“I’m not dying?”
“You’re not dying.”
“I think that’s all the questions I have,” she says, grinning.
“Ditto,” I say.“Since you already talked about the two-weeks thing.”
“Two weeks and call me if you have any unusual symptoms or increased pain, but I think you’re good to go in the morning,” he says.“Now, let’s talk a little more about the tumor.It’s very unusual.Rare, and rarer still for a young woman like yourself.”
“She’s special,” I joke.
“Unique,” Summer says.
“I’m getting that impression,” Dr.Goldberg says, his voice softer.“So, this kind of tumor is usually found in perimenopausal or menopausal women.When you arrived yesterday and had your blood drawn, I’d ordered a barrage of hormonal tests.Has your gynecologist ever spoken to you about this or recommended those tests for you?”
“I don’t have a gynecologist.Just a regular doctor.I…” Summer glances up at me and I smile to encourage her to continue if she wants.“I was a virgin until, well, until I was married, which was about a month ago.I never really have a need for a gynecologist.”
“Oh!”The doctor seems surprised, but then his brows knit together.“Well, uh, there’s nothing to be particularly alarmed about in terms of your overall health, but I do need to tell you that you’re presenting with substandard fertility.”
“What does that mean?”she asks.
The doctor reaches out and lightly touches Summer’s forearm.“It means that, in my professional opinion, it will be almost impossible for you to ever become pregnant.”
CHAPTER 55
Summer
The past twenty-four hours has been nothing but one long, nonstop pep talk.
Declan, family, friends, healthcare professionals, and just now the attendant at the private hangar bathroom—everyone’s assured me that being unable to conceive is not the end of the world.
“There are ways around that!”
“Adoption!”
“Surrogacy!”
“Nothing wrong with not having children at all!”
“It might even be a blessing, not a curse!”
So basically, I’m being told to pull myself together and smile.That it’s okay to go through life with one bum ovary and “substandard fertility”—which is one hell of a wishy-washy way of saying I’m barren.
If I were a horse, I’d be what’s called a “maiden mare,” the kind that can never be in foal.
Not the end of the world, sure, but the end of Declan’s world.His dreams.
Because rolling around my head are those words—he wantsat leastfour children.
I look into the mirror in the ladies’ room and shake my head.
I’ve put him through the wringer since we got blackout drunk and mistakenly married.I’m not a blessing in his life.I’m a fucking curse.A menopausal, twenty-something weight he thinks he’s obligated to carry for the rest of his days.
Yep, Declan sure caught the brass ring with this chick!
I sigh.In the mirror, I catch the concerned look of the bathroom attendant, who’s trying not to stare.
“I’m fine,” I tell her.
