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“Are the cysts bad enough to warrant removing my ovary?”
“Not yet, but you’ve had significant change since your last scan. I can’t say how long that’ll be the case.” Relief and fear simultaneously course through me.
“You’ve not been actively trying to conceive so let’s talk about what we know.” He laces his fingers and props them on his desk. “A pregnancy hasn’t spontaneously occurred despite several months of intercourse without contraceptive. Because we know your history, I’d assume it didn’t happen because you aren’t ovulating. I’ll want to run a panel to be sure. Once we confirm that, we could try Clomid for a while to see if we can get you ovulating, but I don’t predict that being successful considering the size of your cysts. It’s a gamble—and potentially a costly one—since we’re not sure how long this ovary will last. I’d rather not leave this to chance in case history decides to repeat itself.”
This remaining ovary feels like a time bomb that could detonate at any moment. I hate that feeling.
“I’m recommending we induce ovulation as soon as possible. We should do another egg retrieval with fertilization and proceed with a fresh embryo transfer via IVF. Any embryos not used should be cryopreserved.”
What?
“Why are you recommending we push forward with the IVF now?” I ask.
“Let’s say we do the retrieval and get six quality embryos. You freeze and bank all of them. You decide in three years you’re ready to do the transfer but two are badly degraded by the freezing process. That leaves you four possibilities—two attempts if you use two of the embryos on each IVF. Worst-case scenario, neither yield a successful pregnancy and you lose your ovary in the meantime. At that point, your only options are your banked frozen eggs from two years ago, which yield an even lower success rate than embryos. Should those prove unviable, you’re down to using donor eggs fertilized with your husband’s semen.”
I don’t want to even begin to try to sort out the emotions stirring as I consider that last possibility.
“The upside to proceeding with the IVF now is figuring out if you need to have a repeat egg retrieval before the opportunity is no longer there.”
Dr. Paschall isn’t saying it but he must think I’ll lose my ovary soon. That’s the only reason he’d push for this. “If we don’t move forward, we’re putting all of my eggs in one basket and hoping it doesn’t get dropped.”
“Yes. Quite literally.” Dr. Paschall peers up at the sonogram picture and then back to me. “If having children of your own is important to you, I wouldn’t recommend waiting.”
“If we decide to do it, how soon are we talking?” Sin asks.
“Your wife will require stimulated IVF. It’s a two-week cycle from the time you begin medications until the egg collection. Once the eggs are fertilized, we will choose the best two after three days and the transfer will happen at that time.”
A tiny little ball of life will be placed inside me seventeen days after the start of the medication. No. Make that two microscopic little beings. That’s unbelievable. And completely nuts.
“Go ahead and make the appointment. Take the next week or so to think it over and make a decision. You can always call back and cancel if you decide you don’t want to go through with it.”
As we leave the clinic, my emotions are all over the place. I’m thrilled all hope isn’t lost but I thought we’d have more time. I have tasks to do first—important things a baby will hinder.
Sin gives my hand a squeeze. “Hello? Earth to Bleu.”
“I’m sorry. Did you say something?”
“I said we should talk. About this. How about over lunch?”
I’m not sure I can handle a big meal. “What about a coffee and pastry instead?”
I’d love to have one of Starbucks’ new chestnut praline lattes but we settle for the first café we come upon. We choose a lonely table near the back in hopes of privacy for this conversation I think neither of us wants to have.
I sip my caramel latte. When it burns my tongue, I set it aside to cool.
“Not good?”
“I can’t be sure. I think it may have scorched my taste buds.”
“How’s your pumpkin bread?”
I nod. “Good.”
“I’m not sure how you’d know. It looks like all you’ve done is pick at it.”
I don’t know. I can’t recall tasting the few bites I’ve taken. I’m too preoccupied. “I don’t have much of an appetite.”
He reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I’m not sure how to put my feelings into words when I’m incapable of sorting out what’s happening in my head. And heart. “The consult didn’t go as I expected.”
“Agreed.”
Good. At least we’re on the same page.
“I’m thrilled we weren’t told a pregnancy was a hopeless cause.” Now here comes the part where I must choose my words carefully. “But I’m terrified of doing this so soon. We’ve only been married six weeks.”
“I feel the same. I’m very happy Dr. Paschall believes we have a chance but I wasn’t expecting him to advise us to proceed so quickly. I thought we’d do the retrieval now and implant in a year or two.”
He looks as uncertain as I feel. I see it in the lines of his forehead, in the way his lips turn down at the corners.
“We aren’t ready to do this, are we?” I ask.
“No.” He releases my hand and sits back in his seat. “But are we prepared to let what might be our only chance at having a child slip through our fingers because it’s sooner than we’d like?”
The timing is horrible. “Unfortunately, we aren’t blessed with the luxury of waiting until we’re ready. It seems it’s now or possibly never.”
It feels as though my life revolves around an inconvenient schedule due to circumstances out of my control. It’s disheartening.
“I need time to think about this. I can’t decide today.” And probably not tomorrow, or even the next day.
“I say we enjoy our day together and talk about it after we’ve had time to adjust to the idea.”
“Agreed.”
Chapter Twelve
Sinclair Breckenridge
Bleu’s never been to London. In fact, she’s pretty much never been anywhere so I thought she’d be excited to see the sights. Although her camera is hanging around her neck, she hasn’t taken a single picture. She’s too absorbed by what I can only assume is an internal battle—probably the same one I’m struggling with. I know because she’s paying far more attention to the infants and children we pass than any of the iconic places we’re visiting.
We browse the gift shop at The Tower of London after finishing our tour. We make the circle and end up in the children’s section. She picks up a royal guardsman teddy bear from the shelf. “He’s cute.”
I disagree.
I’m Scottish, so for me, it’s a symbol of oppression. Our conflicts with England are centuries’ old and still run deep. I’ll never be a fan of anything representing the English. I avoid this place. I wouldn’t be here now if the Assisted Reproduction Centre didn’t have the highest successful pregnancy rates in IVF.
Bleu wasn’t reared here. She doesn’t understand how many Scots feel toward our southern neighbors. But she’ll come to know since she’s going to spend the rest of her life in Scotland.
She studies the toy another moment before returning it to the shelf. She almost looks regretful about it. “Do you want the bear?”
“No.” She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“I’ll buy you any Scottish bear you want, but not an English one.”
“You look angry.”
“No worries. It’s nothing to do with you.”
I attempt to distract Bleu—and myself—with sightseeing. It’s a long day by the time we return to the hotel. My leg feels the miles by the time we return so once we’re back in our suite, I remove my prosthesis. “Fuck, I’m sor
e from all the walking we did today.”
“You should’ve told me. We didn’t have to stay out all day.”
It wasn’t a problem earlier. In fact, I didn’t notice the discomfort until an hour ago. “It was fine all day. The walk back was when it started giving me trouble.”
I pushed myself too far in an attempt to keep Bleu’s mind off the baby stuff. And mine. Mission not accomplished.
She plops on the floor in front of me and reaches for my leg. “Here. I’m going to rub it for you.”
I don’t want her doing that. “No.”
“If my feet hurt, you’d rub them for me. In fact, you’ve done it for me before—more than once if I recall correctly.”
“Aye, but this is different.”
“You have pain in your lower extremity and I want to make it better for you. It’s no different than what you do for me.”
But it is. She just can’t see that. “It’s my stump. Not my foot.”
“True. It’s not your foot because you only have one and it’s on your other leg. Stop being stupid and let me massage it for you.”
She’s determined to make me feel better as she rubs her hands over the end of my amputated leg. “Better?”
I don’t want to hurt her but she needs to understand why I don’t want her doing this and why it’s different from rubbing feet. “Muscle is what’s massaged. That’s why it feels good. My stump is mostly skin-covered bone and there’s not a lot of sensation. It’s not a pleasant feeling. That’s why it’s not the same thing.”
She stops and looks up at me. “Okay. But I still want to make you feel better.”
She moves to her knees and glides her hands up my thighs. “What about this? Better?”
I like the place this is going. “Not quite there but it’s a definite improvement.”
