Chapter 12 #2
“Then why didn't it work?”
He didn't answer.
“Exactly.”
“Because sometimes this shit doesn't work the first time.”
“Why?”
“I don't fucking know.”
“Neither do I!”
I wiped my face.
“Maybe it's not my body. Maybe it's our embryos. Maybe it's my eggs. Maybe it's?—”
“Stop.”
“Maybe I'm not supposed to be somebody's mama.”
“Don't say that shit.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don't know that.”
“What else am I supposed to think?”
“The truth.”
“What truth? That one transfer didn't work.”
“And three pregnancies didn't work!”
His jaw tightened.
“I know.”
“How many times am I supposed to keep doing this before I get the fucking message?”
“Until you don't want to anymore.”
I stared at him.
He came closer.
“And if you tell me today you're done, we're done.”
My chest tightened.
“I mean that shit.”
“But you want a baby.”
“I want you.”
That broke me. Billion caught me before I even realized I'd moved toward him.
I buried my face against his chest and cried.
I cried the way I'd cried in hospital bathrooms. In our bed.
In the shower so Billion wouldn't hear me.
I cried for every pregnancy test I'd saved and eventually thrown away.
Every appointment where somebody told me there wasn't a heartbeat anymore.
Every time somebody tried to make me feel better by telling me I could try again. And now this…
A baby hadn't even been inside me this time and somehow, I still felt like I'd lost something.
“I can't keep doing this.”
Billion held me tighter.
“Then don't.”
“But I want my baby.”
“I know.”
“I want my fucking baby.”
“I know, baby.”
I cried harder.
I forgot Nyrobi was even there. Until I heard her crying too. I lifted my head. She was still near the couch, wiping underneath her eyes.
“What are you crying for?”
She laughed a little.
“I don't know.”
“Nyrobi.”
“I don't fucking know, okay?”
I wiped my face.
She came closer.
“I feel like I did something wrong.”
“No.”
“I know the doctor said?—”
“No.”
“But it was in me.”
“That doesn't mean?—”
“I was supposed to keep it there.”
“No, you weren't.”
She looked at me.
“You weren't supposed to do anything except what they told you to do.”
“I did.”
“I know.”
“So why?—”
“Don't.”
Now I understood.
I walked away from Billion and grabbed her hands.
“Do not do what I just did.”
Her eyebrows pulled together.
“What?”
“Blame your body.”
She looked down.
“I just did that shit for years. Don't start.”
“But—”
“No.”
I squeezed her hands.
“This is not your fault.”
Her eyes filled again.
“And if we do it again and it doesn't work, that won't be your fault either.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“No, look at me.”
She did.
“I don't want you walking around thinking you failed me.”
Nyrobi swallowed.
“I ain't gonna lie. I kinda do.”
“Well, don't.”
“That's easier said than done.”
“I know.”
We stood there holding each other's hands.
Two women crying over the same embryo for two completely different reasons. That shit was crazy when I thought about it. I was grieving what I wanted it to become. Nyrobi was grieving because she thought her body had failed to make it become anything at all.
Billion stood a few feet away watching both of us.
Then he rubbed his hand over his face.
“Both of y'all done?”
I looked at him.
“Excuse me?”
“I'm asking before I say something and y'all jump my ass.”
Nyrobi wiped her face.
“Depends what you about to say.”
“I think we need to talk to the doctor before either one of y'all diagnose yourselves with some shit.”
I stared at him.
Nyrobi nodded.
“He got a point.”
“Don't take his side.”
“I ain't taking sides. I'm saying we don't know why it didn't work.”
Billion pointed at her.
“Thank you.”
“Don't point at me.”
He dropped his hand.
I almost laughed.
We met with the doctor the next afternoon.
I had cried enough by then that my eyes hurt.
Nyrobi looked tired. Billion looked like Billion.
Like somebody could tell him the world was ending and he'd ask what time.
The doctor went over the transfer. Nothing Nyrobi had done caused it to fail.
That mattered. I looked at her when he said it.
She looked at me. Neither one of us said anything.
Then he explained that not every embryo transfer resulted in pregnancy.Sometimes implantation simply didn't happen.
A failed first transfer didn't mean surrogacy couldn't work for us.
It didn't mean Nyrobi couldn't carry. And it didn't automatically mean something was wrong with our remaining embryos.
They could review everything, adjust medication if needed, let Nyrobi's body reset, and try again.
Try again.
Those two words had followed me for years. Usually I hated them. This time I didn't know how I felt. The doctor looked at me.
“We don't have to make any decisions today.”
I nodded.
I didn't trust myself to say anything yet. Billion's hand rested on my thigh.
Then Nyrobi spoke.
“So when we try again?”
I looked at her. So did Billion.
The doctor paused.
“We would want to give your body time and review your protocol first.”
“Okay.”
“But assuming everything looks appropriate, we can discuss the timeline for another transfer.”
Nyrobi nodded.
“Cool.”
I stared at her.
She noticed.
“What?”
“You don't have to.”
Her face twisted.
“What you mean?”
“We can take some time.”
“Kaizleigh.”
“What?”
“I signed up to do this.”
“I know, but?—”
“No but.”
She leaned back.
“The first one didn't work. Okay. That shit hurt. I ain't gonna lie.”
My eyes started burning again.
“But the doctor just said that don't mean the next one won't.”
I nodded.
“So why we acting like I gotta make some whole new decision?”
That hit me. Because she was right. She'd already decided, long before today.
Nyrobi looked at the doctor.
“Tell me what I need to do.”
The doctor nodded.
“We'll put together the next protocol and go over everything with you.”
“Bet.”
That simple.
I looked down because if I kept looking at her, I was going to start crying again.
“Don't,” Nyrobi said.
I looked up.
“What?”
“You finna cry.”
“No, I'm not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Girl, your eyes already watering.”
“Shut up.”
She smiled.
Billion shook his head.
I reached over and grabbed Nyrobi's hand anyway.
She looked down at it and then at me. This time, she didn't complain.
The first transfer hadn't worked. I hated that.
I hated everything about it. But for the first time since that phone call, the negative didn't feel like a period at the end of the sentence.
Maybe it was just a comma. We still had embryos.
We still had Nyrobi. And when the doctor started explaining what came next, I stopped thinking about what hadn't happened.
I listened. Because we were trying again.