Yes, we know about IVF, which is not exactly cheap. Just say what you mean, Doc. Enough with all the fluff.
‘In twenty-five per cent of couples, fertility problems can’t be explained, but don’t let that worry you.’
That onedidhit a little deeper, and made me try to tone down my internal monologue. We must have been his last couple at the end of his day, and he was still taking the time to try and explain all the details and reassure us as much as possible.
‘Even if we don’t get the result we want, this doesn’t mean you can never have kids. A lot of couples receive diagnoses that make them feel like they’ll never be able to conceive naturally, and then a year later,bada bing, bada boom, we have a little one on the way. So please, do not fret, okay?’
I nodded and reached out for Gareth’s hand. The tension of the moment had been overridden by the fact that this well-respected, sixty-something doctor had just uttered the words‘bada bing, bada boom’. Gareth grabbed hold of my hand and wrapped his fingers softly around mine. He wasn’t as hyperactive as he had been in the waiting room; the reason we were actually here had slowly begun to sink in.
‘Did you bring the sample, Gareth?’ the doctor asked with a beam. He was asking for Gareth’s cum with the most wholesome of smiles, and somehow, it wasn’t creepy. I was in awe of the sheer audacity of this man.
‘Oh, I was meant to bring it from home?’ Gareth asked.
‘Yes, the receptionist should have said. Not to worry, though. I’m sure there will be a sample room going free. I’ll just grab someone,’ the doctor said as he strolled to the other side of the room to call for a nurse.
‘Damn it,’ Gareth said to himself, realising he was now about to face the terror of the wank rooms by himself.
‘Just think of me in a ponytail,’ I said softly to him. ‘And a tight sports bra?’
He gave me one last look and nodded, determined to succeed, as a rather attractive, well-proportioned nurse opened the door and escorted Gareth out.
He’d better still be thinking about me as he’s tugging it, I thought.
‘Shall we get started?’ the doctor said, and I gave a silent thumbs up as I hopped onto the seat, pulled up my shirt, and placed my feet on the stirrups while he prepared the probe.
‘As you probably know, this will feel a little cold,’ the doctor said as he spread the gel across my belly and began to scan. I took a look at the murky grey images that were swirling around on the screen in front of him. I had no idea what he was looking for, so tried to judge by his subtle facial reactions how it was going.
‘So, what do you do for a living, Francesca? Anything interesting?’
He was making small talk.
‘I’m a social worker in child protection – I mostly deal with foster kids. You?’
The balls on this doctor to just give a gracious and tender laugh back to me, and not look at me as if I hadn’t said the most idiotic thing he had heard today.
‘I always wanted to be a painter, truth be told, but my mother ushered me into the family profession. Although your work does sound very rewarding.’
‘It is,’ I said, carefully studying the man to distract myself. He had the most excellent skin. As he squinted his eyes to look more intensely at the monitor, I tried to gauge any nuance from his reactions.
There was a silence, which may have only lasted a few moments, but I felt the need to fill it.
‘How are my tubes, Doc?’ I asked.
‘From what I am looking at here, Francesca, you have very healthy ovaries and your fallopian tubes don’t seem to have any abnormalities, which is a very good sign,’ he said, removing the probe.
‘Oh, I bet you say that to all the girls,’ I quipped. As he began to tell me about an HSG – to the layperson: an X-ray to determine if my fallopian tubes were blocked – I heard my phone vibrate on the side. It could be Gareth, maybe needing a bit of motivation, I figured. I tilted the phone up to take a precarious glance at the caller ID. It was Angus.
‘I’m so sorry, I need to take this,’ I said, and before Dr Patel had a chance to say anything, I scooped up my phone and pressed it to my ear.
‘Angus? What’s wrong? What’s happening?’ I asked frantically, trying to yank my shirt down and scramble out of the chair.
‘Fran, I’m fine. Don’t worry,’ Angus said on the other end of the line, cool as a cucumber. ‘Calm down. You always panic.’
I wasn’t convinced. He never rang me first.
‘Angus, tell me what’s wrong, right now.’
I heard him take his signature long, exasperated sigh before he began to speak.
