A Short Walk Home

by David Cry

  In retrospect, perhaps nothing could have prepared us. In so many ways, what we dealt with in Logan’s illness was simply life itself. None of us knows what will happen tomorrow; will we still be here? Will something terrible occur? The whole point is to live today. Love as hard as you can. Keep those who mean the most to you closest to you. Don’t allow petty bickering to overshadow what should be a good life experience. In the end, it’s just not worth it.

  Still, there were times when it was hard to remember that.

  Chapter 5

  AND BABY MAKES ME

  “HONEY, I WANT to have a baby.” Jaymee, never one to beat around the bush, was as direct that night as I’d ever heard her. We’d been married for a while at this point, but still—no flowers, no candy; just a simple, straightforward statement that reflected exactly what was on her mind? So much for romance.

  “A baby? Honey, you know we shouldn’t. With my genetics, and your family history, chances are high that …” I trailed off halfheartedly; I was really not in the mood to tackle this topic.

  “What’s wrong?” she chided me playfully. “I know you, David Cry. You want a child of your own. You know, someone to pass that ego of yours along to.” She laughed and kissed me. Apparently it was up to me to be the serious one in the conversation.

  “Baby, I really don’t want to go into this right now. You can’t begin to imagine how complicated it would be.” Even conception would be complex and fraught with possible obstacles; with Jaymee being a carrier of ALD and myself having an active form of the disease, the chances of our child not being exposed to this condition were slim. Having lived with the disease for many years, I refused to pass that burden on to a child; it was out of the question for me. I had seen far too many families endure the worst, struggling with a loved one’s illness. Why put ourselves through that? Why put our child through that?

  “David, I need to let you in on something. I have been listening.” A wry smile appeared on her beautiful face. She was up to something.

  Specifically, she had been listening to me advise families exposed to ALD in regards to PGD, an innovative procedure, capable of preventing ALD in the next generation. Pre-implantation genetic diagnosis (PGD), a bona fide medical miracle, is a technique whereby a fertilized ovum’s entire genetic makeup is inspected prior to being placed in the uterus. This innovative process had been in use for a few years by that point, primarily by the physician who developed it, Dr. Marcus Hughes. At the time, Dr. Hughes worked at a medical center in Detroit, by way of Johns Hopkins. Dr. Hughes and his staff provide what I believe to be an invaluable service for any couple who knows, like we did, that a genetic abnormality runs in their family. By allowing the families to make informed decisions regarding their and their offspring’s future, it ensures that future generations are spared a fate similar to those who have perished before them. It was clear that Jaymee was already invested in the idea.

  All she had to do was convince me.

  “Honey, PGD is not cheap.” I decided to open with the financial approach, as my frugal nature was always close to the surface. “The last family I referred to Dr. Hughes spent just over $30,000, and did not conceive a child. That’s all risk, no benefit.”

  I should have known Jaymee would be prepared. She came back at me without hesitation, saying, “Honey, I know how much it costs. I’ve done my homework. And we can afford it. Provided we make certain … sacrifices. For example, don’t count on getting a new car until around 2015.” She wasn’t flinching.

  She was speaking to me as though I were an employee. And when Jaymee took that tone with me, what else could I say but, “Yes, boss.”

  We headed for the in-vitro specialist’s office with optimism. Our doctor was a nice woman, very bright, and while she had never performed a PGD before, this caused no fear in either me or Jaymee. We had already sent the necessary bloodwork, including mine, Jaymee’s, Logan’s and my mother’s, up to geneticists in Baltimore. The doctors there were already hard at work creating a DNA model of our immediate family to help with the PGD process. The physician we saw went over the process of in-vitro fertilization with us. She described in full detail the type of injections Jaymee would be required to take, and the duration of those medications. More pertinent to me, I learned that by default I would be the person giving my wife these shots (injected into the stomach) throughout the process. I felt happier than I expected at all this; we were doing what we could, taking the best steps forward possible. But at the same time, I remained mindful of a decision I had made a long time ago, specifically regarding children.

  Just after I learned that my legs would no longer work, I decided that having children was not something that was reasonable for me. As long as I ran the risk of passing my disease along, I couldn’t justify it.

  And there were matters to consider beyond the risk of passing on my disease; questions that every would-be parent is forced to confront. Jaymee was a great mother to Logan—sometimes, a little too great. It was only after we were married that she came to realize that kids need boundaries and discipline to grow up properly. This does not mean you should beat your children, or treat them in any way other way than with love and tenderness; it simply means that once in a while, Logan needed to understand the difference between right and wrong. And having a child of my own meant even more responsibility. But it also meant that, whoever he turned out to be, I would love him without condition. This had a certain appeal; I had never loved anyone that way, ever.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife; I love her more than anything. But romantic love inevitably carries conditions. I love Jayme because of who she is. And I suppose that, were she to be suddenly disfigured, or if she started acting differently, I would still love her. A child is different in my estimation. He or she is the ultimate extension of you. I could love my child in spite of who they were. And at the end of the day, I do not feel that it gets any more powerful than that.

  I did my very best to offer support to Jaymee at every turn. But women with additional hormones not being my forte, some days were, needless to say, a little strained.

  We began the injections in the most unlikely of locations: my parents’ house. It was June 2007, and I had been invited to my 20th high school reunion. Logan spent the night with Jaymee’s aunt and sister, while we flew to New Orleans. The plan was to leave the day after the reunion to join up with them in California, where Jaymee’s aunt had rented a house on the beach. Per the doctor’s orders, on the night of the reunion I took a rather large needle, inserted it into my wife’s abdomen, and began the complicated process of making our baby.

  This became our routine; every night was the same. Once I got home, I would lie down on the couch in our living room, until Jaymee would approach me with the syringe in hand, which I would then shoot into her tummy. The funny thing was, it never bothered me to do this. Every night at the same time, there we were, dosing my wife with what could be the potential for new life.

  After many weeks of medication, it was time to visit the doctor so that they could harvest eggs from Jaymee. It was a simple procedure that yielded 18 eggs, about seven more than most women usually produce.

  My contribution to the process was a bit less straightforward. There was a complication, though not entirely unexpected. Years earlier, I had undergone a vasectomy. It was not my most rational decision, but it was important to me not to produce a child with my disorder. Granted, I was not one to have random sexual encounters—and I never thought I would get married—so more than anything, I did it more for my own peace of mind.

  To make a long story short, I had to have a surgical procedure performed to extract semen directly from the source. Yep, you guessed it—right where it counts. Jaymee teased me about it, but I was undaunted; I was ready to do whatever I needed to in order to contribute to the process.

  After my small part was complete, the physicians fertilized the eggs. This is where things get interesting. Three days after fertilization, a doctor flew from D
etroit, where the genetic profiling would take place, down to Tulsa, where we were living at the time. He extracted a single cell from each fertilized egg, or blastocyst, each of which was sitting in the petri dish. Upon making the extraction, he flew back to Detroit, where he began to work medical magic. The doctor and his colleagues spent the next 18 hours in a lab, analyzing the genetic material he’d retrieved from Jaymee’s fertilized eggs. And I do mean 18 consecutive hours, a statistic that continues to amaze me. After they had completed their work, a report was produced and sent to our doctor in Tulsa. At the end of this process, which all told took barely 24 hours, we knew exactly which eggs were and were not affected with ALD.

  A week or so later, while Logan was away in Ohio visiting relatives, Jaymee and I went to the doctor’s office. Our scheduled appointment time was a Sunday morning, which I took to be a good sign. I consider myself to be someone with an abiding faith, and I saw a real significance in that; rather than going to church, we were going to create a life.

  Be that as it may, I was still somewhat nervous. Although Jaymee had been confirmed as having no fertility issues, there were no guarantees that our efforts would yield results. This in turn made us both a bit skittish, though on the outside Jaymee remained her normal, stoic self.

  All of this contributed to a feeling of being overwhelmed when we sat down in the doctor’s office. A feeling not helped at all by a last-minute change in physician. Our doctor was out of town, and so her partner would be seeing to our son’s implantation. But he soon put me at ease; once I’d sat down, he slid a picture across his desk toward me. I looked down; it was a picture of what looked like a cell.

  “That’s your son.” The doctor said these words as though they came out of his mouth every day.

  “My … what?” I was stunned.

  “This is a blastocyst, which will hatch into an embryo in about 20 minutes.” His voice was calm, as he continued to flip through the materials on his desk. Clearly, our new doctor was something of a showman.

  “When will it be inside of Jaymee?” I asked anxiously. The doctor’s words had left me feeling like we needed to get the show on the road.

  “Well, if she will get up and follow me, it will be inside of her in 18 minutes.”

  I gently kissed her and wished her well, as she went off to try and have a baby. Just like that.

  The doctor informed us that we had four blastocysts available for transplant. Of the four, two were affected by ALD, and two were not. We were obviously implanting the two without ALD.

  As I sat in the waiting room, I could not help but think about paying two college tuitions at the same time. After all, it was completely possible that both blastocysts would implant successfully, and I would find myself the father of twins. Twice the diapers, twice the food—twice the everything. While it was by no means certain, the prospect now existed. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t contemplate every option.

  The following week, Jaymee and I did our best to distract ourselves. In five days, Jaymee would have a blood test done to determine whether things took. We were both nervous, not the least because of our high expectations. After all, shelling out tens of thousands of dollars with no guarantee of success is not an easy task. I wanted to know immediately, which was of course impossible. I had to be patient. Needing to be patient was becoming a theme in my life.

  Friday morning finally arrived. Jaymee left early to go to the doctor for her blood work, while I sat at home, trying to keep still. Finally, about an hour after she left, I got the call.

  She was not pregnant. I felt the life drain out of me; I had been so certain that we’d be successful. So certain that, in my mind, it was already a done deal; I was ready to start picking out names. Learning that we were not successful upset me, to say the least.

  There was, at least, a small silver lining to Jaymee’s news. It was still possible that she was pregnant; it might just not be showing up in a blood test. Never one to linger, my mood turned for the better; there was still hope.

  As soon as we hung up, I began to move. We needed to get away; we needed to go somewhere we had never been, have a nice dinner, and come home on Sunday rested, relaxed, and optimistic. I made the necessary reservations, and as we headed out to who-cared-where, we agreed on one thing: we would not discuss babies.

  This agreement didn’t last long.

  “Baby, I know that you’re pregnant.” I was the first one to break the silence, as usual. I said that being patient had become a constant in my life; I never said I was getting better at it. But I knew for a fact that she was with child; I could feel it.

  Jaymee giggled. “That didn’t take long.” She knows me so well.

  We spent the night watching a bad movie in a decent hotel. Being away was good for us; we had both been under tremendous pressure for months. We tried to keep off the topic of children, but despite not wanting to stress each other out, it was difficult not to think about.

  Monday morning arrived before we knew it. Jaymee left early to have her blood work done again. I sat in my office at home, thinking of little else. It felt like a repeat of Friday, though I prayed it might have a different, happier ending.

  When the phone rang, and I saw that the caller ID read the number of our doctor, I snatched up the phone from its cradle as fast as I could.

  “Hello?” I didn’t bother trying to hide my anxiety; what would have been the point?

  “David? Is Jaymee there?” the nurse asked. Of course she wasn’t; she’d left for work after finishing at the doctor’s office.

  “No, she’s at the office,” I answered. I hesitated for a moment. “May I ask …” I saw no reason why I should not hear first, given this abrupt opportunity.

  “Congratulations, David. You’re going to be a dad!” The nurse’s own excitement at the news was obvious; she could barely keep her voice down.

  “Thank you so much!” I was thrilled, and already beginning to plot ahead. “Do me a favor,” I said. “Don’t call Jaymee. I would really like to be the one to tell her.”

  “Honey?” I tried to speak in a normal voice, not wanting to give the game away too soon.

  “Yes, baby, what is it?” She sounded tired, and a little harried. Jaymee’s mornings are always busy; making time to speak, if only for a moment, was always tough.

  “Well, I got a call a few minutes ago,” I said, drawing the moment out. I was in the mood to tease her a little—perhaps a little bit more than I should have.

  “What is it, David? Is everything all right?” While she wasn’t quite losing her temper, she was definitely not enjoying my dragging this out, whatever it was.

  “We are having a baby.” My voice cracked a bit, but that’s forgivable. Tears of joy were already forming in the corner of my eyes.

  “I’m … what?” She was stunned.

  “A baby, baby. You’re pregnant.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever heard her so happy.

  Later that evening, after Jaymee got home, she and I decided it was a good idea to take a walk. It gave us an opportunity to be together, on our own, collecting our thoughts. This spur of the moment idea became a daily ritual for a number of months, until it became impractical for Jaymee. Nonetheless, Jaymee was determined that our son would be born healthy. She had already given up caffeine and sugar the day we started this whole process.

  As we walked, we began discussing names. David Jr. was out of the question; after all, Jaymee reasoned (without a hint of a smile, of course) that because I was someone perceived by many as important, naming my son after me might well place a burden on him. He might feel as though he were living in my shadow. She also pointed out that one David was enough.

  As we were walking, my cell phone rang. It was John Besh.

  “How is Jaymee?” Clearly, he had already heard the news, and was curious.

  “She’s fine,” I replied.

  “And how is Junior?” he asked, with a sort of contended amusement hovering behind his words.

  �
�His name is not Junior!”

  “If his name’s not David, then what exactly is it?” This was classic John; he wasn’t letting it alone until his curiosity was satisfied.

  I decided to have a little fun with him. “Well, we’ve decided to name him after the best restaurant in New Orleans,” I said casually.

  “Really? I’ll bite; what’s his name?” At the time, John had three restaurants to his name: August, Besh Steak, and Luke. So the options in his favor were a bit limited.

  I paused for effect, and then delivered my words in a complete deadpan: “Brennan.”

  I was silent. So was he. The Brennan family is something of a New Orleans institution. Their namesake restaurant is in the French Quarter, and is the place where Bananas Foster was created.

  John did not say a word. Instead, he hung up and refused to take my calls for three weeks. This was average in terms of our relationship. We had been doing our best to one-up each other since we were kids.

  If Jaymee was happy, I was ecstatic. I had never quite considered parenthood as being in my future, and it was already starting to change me. I found myself being far more introspective than before, more so than I could have ever imagined. An … extension of us was alive and thriving, right there inside of Jaymee. And what’s more, it truly was a miracle. I’m almost hesitant to use that word; it seems to be one of the more overused words in our society, alongside clichés like “think outside the box.” But there is no word that fits so well.

  Because of the way that we chose to conceive our child, I had expected at least some criticism, or at least a diminished view from those outside my immediate circle. But in terms of my friends, I was honestly surprised.