She looked up from the tablet with a soft smile. “You mentioned at your last appointment that you wanted the device removed because you and your husband were hoping to get pregnant?"
“Yes, and we’ve been trying,” I whispered, smoothing my palm down the front of the paper gown. “But nothing yet.”
Dr. Hennessey offered a nod of understanding, her expression calm. “How long have you been tracking?”
“Since the removal. So…six months now.” I tried to smile, but it felt brittle. “I know it’s probably too early to be worried.”
“It’s a common concern,” she said, her voice kind. “But try not to stress just yet. We generally advise giving it a full year before we start to worry.”
I nodded, though the ache in my chest didn’t ease.
“For most couples trying after IUD removal,” she continued, “conception occurs within twelve months. About seventy to seventy-five percent of the time.”
“That’s good to know,” I murmured, though I didn’t feel any better. Facts were comforting until you were living in the thick of it. By yourself because the man who should be supporting you through the process was nowhere to be found.
“If you’d like,” she added gently, “we can run a basic hormone panel today. Just to check the usual markers and give you a little peace of mind. Totally your call.”
I hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
“Okay. We’ll have the nurse come back for a blood draw once we’re done here.” She smiled again, but my lips only trembled in response. “And we’ll schedule you to come back in six months, but please call for an earlier appointment if you get pregnant before then.”
I tried to not let the if—instead of when—get to me while she did a quick physical exam before leaving me alone again.
There was a knock on the door a few minutes later, and a different nurse stepped inside with a tray. “Hi there, Callie. We’ll get that bloodwork started, okay?”
I nodded, though I was already bracing myself.
The paper beneath me crinkled as I adjusted my arm, my skin suddenly clammy. I tried to focus on the wall, staring at the poster across from me without really taking anything in. But the sight of the tourniquet being unrolled sent a prickle of unease down my spine.
“I, um... I’m not great with needles,” I admitted.
“You’re not alone there.” The nurse flashed me a reassuring smile. “I’ll make it quick, though.”
I nodded again, throat tight.
When she tied off my arm, I clenched my other hand in my lap so hard my nails dug into my palm. My heart was pounding, but I kept still as she swabbed the inside of my elbow.
Noticing how pale I’d gotten, the nurse asked, “Do you have any ear buds with you? Sometimes listening to music helps my patients.”
“Good idea.” I fumbled through my purse with my free hand, pulling out my phone and ear buds. She waited until music was blasting in my ears at full volume before touching me again.
I breathed a little easier, trying to stay calm as the anticipation built.
Knowing what was coming always made me tense. The sting. The pressure.
Ethan and I had talked about it when we decided to try for a baby. There were so many blood draws during pregnancy, but he had promised to be there to hold my hand. That I wouldn’t have to be alone. To be there for every appointment, every needle, every moment along the way.
But he’d already failed before the journey had really begun.
I bit the inside of my cheek, blinking fast as the needle slid in. The pinch quickly shifted to a slight burn, and I squeezed my eyes shut. It was nothing compared to the sting of Ethan’s absence, though.
Luckily, the nurse kept her promise about being quick because it was over before a single tear slid down my cheek.
If only my husband had followed through the same way.
The moment I stepped back into the waiting room, I noticed the seat I’d used before was empty. So was the one next to it.
I stared at it for a long time before moving to the line to schedule my next appointment.
