“We start then,” he advises. “We’ll do everything we can, Amy, to make your wishes come true.” I twist out a small smile, one I hope conveys my forced thanks.
***
I wrap my arms around Katie as both our tears fall. “I can’t believe I won’t be here to support you through this,” she says. “Maybe I should delay the start date. Just until you’ve completed your treatment cycle and know the result.”
Shaking my head, I lift her suitcase to her car. “Don’t be silly. You’re on the end of the phone. It’s not as if you’re moving to the other side of the world. It’s only Scotland. Terry is here with me; I’m not on my own,” I assure her. “I’ll miss you, though.” The words come steadier than I feel, but I don’t want her worrying.
She places her hands on my shoulders and looks me deep in the eye. “She would be so proud of you, Amz.” She’s talking about my sister, and it causes me to well up. “I’m here for you, remember that.”
With that, she climbs in her car and trundles off to her new adventure in Scotland, where she’s taken a job housesitting a mansion and its pets for six months while the owners are abroad. Her divorce was recently finalized, and she needs toleave London. I hope she finds what she’s looking for. I hope I do, too.
***
After weeks of tests, injections, and consultations, it’s time to transfer our fertilized embryo back into my womb. Overall, the procedure was as successful as it could have been. My low AMH meant the doctors didn’t expect much. No big harvest of dozens of eggs like the stories online. Just a handful, if I’m lucky.
In the end, I produced five. Three survived the process and were paired with Terry’s sperm with gloved hands. They called them embryos. I called them our last chance. The doctor showed us a photo of the strongest one. The winner. A cluster of cells that had the best chance of becoming our child. I felt guilty picking one.
Late July, they wheel me in.
As I lie in the operating room, the nurses lift my feet into stirrups to spread my legs wide. The thin hospital gown is my only protection against the world. It crackles every time I breathe. Metal clicks to my left, and someone says “ready” to someone else who isn’t me. Cold gel, lots of muttering, then movement between my legs. I stare at a stain shaped like a comma on the ceiling and try not to think.
No fewer than seven people are in the operating room. They move around me, fully covered in surgical gowns and masks. A group stands at the bottom of the bed, staring between my legs. I close my eyes, throw my head back on the pillow and count to one thousand.Please, just put my baby inside me. Please let one chance be enough.
Afterward, I’m taken to the recovery room and told to lie still for one hour.Don’t move, don’t pee.Tears fill my eyes at the shitty situation, knowing this is my last chance to be a mother,and according to the doctor, pissing early could risk that. But if I don’t, I swear my bladder may split. Necessity versus biology—what a ridiculous duel.
My bladder is bursting by the time I’m allowed to use the bedpan, then the bastard piss won’t appear. The clock ticks. Nurses scurry around. Nothing. You couldn’t make this shit up. When it finally appears, I cry from relief or fury, probably both.
Two weeks later, no period has arrived. I allow myself to hope, slightly. A few more days pass, and the nurse calls to schedule my appointment for blood tests.
“Please don’t use an over-the-counter test, Mrs. Trodden,” she says on the phone. “Whatever the outcome, we need to carry out the blood tests to finalize the results.”
It’s a Tuesday afternoon when we jump in the car to head to the fertility clinic. Terry holds my hand as we weave through the traffic, only releasing it to change gears. Every so often, he peeks over and gives me a soft smile. We’ve never discussed the possible result, but both of us know my period hasn’t arrived.
As we pull into the parking lot, my eye is drawn to the fertility clinic. The mirrored cube sits by itself, surrounded by manicured gardens. A small sign over the sliding doors is the only hint of what happens in this place. It is the epitome of discretion. Dreams made and unmade inside, and you’d never know.
Terry reverses into a parking spot and cuts the engine. We both sit for a moment. I catch sight of myself in the mirror, worn out by a pregnancy that hasn’t begun.
“You ready?” he asks.
Braving a look at him, I nod. My stomach twists with nerves. After pushing open the passenger door, I step out into the summer sunshine. A few drops of rain fall on us as we make our way to the building. My stomach knots again.Calm down. Breathe in, breathe out.Count the steps. Ignore the possibilities inside.
The sliding doors part, and we step through them into the familiar reception area. Inside, the clinic is as sleek and modern as its exterior, all chrome and glass. A young woman with a neat blonde bun and pale pink lips sits, tapping away animatedly behind a desk. She looks up as we approach and smiles. “Good afternoon. How may I help?” she says mechanically, as if reading from a cheat sheet.
“Mr. and Mrs. Trodden,” Terry replies, and she taps her keyboard meticulously.
“Take a seat, please. A nurse will be with you shortly.” She gestures toward a leather sofa adjacent to the desk. As we sit next to each other, Terry never lets go of my hand. His focus is trained between his feet, his breathing audible. I squeeze twice, signaling I’m here. He squeezes back. He is too.
The click of heels on tile causes us both to lift our eyes in the direction of the noise. A short woman wearing a white lab coat approaches us with a clipboard and pen poised.
“Mr. and Mrs. Trodden?” she says. Her demeanor is completely professional with barely a hint of a smile. “This way, please.”
We stand abruptly and scurry behind her. For a short woman, she covers a lot of ground with each step. I almost have to run to keep up. She leads us into a small consulting room. When I sit, the plastic chair is cold through my dress, like being twelve again sitting in the principal’s office awaiting your fate.
“Now, Mrs. Trodden, I’m going to take a blood sample. This will be analyzed in the next hour, and we will call you with the results.” Like a good girl, I roll up my sleeve, and she stabs me with the sharp metal. My blood fills the tube. She writes my name on a label and sticks it on. “I’ll call you soon,” she says and leaves.
Terry and I look at each other, perplexed and not knowing what to do. “Can we leave?” he asks.
“I think so.”
