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Yes! I tell myself for the umpteenth time. I’m thirty-four, single, a workaholic with no time for dating. Not to mention underwhelmed by what the city’s male population has to offer. If I want to be a mother, doing it on my own is my best option—my only option.
I’ve always wanted to have kids, probably because the relationship I have with my family is the only one where I’ve felt accepted, safe, and loved unconditionally for my entire life. No wavering, no doubts. Nothing I did, no screw-ups, mistakes, or any of my flaws were ever enough for my parents and my sister not to love me—always, consistently.
I can’t say the same for the men who’ve been in my life. All fast to drop me at the first bump on the road. Or ready to judge me, for being a woman and being successful. For making more money than them. For working too much. For being too much. Too much work, too much effort, high maintenance. How dare I ask for boundaries, respect, support, affection, and love? All at the same time. Mental eye roll.
But that’s fine. Maybe I’ve never been destined for romantic love. Possibly, maternal love is the only kind of love I’m supposed to experience, and I’ve come to terms with the fact that a traditional family might not be on the cards for me. But I won’t let the lack of a good partner keep me from my dream of becoming a mom.
Also, three days into hormonal therapy might be a little late to question my decision. The die is cast.
I cross the lobby to the reception and give my name to the cheerful woman behind the desk. She takes a quick look at her calendar and confirms my appointment for a fertility treatment check-up.
The receptionist points me to a row of leather chairs lining one of the glass walls in the lobby and, five minutes later, a nurse wearing pale-green scrubs escorts me one floor up into a consulting room.
Inside, it looks like a typical gynecology practice. High-backed chair in the back next to an ultrasound machine and a metal desk in the front.
The nurse sits behind the desk while I sit in one of the guest chairs. As I fold my coat on my lap, I catch my reflection in the metal drawers. I’m wearing a periwinkle blouse and a giant ethnic necklace made of jade. The pendant is a bit too loud for my taste, but I love how the color makes my eyes pop. My nose is red from the trek across Manhattan—the cab driver didn’t believe in wasting gas on heating. Either that, or he was one of those constantly hot people. I’m the opposite. I’m always cold, which is why I shouldn’t have worn this flimsy blouse in the first week of fall when the temperature has dropped fifteen degrees without warning. The weatherman said it’s an anomalous cold front that’ll pass soon, but I must resign myself to the fact that summer is over.
The nurse opens my medical folder on the desk and smiles. “How are you feeling?”
I smile at her, fidgeting with my necklace, unnecessarily nervous. It’s not like there’s a wrong answer. “Great.”
“Have you been experiencing any side effects with the injections?”
“No, not that I can tell.”
“And you’ve been giving yourself the shots regularly, same time every night?”
I nod. I picked 11p.m. as my daily hormone shot hour, to be extra sure I’d be home from work.
“Great.” The nurse smiles again and jots down the information. “I need to take a blood sample to test your hormone levels before the doctor visits you.”
She places a small cushion on the desk and asks me to put my arm on top. After fastening a tourniquet to my bicep, she unpacks a butterfly needle from its sterile container, pats the inside of my elbow, searching for a vein, and expertly pierces it.
I’ve been pricked by more needles in the past month than the previous thirty-four years of my life. The entire IVF process would’ve been much harder if I’d been afraid of needles. Still, pincushions have my greatest sympathy.
The nurse takes the blood sample, labels it, and frees my arm from the tourniquet.
“I’ll take this to the lab.” She stands up. “In the meantime, if you want to undress and sit on the chair, Dr. Raikes will be with you in a minute.”
I can’t but wince upon hearing the name that will forever remind me of He Who Must Not Be Named. Or remembered. Or even thought about in passing.
Good thing You Know Who lives in California. A safe 2,500 miles away. No, I haven’t been keeping tabs on my most-hated ex—and people know not to mention him to me back home—but it’s just commonly known in my childhood neighborhood that The Golden State is where John lives.
For the past sixteen years, I’ve basked in the knowledge that I can walk the streets of New York City unafraid of bumping into him. I’ve had more than enough with the rare times I chanced upon his mother in Brooklyn, where his family still lives, and had to adopt the most skillful disguise techniques. A spectacular dive behind a watermelon pyramid once. Another time, I camouflaged among Macy’s mannequins, keeping perfectly still until she’d passed. And then there was that time I pretended to be checking different mops and hid my face under the yarn—it looked like I was wearing a yarn wig à la Cousin Itt and it wasn’t even Halloween.
The Raikeses used to live right next door to my family. But thankfully, once they became empty nesters, John’s parents moved to a smaller house a few blocks away, which made it ten times easier to avoid meeting any of them. Especially at the most dangerous times of the year, like Thanksgiving and Christmas.
If Johnny has come home at all in the past sixteen years to celebrate with his family, I haven’t seen him once, and I’d prefer to keep things that way.
“Is everything okay?” the nurse asks, taking in my disgusted face.
I rein in the grimace and force a smile. “Yeah, yeah, just I’m with Dr. Townsend and not…” I can’t bring myself to say the name aloud.
“Oh, yeah. Unfortunately, Dr. Townsend is out at a convention today. Dr. Raikes is covering for him. He’ll be right with you if you want to get ready.” The nurse moves to the gynecological chair and pulls down a fresh sheet of paper to cover the blue leather. “You can wait for the doctor here.”
“Sure.”
The nurse disappears behind the frosted glass door, leaving me alone and slightly nervous in the exam room. I drop my coat and bag on the chair, remove my pants and underwear, and approach the gynecological armchair.
