Sienna’s face fell. “Because you don’t want someone else’s mistake?”
A baby was never a mistake. Megan closed her eyes, praying for composure, then placed her hand on Sienna’s arm. Sienna looked up, her eyes begging for acceptance.
“Getting pregnant at seventeen probably hasn’t been your finest moment. But this baby isn’t a mistake. It’s the answer to a couple’s prayers. I’ve prayed for a baby every day for five years. If you place your baby, I guarantee that couple’s been doing the same.” Megan’s voice warbled.
“You’re exactly the kind of mom I want for my baby. Would you ever think about being that couple?”
Yes! Megan wanted to yell. A baby was right there. Sienna was practically offering him or her to Megan. She could stop taking Follistim. Cancel the cycle. But the sick pit in her stomach told her it wasn’t the right choice.
Megan closed her eyes, praying for strength. Let her baby be mine, Megan begged. I’m so tired. I want to get off this ride.
You know her baby isn’t yours, a voice whispered to her soul.
But it could be! We can do in vitro in a few years.
The baby isn’t yours, the voice gently repeated.
Megan clutched her fists in frustration. I know. But why?
“Megan?” Sienna asked. Megan snapped back to the present. Sienna’s eyes were hooded, uncertain.
Megan put a hand over her heart. “When you find the right couple for this baby, you’ll know right here. I want it to be me and Trent so much. But it’s not.”
“I know,” Sienna whispered. “I’ve prayed and prayed for it to be you. It’d be easier that way, I think. But the Lord keeps telling me ‘no.’”
Megan’s heart tore, and she sucked in air. “I’m so sorry, Sienna.” For both of us.
“Me too.”
“Your baby’s family is out there. When you find them, you’ll know.”
Megan rushed the rest of their piano lesson, then fell apart once Sienna left. Megan called Christina and told her what happened, crying her way through the conversation.
The morning of Megan’s mid-cycle ultrasound, Trent told work he’d be late.
“You don’t have to go with me,” Megan said as they got ready to leave. “I’m a big girl.”
He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “I want to be there. We’re in this together.”
“Here’s to hoping we have at least one follicle to call our own.”
“What do you want to call our little follicle?”
“Maybe Sticky Bean,” Megan said.
“It’s not a very imaginative name, but all right.” Trent laughed and jumped back a few steps as Megan whacked his arm. “Hey!”
“Don’t insult our follicle. You might scare it.”
At the clinic, Megan couldn’t sit still. Her feet wiggled, fingers rapping against the paper on the exam table, making it crinkle.
“Relax,” Trent said.
Megan frowned. “Easy for you to say. If I took Follistim for nothing, I’ll be pissed.”
“I thought we agreed to think happy thoughts.”
Dr. Mendoza walked in, cutting off Megan’s reply. “Good morning,” Dr. Mendoza said. She sat down and pulled out the ultrasound wand. “Let’s take a look-see.”
Megan stared at the ultrasound screen, her body coiled with tension. “There better be good news today.”
“I really hope so,” Dr. Mendoza said.
Megan held her breath as Dr. Mendoza wiggled the probe around, looking at the monitor. After a minute or two, she smiled. “We hit pay dirt. You have a follicle ready on both ovaries.”
Megan’s entire body went limp with relief. Dr. Mendoza removed the wand, and Megan sat up.
“Do the trigger shot tonight. We’ll do the IUI on Wednesday,” Dr. Mendoza said. “As long as we get a high enough sperm count, I think your chances are decent this cycle.”
Megan wanted to scream with happiness. But they’d been here before.
As soon as they got in the car, Trent let out a whoop. “We did it, babe.” He grabbed her face and kissed her soundly.
“A follicle doesn’t mean a fetus.”
“We have two follicles. It’s going to work.”
Megan let hope peek its way in, just for a moment. “Maybe.”
The feelings of anxious anticipation continued all through the next day and into their IUI appointment. As Megan lay on the exam table after the procedure, hips elevated, she couldn’t help but think this might be it. For the first time in months, she let herself dream of little white booties and that new baby smell.
Christina had never been admitted to a hospital. Sure, she’d had an x-ray once as a child. She’d had the HSG test. She’d visited people in the maternity ward. But she’d never been a patient herself.
She hadn’t eaten anything for twelve hours, which didn’t help the knots in her stomach. Gary had suggested the baggy lounge pants with a loose waist and cheesy t-shirt that said “2 Teach is 2 Touch a Life 4Ever.”
“You want to be comfortable after the surgery,” he’d reminded Christina when she pulled out a pair of jeans. “No one expects a fashion statement.”
Maybe not, but Christina felt awkward and frumpy. At least Gary had dressed down too. He looked uncomfortable without his suit, which made Christina feel less alone. Seeing him in jeans and a button-down plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms was a visual reminder that today was anything but typical.
“Christina Vincent.”
Another spasm seized her stomach. They rose, and Gary took her hand, loosening her fingers until they were no longer balled in a fist. They followed the nurse into a triage room. A monitor beeped distractingly a few beds over.
The nurse pulled the curtain around to form a wall between them and the empty bed beside them. “Change into the hospital gown.” She handed Christina a bag. “Put all your personal items in here for your husband to hang onto. That includes all clothing and jewelry.”
Christina took the bag, swallowing hard and nodding. She undressed, feeling more vulnerable by the second. If she had felt uncomfortable in her too-casual clothes, she felt downright awkward in the hospital gown. At least it tied on the side, covering her entire backside and leaving no skin exposed.
“Here.” Gary knelt down beside her, a hospital sock held out as though it were Cinderella’s glass slipper. Some of her tension eased at the sweet gesture. Christina let him wiggle both socks onto her feet, and then he sat down next to her. “How are you feeling?”
“Nervous,” Christina admitted. She didn’t know what scared her more—that they would find something or find nothing.
Gary opened his mouth to respond, but a nurse pulled back the curtain and entered. “Hi, Christina. I’m Jill. I’ll be with you all through surgery, making sure you’re okay. I’m going to start the IV now.”
Gary rose, his hand still on Christina’s shoulder. “You should lie down,” he told her. The nurse nodded in agreement.
Christina let Gary pull the covers over her and tried to relax against the too-thin pillow. The nurse chattered in a friendly way as she worked, prepping Christina’s arm at the elbow area for the IV. Gary asked questions, taking the role of polite patient so Christina didn’t have to. His phone vibrated, emitting a faint buzz. He reached as though to pull it out. But his eye caught Christina’s, and he folded his arms, leaving the phone in his pocket.
Thank you, Christina mouthed.
The needle pricked her skin. A shock of cold hit her arm and flowed outward as the saline entered her blood stream.
“I need you to sign these consent forms, and we’ll get you started on some medication,” Jill said.
Christina signed, barely glancing over the paperwork. Her signature looked awkward and sloppy since the IV was in her writing arm and she didn’t want to bend it too much. Jill took the paperwork and left. A few minutes later she reappeared, this time with a syringe.
“This is an antibiotic.” She uncapped the
IV tubing and inserted the syringe. “It takes effect almost immediately. It might make you feel odd.” She depressed the plunger, then threw the needle in a Sharps container and flicked the IV tubing a few times. “A lot of patients respond similarly to laughing gas.”
Christina giggled. Laughing gas? Who had thought of that word? “I never act strange on laughing gas,” Christina told the nurse, and giggled again. “I act totally normal.”
“Told you it takes effect quickly. Dr. Blakely will stop by before we take you down to surgery, okay?” The nurse patted Christina’s arm and left.
Gary’s brow scrunched, and he sat forward in his chair. “Are you doing okay?”
Christina started laughing, and couldn’t stop. Tears streamed out of her eyes. “What if they tell us we can’t have kids? Wouldn’t that be funny, Gar? All our arguments about whether or not we’re ready, all our planning, and poof!” She popped her lips for the proper sound effect. “Vanished. No kids for us. The perfect Vincents would finally have a flaw.” She giggled. “But we’d tell everyone we planned it that way, huh? That we wanted to focus on our careers and weren’t really the parenting type. We’d lie so no one would ever figure out the truth. If you had married someone else, you’d have three kids with your fertile wife and your perfect sperm. You aren’t the problem. Or maybe you’d be happy, because your other wife wouldn’t want kids.”
“Shhh, Christina. Don’t talk. The medication is making you loopy.”
“Maybe it’s making me honest. What if they can’t find anything wrong? What then, Gar?” Christina shivered, her teeth chattering as she laughed. The saline and whatever medication they’d given her pulsed through her blood, cool and invasive. “I’ve never had a problem I couldn’t fix. Guess I’ve finally met my match.”
Gary’s brows were still furrowed in concern when Dr. Blakely appeared. “How are you feeling, Christina?”
Christina laughed. “I feel fine.”
“The medication’s making her act strange,” Gary said. Why did he sound like he was apologizing?
“That’s not uncommon.” Dr. Blakely sat down on a chair near Gary and Christina. “I want to go over what to expect.”
Christina tuned Dr. Blakely and Gary out, instead focusing on the whir of machines and the beep of the monitor from a few beds over. Soon Gary kissed her goodbye, and she was wheeled down the hallway and into the operating room. They lifted her onto a cold, white table. A bright light directly above hurt her eyes, and she squinted. Someone laid a warm blanket over her, and her shivering lessened.
“We’ll try to warm you up,” Jill said. “The anesthesiologist is right here.”
“Hi, Christina,” a man said. He put a mask over her mouth. “Count backward from one hundred for me, okay?”
Christina closed her eyes and started counting. “One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven . . .”
Darkness.
Christina heard the pulsing of her heartbeat on the monitor first. Her limbs felt heavy, and she struggled to open her eyes. No luck. She gave up and let herself drift.
Next she heard the shuffle of feet and soft voices. “She should be waking up soon.”
“Thank you.” That was Gary. Chair legs slid across linoleum as he sat down.
A hand gently squeezed hers. Only then was Christina aware of something clipped to her index finger. For her pulse, she realized. That’s where the beeping came from. “I’m here, Christina,” Gary said quietly. “You’re out of surgery, and you’re fine.” A kiss brushed her temple. “I love you. Rest for a few more minutes, then try to wake up so we can go home.”
Christina tried to wake up. She became more aware of her surroundings. Shoes dragged by in the hallway. The florescent lighting of the recovery area burned through her lids. A click that sounded like texting sounded near her head. Christina’s midsection felt strangely deadened and heavy, but she could tell moving would probably hurt a lot.
What happened? Christina wanted to scream. What did they find? She struggled harder to open her eyes and managed to flutter them. She tried again and this time kept her eyes open.
“Hey, babe.” Gary’s smile, small and sad. He glanced at his cell phone, then put it in his pocket.
“Hi,” Christina croaked. Her mouth felt full of cotton, and she needed a drink badly.
Gary seemed to read her thoughts and brought a mug with a straw to her lips. After sipping deeply, she tried talking again. “What did the doctor say?” Her throat still sounded raspy, but at least he could hear her.
Gary patted her hand. “Let’s not get into that right now. How do you feel?”
“Fine. What happened?”
Gary frowned, and his shoulders hunched forward. “It wasn’t good news. Dr. Blakely found a lot of endometriosis, and it’s causing some problems.” He patted her hand again. “But don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. You focus on recovering quickly, okay?”
Christina opened her mouth to demand more answers, but Dr. Blakely entered the curtained-off room, clipboard clasped in both hands. “Hi, Christina. How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
She walked over to a monitor and wrote down a reading. “Can you rate your pain on a scale of one to ten?”
What did it matter? Christina didn’t care about the pain. She cared about answers. “A four or five. Gary said I have endometriosis.”
Dr. Blakely didn’t get flustered, just nodded. She flipped a page on Christina’s chart and turned it around. Christina drew back. The pictures were disgusting, a mass of tissue that looked unnatural.
“That’s your right fallopian tube.” Dr. Blakely pointed to the first picture. “And that’s your left. That’s part of your uterus.” She flipped the chart closed. “I’m not going to sugar coat it. You have stage four endometriosis. Your fallopian tubes and the outside of your uterus are covered in scar tissue.”
Christina couldn’t process what Dr. Blakely said. “Did you get it off?” Christina felt stupid for asking the question but couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Dr. Blakely shook her head. “It’s everywhere. It’s blocking both of your fallopian tubes—the right side one hundred percent, the left side about ninety-five percent. It’s actually attaching your tubes to your ovaries so they can’t move to catch an egg. If I tried to remove the scar tissue, you’d lose your tubes. I cleaned off what I could, but the bulk of it’s still there.”
Blocked tubes. Hard to comprehend in her drug-induced state, but it sounded bad. Gary’s hand held steadfastly to Christina’s, comforting and begging for comfort.
“Where do we go from here?” Christina’s voice sounded higher and more raspy than ever. Her hands shook, her thin grasp on composure disappearing.
Dr. Blakely looked at her sadly. “I’m afraid at this point that in vitro is really your only option. I’m sorry.”
Christina couldn’t focus after that. Dr. Blakely mentioned if she did get pregnant, it would help lessen the endometriosis since she would go nine months without a period. That, even though the chances of getting pregnant naturally were less than one percent, if it did happen she needed to have an ultrasound at six weeks since there was a ninety-nine percent chance it’d be a tubal pregnancy. Dr. Blakely said in vitro was more affordable than ever, and they shouldn’t be discouraged. This didn’t mean they’d never have a baby.
Christina didn’t care what Dr. Blakely said. It felt like the end of the world. She turned her head into the pillow, letting the tears leak out.
She was twenty-seven years old. Twenty-seven, and already her prospects of ever being a mother were grim. Her shoulders shook, and she struggled to control them. How could she be here, hearing these things? Life wasn’t supposed to be like this, Christina prayed angrily. We were being responsible! We were trying to do things the right way. We didn’t know. A sob caught in her throat, begging for release. How could they have known? If they’d tried to get pregnant sooner, would it have made a difference?
Dr. Blakely left
, and Christina’s tears slowed to a trickle, then disappeared entirely. “I’m sorry,” Gary said.
“I want to go home.”
Two hours later they let Christina leave. Home. She had always imagined that would one day mean three or four children. What if now home only meant a too-clean house and quiet rooms? Would she ever hear the echo of laughter through her hallways? Would she ever scold her kids for not picking up their toys?
Gary would never agree to something as invasive as in vitro.
Christina sat on the edge of the bed. Gary pulled out his phone, and her heart dropped. He was withdrawing. But he pushed a few buttons, then stuck it back into his pocket. He helped her into pajamas, then pulled the covers over her as she lay down.
“Do you want to watch TV or anything?” Gary asked.
Christina shook her head. “I want to sleep.”
He nodded, and she closed her eyes. After a few minutes, she heard him walk out of the room.
What was he thinking? Did he wish he picked a different wife? She couldn’t stop the thoughts from flooding her mind. He hadn’t known she was broken when they got married. If he had, would it have changed things?
My fault, Christina thought as she drifted off to sleep. My fault, my fault, my fault . . .
Christina woke up at six the next morning, her incision on fire and abdomen throbbing. “Gary,” she whispered hoarsely.
He jerked awake. “What is it?”
“I need some pain meds.”
He rubbed his eyes and rose. “Sure.” A few minutes later he returned with a white pill and glass of water. Gary helped Christina sit up. Every movement brought tears to her eyes. She bit her lip to keep from gasping. She took the pill and then lay down with Gary’s help.
“Is there anything I can get you?” he asked.
Christina shook her head. Her eyes watered, tears trembling to be set free. Her shoulders shook, making her stomach ache. The burn of repressed sobs clung to the back of her throat.
Gary flipped on a lamp. “Want to talk about it?”
No. “Why did this happen? We saved ourselves for marriage. Obtained college degrees. We did everything right! So why is God punishing us?”
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