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CHAPTER1
***MILA***
It was cold. Why were doctor's offices always cold? Here I was, sitting buck naked with only that thin little hospital gown that barely covered my coochie and tied in the back to leave my ass hanging out. All the while, cold air blew in from the vent because, for whatever reason, doctors loved keeping their offices at temperatures one would experience in a tundra. I was trying to play a word game on my phone, but my fingers and hands shook too much and the screen was giving me a headache, so I put it down and folded my arms across my chest for warmth. My nips were like ice picks, I thought they were going to cut through the gown. All I could do was wait for my new doctor to come in and examine me. For my nipples’ sake, I hope that was sooner rather than later.
I wish they’d left me with a blanket. Why didn’t doctor’s offices have blankets?
Suffering through frigid temperatures wasn’t my idea of a good time and if this had just been an annual physical, I probably would have put my clothes on and left, but this wasn’t just a standard check-in. This was about my baby. My baby who hadn’t been conceived yet, but was already the love of my life. Perhaps it was strange to consider a human being who didn’t yet exist —and if things didn’t work out — might very well never exist to be the love of my life, but they were. I knew the love of my life sure as hell wasn’t going to be any man I’d ever met.
And that’s because babies were as beautiful as men were disappointing.
Just looking at a baby’s face always filled me with joy. Their eyes, so big and full of curiosity, only accentuated their toothless smiles of pure bliss. The tiniest thing — something we all take for granted — could provide a baby with endless fascination, and I loved that. They’re so innocent and perfect, most of the time anyway, but misbehaving babies could also be a source of delight. It’s hard not to laugh when a baby tries to press a button they’re not supposed to, or when they’re in the corner of a co-worker’s screen during a video meeting and they insist on putting their fingers into their mother’s mouth.
Of course they grow up eventually, but in the process you get to watch a human being form. Movies about kids growing up never fail to make me cry happy tears by the end. It’s a weakness of mine, maybe, but one that I wear as a badge of honor.
In the way that others might be called to a particular career, I was drawn to mothering. Ever since I could remember, I wanted to be a mother. Now especially with my sister Sloane’s little ones as a giant reminder of my barren uterus, I was baby crazy. The main obstacle, unfortunately, was the idea that it generally took two in order to create another human being. And, in that department, I had virtually lost all interest. I had sworn off men, the cobwebs formed, and that was that.
I’d gone into relationships with high hopes. Just like every little girl, I grew up on fairy tales and dreams of a Prince Charming, praying every night that I’d eventually meet mine. Unfortunately, they never warned me that no matter how long you wait, not every girl gets her prince. And while I was still hoping, on some level, that he would arrive, the odds weren’t looking good. I wouldn’t go so far as to say my life was over at 32, but I was certainly at a place where I could reevaluate. It wasn’t like I’d gotten close and it just didn’t work out. It was that I’d never met a man who left me with anything but disappointment.
And, though I considered the idea that I was setting potential suitors up for failure, I realized, if anything, my standards were too low. Was it too much to ask for a man who asked how my day was without me prompting him first? Or who could show an ounce of emotion? Hell, even a man who did the bare minimum and picked up after himself in his own apartment instead of living in a bachelor pig sty would have been enough to progress to a level where I could at least consider the possibility of a future.
To me, men were like junk food. They might seem appealing and even tempting at the moment, but ultimately, they leave you with nothing but regret and a fat ass. The last time I’d had a real boyfriend was in college, and honestly, I didn’t see what all the fuss was about. I was 23 and he was 29, which was more than enough time for him to get his life together, and yet he still lived surrounded by piles of unwashed clothes, dirty dishes, and lifted toilet seats--all while living off of his parents’ handouts and working parttime dressed as a giant piece of pizza on Hollywood and Highland in his quest to pursue his dream of becoming an actor.
And, yet, I still saw potential in him. A potential that he never managed to achieve. In a way, I was fortunate to learn he was cheating on me with his ex-girlfriend (who he swore he was over, by the way). So, I dumped his ass and never made that mistake again.
The fact was life was so much easier without a man. It’s a shame so many of them happened to be so hot that, every once in a while, I’d have a burning desire inside me to try again.
Maybe having the baby would rid me of that desire, which I would be more than thankful for. Without a man in my life, for like a million years now, I had focused on my career and putting money towards savings. It might seem like men were necessary to provide the key to my dreams coming true, but modern science meant that wasn’t true anymore.
Having a baby was like cooking. All I needed from the man was to borrow some proverbial sugar. He wouldn’t even miss it. Meanwhile, I provided the oven and mixing bowl, as well as the main ingredients, and waited as it cooked for nine months.
This office visit represented the beginning stages of the marathon process of parenthood, and if I wasn't willing to sit through a few minutes of mild discomfort (okay, more than a few minutes — the nurse left at least ten minutes earlier, insisting the doctor would be right in), then what was I even doing here? At the very least, the new doctor wasn't going to be any worse than the last one. The last doctor was so old and arthritic that every time he was down in my nether regions I feared he might end up examining the wrong hole.
He was so old, in fact, that he died of natural causes before we could successfully implant an embryo. And while, in a sense, it was good that I’d end up with a new and better doctor, it left me in a position where I’d have to navigate my insurance website in the hopes of actually finding said doctor. Every single one of them was booked solid for at least three months and, with me already performing the nightly hormone injections, I wanted to move things along as quickly as possible.
That's where Kiefer came into play. He lived in the apartment unit next to mine, and we became good friends almost immediately after he moved in. In one of our late night wine-fueled sessions of deep philosophical discussion, he mentioned that he had a friend who was an obstetrician who specialized in fertility treatments.
Sure, the new doctor wasn't covered under my insurance, but I was paying for out of network service, and he’d be able to get me in within the next week. I'd end up paying out of pocket, which was fine thanks to the savings I had, and once I met my $10,000 deductible, insurance would take over and reimburse me for the rest.
As I sat there, shivering, waiting for the doctor to come in, the alarm went off on my watch. I let out a sigh. This was a New Year’s resolution I’d committed to that was starting to get on my nerves. I’d vowed to do my yoga stretches three times a day every day and, three months in, I still hadn’t missed a single day. With my frustration and how cold the room was, I was tempted to push the exercises off until later, but I knew that I’d just end up forgetting about them, and that would be the end of my streak. And I was nothing if not determined. If I got an idea in my head, I committed to it with everything I had. This doggedness and determination had scared away potential boyfriends in the past, but I didn’t care. If they weren’t going to accept me for who I was, then they weren’t worth my time. I wasn’t about to give myself to just anyone.
But that was neither here nor there. Right then, my alarm told me I had to do my stretches and, dammit, I was going to do them. I unlocked my phone and scrolled to the yoga app, pressing the “Begin” button, which started a five minute session. Cheap, tinny sounding New Age music came out of the speaker as the British narrator instructed me to sit upright and form the first position, which was simply referred to as Easy Pose.
Following the diagram on my screen, I sat up on the examining table and crossed my legs, “crisscross applesauce,” as my kindergarten teacher used to say. Getting into the position was as easy as the name would suggest, but staying in it required a certain amount of stamina, particularly in my back. We used to sit like this every day in grade school, but as an adult, it was downright exhausting. One of the many thrills of getting older, I suppose.
“Very good,” the narrator told me. “Now we’re going to gently move from this pose into Bharadvja’s Twist.”
The screen changed to the new position, and I turned my torso to the side to match the asana. As I did, I let in and released deep breaths, just like the app told me to do so many times that I could recite it from memory, trying to push myself to rotate just a bit more with every exhalation. Even in the few months I’d been doing this, I’d seen progress.
“Breathe in and breathe out,” that nameless instructor told me, and his soothing voice helped transport me as I closed my eyes. I could have been anywhere at that moment. Even the chill of the office, so uncomfortable just a few moments earlier, was a distant thought in my mind.
“Breathe in the wholesome goodness and beauty of your surroundings and exhale all the tension that's been building in your body all day. Cleanse yourself of the stress and discomfort that come along with a material life.”
It was at this point that an ad popped up on the screen and asked me to pay the $9.99 monthly subscription fee to upgrade to a pro version of the app. I clicked the “x” in the upper left corner as soon as it appeared, and I closed my eyes to return to that state of nirvana as the instructor moved on to the next pose.
“Now let us lean back into the Bridge Pose.”
This was where the asanas began to get difficult for me. It required a certain amount of balance, but I could do it so long as I was focused. I let my back angle back onto the table and folded my knees, spreading them apart as I thrust my hips toward the ceiling.
