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“I’m not used to meeting fans,” I say with an embarrassed smile. “And please, call me Ellie.”
My whole body is tingling, and it’s only getting more intense as we move through the clinic. Light shines through the frosted glass windows, bathing the hallways and work stations in warm glow. It’s almost blinding.
“Okay, Ellie. I’m Donita, and don’t worry, I’m not going to ask for an autograph.” She laughs. I chuckle, too, but I’m just so nervous that I feel like my body is going to seize up any minute.
We move into an exam room so she can check my vitals. Why am I so nervous? I’ve been planning for this day for months, if not years. Maybe it’s just the fact that it’s finally happening after so many years of thinking about it?
I clear my throat and look upward as the nurse puts my arm in a blood pressure cuff.
As the cuff tightens, the pain feels a bit sharper than normal. Suddenly, I start thinking about the pain of childbirth. I know I’ll be drugged up with medications and pain relievers, but still. I’ll be pushing a baby out of my body. That has to be intense, no matter what.
“Okay, you’re looking good. All vitals are normal,” she remarks. The cuff loosens, and I can feel myself calming down as it does. She helps me pull my arm out and leads me out of the room.
“You’re seeing Dr. Cavanaugh today. He’s probably the most experienced doctor we have on staff. I’ll take you to his office.” She writes my vitals in my folder as we walk.
The clinic is something of a maze. We make several turns, and I wonder if I’ll ever be able to find my way back. It’s modern with top-of-the-line equipment more often found in a hospital than an outpatient facility. It’s impressive.
Dr. Cavanaugh is sitting at his desk, working on his computer. He’s an older man, slightly balding on top and wearing horn-rimmed glasses. As we walk in, he beams and stands up immediately.
“Dr. Lawson, how good to see you. I’ve been looking forward to this all morning.” He walks around his desk and shakes my hand vigorously. I’m not used to this level of enthusiasm, but I oblige and shake his hand back.
“Thank you, Donita,” he remarks to the nurse, who backs out of the room and closes the door. Dr. Cavanaugh moves back to his seat and motions for me to sit across from him.
“So, you’re trying to have a baby, huh? Ironic, isn’t it?” As he speaks, he fiddles with the computer, presumably trying to pull up my medical file.
“I guess you can say that. But most people have children, even fertility doctors. And after all, shouldn’t the fertility expert take part in some of the procedures she studies?”
He chuckles. “I guess you’re right. But it feels odd discussing procedures with someone so knowledgeable in the field. I feel like you should tell me about the various options.”
I shake my head, lowering my eyes to disguise my embarrassed smile. “Well, I’m assuming intrauterine implantation is the ideal solution, at least initially, so that it’s the least invasive.”
“Artificial insemination, closest thing to the old-fashioned way. No need to reinvent the wheel. Although we haven’t tested you using the Lawson Protocol indicators, have we?”
I’m taken aback by his comment. While I’ve been advocating for such tests since I published a paper on the subject, it’s still wild to hear that other people are implementing my work.
“No, not here, but I’m quite familiar with the process.” I give a self-effacing smile. “As far as I can tell, I’m as fertile as possible.”
It feels weird discussing my fertility like I’m a farm animal or something. It’s humbling to know this is how patients must feel.
“Excellent, excellent. So, we’ll just start the first round of medication, then bring you in for harvesting. Do you have a donor in mind?” Dr. Cavanaugh clicks to bring up a new page on his computer.
I pause. I’ve made lists of qualities but never really thought about the actual person who might embody them. They’re just items on a checklist, not a person with a face.
“I know the type of person I want to fertilize my egg. But I haven’t looked at specific donors.” As I speak, I imagine skimming through page after page of donors. Choosing a donor based on appearance and vital signs. It seems so bizarre, so sterile.
I have the mental image of an accomplished, good-hearted doctor, one who’s devoted to his work but also devoted to people he cares about. Someone who’s so kind that he’s practically a prince.
Or just a prince.
I laugh to myself. I’ve just left the royal palace, and my mother always joked that Ricky and I played so well. If he weren’t a royal, and I weren’t a commoner…
The doctor snaps me out of my reverie. “Well, we have a pretty good roundup of eligible donors. You will have to pick one before the fertilization date, so I can send you our complete list.” Cavanaugh types something on the keyboard.
“You mean I can’t just let you guys choose for me? Like a lottery system?” I laugh, and I see him crack a smile.
“You could, if you wanted. That’s for you to decide. But I recommend looking first, and if it comes to that, having us choose out of a selection. It’s best if you decide.” He pushes a few more buttons, then turns to me.
“Also, you’re not using a surrogate? I would have imagined a working professional like you would outsource the pregnancy. Less disruptive that way.”
