Chapter 4 #2
“There are a couple of areas where the results are lower than we typically like to see, but there’s also some positive news that I want to highlight.
Mr. Martin, the sperm analysis conducted on your provided sample shows that you have what we call severe oligospermia, which means your sperm count is below 5 million sperm per milliliter.
For context, a normal sperm count is usually 15 million or more per milliliter.
“In addition to the low sperm count, we also found that your sperm motility is below the ideal range. Sperm motility refers to how well your sperm are able to move. Ideally, at least 40 percent of the sperm should be moving actively. In your case, the motility is lower, which means the sperm have difficulty swimming toward an egg, making it harder for fertilization to occur.”
I reach over and slide my hand over Chase’s, squeezing lightly to remind him that we are in this together. For once, he doesn’t shake me off, though his hand remains limp beneath mine.
His eyes are locked on the doctor, his jaw tightening with each word.
“However,” Dr. Ling continues, “I do want to point out that your sperm morphology—the shape and structure of your sperm—is actually very healthy. More than 4 percent of your sperm have a normal shape, which is within the healthy range according to the criteria we use. This is encouraging because normal morphology is important for the sperm’s ability to fertilize an egg.
“So, while the lower count and motility present some challenges, your healthy sperm morphology is a strong, positive factor. We can work with this, and there are various strategies we can explore to increase your chances of conception.”
Dr. Ling pauses, giving us space to process the information. I glance at Chase, hoping for some sign of relief, but his expression remains unreadable.
His silence feels heavier than the words hanging in the air, so I step in, my voice softer than I’d like.
“So, we can still have a baby of our own?” I ask, the words trembling on the edge of my hope.
“It is possible, yes,” Dr. Ling nods and offers a reassuring smile.
“With a lower sperm count and motility, it might take a bit longer to conceive naturally, and we might need to consider some assisted reproductive techniques, such as intrauterine insemination or in vitro fertilization, if necessary. However, Mr. Martin, your healthy morphology means that the sperm that are moving have a good chance of being able to fertilize an egg. This gives us a solid foundation to build on as we discuss your options moving forward.”
The rest of the meeting passes in a blur of medical terminology and acronyms I’d never remember without the brochures provided by Dr. Ling.
I nod and smile at all the appropriate moments, clutching onto every sliver of hope like a lifeline.
But Chase remains silent, his eyes fixed on some point in the distance as if willing himself to be anywhere but here.
By the time we’re back in the car, the tension between us feels like a physical barrier, pressing down on my chest and making it hard to breathe.
I try for a moment of levity, desperate to break the silence.
“Oh! This one is called GIFT!” I say, flipping through the brochure.
“That sounds promising. Let’s see… Gamete Intrafallopian Transfer.
No idea what gamete means. Eggs and sperm are placed directly into the fallopian tubes, allowing fertilization to occur naturally within the body.
You think I’d be asleep for that? Or would I feel it? This is all so interesting!”
I ramble, filling the void with words, anything to distract from the weight of what we’ve just heard. But Chase doesn’t respond. His hands grip the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white.
I try again, my voice softer this time.
“Are you okay?”
A scoff. A head shake. Silence.
“Chase,” I prod, unable to stop myself.
“I asked you a question.”
Shit. Wrong choice, Tori.
Chase slams his palm into the steering wheel, the sharp sound slicing through the silence like a gunshot.
My heart leaps into my throat as he barks, “Can I have ten fucking minutes of silence, Tori?! Did you not hear what he said? I’m fucked up.
My sperm doesn’t work, and I’m fucking broken.
Let me process this without your incessant chatter in the background.
Just shut the fuck up and let me think for ten goddamn minutes! ”
The car fills with a heavy, oppressive silence, the kind that wraps around you and squeezes, making it impossible to breathe.
My fingers tremble as I clutch the brochure in my lap, the words blurring together as tears pool in my eyes.
Did he not hear a single word Dr. Ling said? Were we even in the same room?
“You aren’t broken, Chase,” I say softly, carefully. My voice feels small, like it might shatter under the weight of his anger.
“And we can still have a baby.”
I try to cling to the hope Dr. Ling gave us, to offer it to Chase like a lifeline, but he won’t take it.
“Try not to think about all the negatives and focus on the positives,” I continue, my voice shaking but determined.
“There’s hope! It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be—”
“Jesus, fuck, Victoria! Stop fucking talking and let me think!” he yells, cutting me off mid-sentence. His words hit like a slap, leaving me reeling.
The brochure slips from my hands and falls to the floorboard, forgotten.
I was just trying to help. Trying to rescue him from drowning in his negative thoughts.
Offer a life raft. Let him know he’s not alone.
But he only wants to be alone.
Except that he doesn’t want to be alone.
I know that because when I leave him be and give him the space he seems to want, he’ll come back later and berate me for neglecting him. For not caring. For being too consumed with work and friends to notice him.
Damned if I do; damned if I don’t.
Trying to work my way through a maze with ever-changing walls and passageways. Never knowing which way is up. Always making the wrong decision.
But I keep walking. I keep studying. I keep learning the steps.
One day I’ll get it right.
Won’t I?
The rest of the drive home is silent. Not the kind of silence that offers peace or reflection.
No, this silence is heavy, suffocating, filled with all the words we aren’t saying.
I stare out the window, watching the world blur past, wondering how we got here. How did the people who once promised each other forever turn into this—a constant battle of resentment and unmet expectations?
When we pull into the driveway, Chase shuts off the engine and immediately gets out of the car without a word.
I sit there for a moment, watching as he slams the front door behind him, leaving me alone in the car with nothing but the sound of my own ragged breathing. My chest tightens, and I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood, anything to keep the tears from spilling over.
I finally gather the strength to push open the door and step out, my legs feeling like lead as I make my way inside.
The house is eerily quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Chase is nowhere to be seen, but I don’t need to look for him. I already know he’s in his office, hiding behind a screen, avoiding me like he always does when things get hard.
I make my way to the bedroom, my body moving on autopilot as I strip off my jacket and shoes.
My reflection in the mirror catches my eye, and I stop, staring at the woman looking back at me. Her face is pale, her eyes rimmed red from holding back tears.
She looks tired. Defeated. Broken.
The girl in the mirror looks nothing like the woman who used to dream about nurseries and matching Christmas pajamas. That girl smiled more. Spoke more. Laughed without thinking who might be listening.
“Pull it together, Tori,” I whisper to myself. “You’re stronger than this.”
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath to steady myself. The weight in my chest doesn’t lift, but I force myself to ignore it.
I grab my phone and sit on the edge of the bed, scrolling mindlessly through social media, anything to distract myself from the gnawing ache inside me.
I come across a post from Skye—a funny meme about the concert tickets—and I want to laugh, but I can’t. Instead, I feel a pang of guilt for the lie I told her earlier. For pretending everything is fine when it’s anything but.
I set the phone down and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The silence in the house feels louder than any argument we’ve ever had. It presses down on me, suffocating and unrelenting, until I finally can’t take it anymore.
I sit up, my hands shaking as I pick up my phone and text Skye.
Tori, 12:26 p.m.: Hey. Got a minute?
I stare at the screen, waiting for the typing bubbles to appear. When they do, a small wave of relief washes over me.
Skye 12:27 p.m.: Yeah bitch. What’s up?
My fingers hover over the keyboard, the weight of everything I want to say pressing down on me.
I want to tell her everything—about the appointment, the results, Chase’s reaction. But instead, I type:
Tori, 12:27 p.m.: Nothing. Just wanted to say hi.
I hit send before I can change my mind, my chest tightening as I stare at the message. Skye’s reply comes almost instantly.
Skye, 12:27 p.m.: Hi. You ok?
No. I’m not. But I can’t say that. Not now.
Not when I’m barely holding it together.
Tori, 12:28 p.m.: Yeah. Just tired.
She responds with more memes about getting battle ready before tickets go on sale tonight, but I can’t bring myself to keep the conversation going.
I set the phone down and bury my face in my hands, the tears I’ve been holding back finally spilling over.
I cry for everything—my marriage, my husband, my dreams of a family, the person I used to be before all of this.
By the time the tears stop, I feel hollow, like I’ve poured out every last piece of myself. I wipe my face and stand, my legs trembling as I make my way to the bathroom.
I splash cold water on my face, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself.
I don’t know if I believe it, but I say it anyway.