped not. I liked her. She was well over fifty but sported a purple-dyed bob, which Petr took for a sign of bad taste, but I saw rather as a mark of rare gumption. I didn’t want her to think less of me.
“In any case, it’s not worth fighting about,” I pleaded with Petr.
“We’re not fighting! We’re just having a discussion. Don’t be so defensive all the time,” he snapped back, not looking at me as he strode on.
My attraction to men much taller than myself left me at something of a disadvantage during arguments. I was obliged almost to trot to keep up with Petr, craning my neck uncomfortably to be able to discern his facial expression. The fruits of my effort were negligible, since Petr’s visage was composed into its customary mask of neutrality, his hazel eyes mild and his snub nose giving off a somewhat false air of cute harmlessness.
The automatic door slid shut behind us with a whoosh, and we left the building of our fertility clinic behind us. We walked towards our car, parked alongside a road lined with melancholy poplar trees. I breathed deeply through my nose, savouring the fresh, leafy smell of spring in the air. Despite the sounds of traffic reaching us from the main road just beyond a corner, I felt calm serenity wash over me. It was done, and I would not need to step inside that blasted clinic for at least two weeks.
“How about we just cancel dinner and head home?” I suggested to Petr, exhausted by the very thought of having to pretend there was no tension between us for the duration of the evening.
I would have preferred to go to my archery range and unleash my frustration on a practice target, the bow string vibrating in my hand and my head blissfully clear.
“I have so much work to do anyway,” I added before Petr could respond. “I still have about ten thousand words left, and the deadline is in a week. I could use the extra time to work.”
I chose not to say just how much I would prefer to spend the evening absorbed in the historical romance I was translating. With only a few sentences, I would be transported to the coarse yet alluring world of Vikings, conquering English lands, and fair maidens alike. A most welcome change of scenery from my own life.
“Forget about it. You already have the most unhealthy work-life balance of anyone I know.” Petr finally looked at me over the hood of our teal-coloured Skoda. “It’s your birthday today! I would feel like a right sod if we didn’t go out tonight.”
No. He would not. He would, however, look bad on the various social media he frequented if he did not share the obligatory, annual photo of taking me out for a birthday celebration.
“I would rather not go,” I admitted, lowering my own gaze. “I don’t feel like celebrating. After all, what really is there to celebrate? The fact that twenty-six years ago my mother did something I will likely never get to do myself?”
“Why does it always have to come down to that?” Petr groaned as he sank into the driver’s seat.
