Chapter 2
It’s unclear why I need to be dressed in a heinous, paper-thin hospital robe simply to pee in a cup, but lo and behold, here we are. Today’s doctor’s appointment is a little more exciting than usual.
Wait, that’s an understatement.
A lot more exciting.
It took seven rounds of artificial insemination, but my sheer determination and stubbornness finally overcame. One of those little swimmers finally stuck, goddammit, and in eight-ish more months—I think, I’m still not clear on pregnancy math—I’m going to have a baby.
I almost told my best friend Noa while she was in town for her fake boyfriend’s birthday party. Her new Hollywood hunk must be wildly distracting because she didn’t even notice I was sipping Sprite and Ginger Ale all week in lieu of my usual boozy choices. I swear, squeeze a lime in any drink and people automatically assume it’s a cocktail.Noa only once questioned my sudden nausea, but it was easy to blame that on an oncoming migraine. I felt a little guilty when she immediately brewed me a cup of my favorite passion fruit tea, sat my butt on the couch with a blanket, and started making preemptive cold presses for my forehead. She’s been my best friend since before I could spell friend. She knows the drill by now. I’ve had these migraines forever, my mother too…
Oh damn.I trill my fingers over my stomach. I’m sorry, lil peanut. Apparently, chronic migraines are usually genetic, and in that aspect, I sincerely hope my baby takes after its dad…or donor more accurately.
That’s going to be a hard one to explain one day.
Donor 00429310 has a graduate degree, a higher than average IQ, is over six feet tall, has jet-black hair and light-colored eyes. The profile wouldn’t even indicate the specific color of his eyes—just light. And to be honest, I don’t care. I could’ve paid an extra four hundred dollars to see a composite illustration based off of his facial features and his biological father’s, but a caricature is not going to absolve the fact that one day, I’ll have to explain to my kid why I decided to do this alone.
And you’re not really alone, lil peanut.You have a grandmother who will smother you to death with snuggles if I don’t run interference and four amazing aunties who will love you like their own. I’m sure of it. I just have to finally tell them what’s going on. Actually, I have to explain a lot of things to them: first, why the sky seemingly turned gray overnight and I ran off to California to be alone, and then why I decided to tell no one that I’m going to have a baby by myself.
The rapid chime of notifications echoes off the walls of the exam room and summons me to my phone. I hop off the exam table and shuffle awkwardly to my purse sitting on a nearby chair as if I’m not alone in this room and someone could see my ass hanging out of this robe that refuses to close.
Checking the caller ID, I don’t recognize the number…but it’s local.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Hello, I’m Anne Raston, with Ottman Psychology Partners. I’m looking for Ms. Amani Rhodes.”
“Um, yes, that’s me.” I pull the phone from my ear and can’t help but notice the hundreds of notifications. One of my reels must have some traction…which is good. God, I hope it’s for Sylvester Swim. They’ve paid me a small fortune, and I have yet to help them break even on their investment in me. They are good swimsuits…severely overpriced, sure…but bottom line is I need some users to get a little click happy because I’m starting to feel guilty—
“So does two o’clock next Tuesday work?” Anne’s voice rings through the phone and I realize I’ve completely tuned out from our conversation. This keeps happening to me…losing moments of time whenever I’m near a screen.
“I’m sorry, wait. What is this for and who is this again?”
“I’m Anne Raston,” she says politely, even though I’m forcing her to repeat herself and just owned up to ignoring her. This woman has more patience than I deserve. “I’m a counselor with Ottman Psychology Partners. You filled out an inquiry form at the end of February, wanting to get on the waitlist. I have a spot available for you.”
“Oh.” I vaguely remember months ago, during a tear-induced, insomnia-ridden night, googling a couple of local counselors and filling out some online forms. “I’m actually okay now. You can give the spot to someone else on the waitlist.”
“Did you find another counselor?” she presses.
“No…I’m just okay.” I’m pregnant now. Ergo, I’m not stressed about not being pregnant anymore. “A lot of my anxiety has calmed down.” If I were hooked up to a lie detector test at the moment, it would be furiously scribbling sharp peaks.
“Did you have a change in employment?”
“What?” Goodness gracious, she’s invasive. Although, perhaps that’s her job.
“You mentioned in the form that you work in social media and that you were averaging about six hours of screen time a day. Is that still the case?”
“I’m still a content creator and brand influencer…but I don’t think I said I was spending six hours a day on my phone.”
“Hm,” she murmurs into the phone. “I’m just going off of the form, Ms. Rhodes. I apologize if I misunderstood.”
“Oh, I’m not offended. I just don’t remember.”
She clears her throat. “Well, how about just a complimentary introductory session. We can leave insurance out of it for now, just chat, and see if counseling might still be beneficial for you. Some of the things you wrote down on the inquiry form were concerning… I’d really like to help—”
Knock, knock.I’m interrupted by my doctor at the door.
“Anne, I’m sorry, it’s not a great time. I’m at an appointment, and I assure you I’m fine. But I really appreciate you following up.”
“Okay, Amani,” she says just as politely as before, “this is my cell number if you ever need anything—”
“Bye,” I muffle into the speaker, then shove my phone into my purse while I shuffle sidewise and hoist myself back onto the exam table. “Sorry, work,” I lie to Doctor Michel. The last thing my fertility doctor needs to hear is that I’ve been online shopping for mental health counseling. I’m going to be a mom. Or maybe I’m already a mom. When does momhood technically start? Either way, it’s time to be stronger than the demons in my mind.
“We’ll try to get you out of here quickly so you can get back to your job,” he responds with a small smile.
He’s not wearing his white doctor’s coat for some reason. Just a salmon-colored, pin-striped dress shirt and a pair of black slacks. If it wasn’t for the stethoscope around his neck, I wouldn’t peg him as my doctor.
I shake my head fervently. “Oh, no, no rush. The nurse told me if I can wait, maybe the ultrasound tech can squeeze me in today?” I pat my stomach tenderly with a big smile on my face. “I really want to hear the heartbeat.”
I watch Dr. Michel’s thick, salt-and-pepper eyebrows furrow in concentration. “I have your lab results. That’s what took so long. I apologize. I had the lab test your urine, but just in case, I had them run a blood panel as well.”
Oh no. I don’t like that look on his face.“Is everything okay?”
My heart sinks even further at his pitiful smile. He crosses his arms as he leans back against the sink counter. “There’s no need for you to wait for an ultrasound today. I’m so sorry. Ms. Rhodes… You’re not pregnant.”
I blink, letting the silence claim the room before I finally croak out, “I lost it?”
“No.” Dr. Michel gently shakes his head. “If it was a miscarriage, or even what we’d classify as a chemical pregnancy, there’d still be the faintest trace of HCG in your blood. But your labs don’t indicate anything of the sort. I think perhaps the home pregnancy test you used was faulty. Do you remember the brand?”
“What?”
“The brand?” he asks again.
It’s hard to make sense of his question. The thudding of my heart sounds like a drum in my head. A rhythmic pounding beat in my brain, drowning out his drums. How can he possibly be telling me there is no baby? I was just talking to my little peanut.
“The digital blue one with the rain over the mountains…I don’t know—wait, I’m sorry, I…what?” I rub my eyes with the heel of my palms, disregarding my mascara and eyeshadow. “What do you mean I’m not pregnant? I haven’t had my period. I’ve been nauseous for weeks now. At the seven-week mark, isn’t that a telltale sign of—”
“Ms. Rhodes.” Dr. Michel takes a seat on his rolling stool and scoots to the side of the exam table.
The way his eyes are pooling in pity is making my skin prickle. Is this a mix-up or some cruel joke? I came to this appointment today thinking I was a mother. I’m leaving with the harsh reality, the one all the statistics have been telling me all along…
This isn’t possible.
This isn’t going to happen for me.
“Well, I, uh…” I subtly sink my top canine tooth into my bottom lip. I bite until it hurts to hold in the tears. Only once I’m composed, I continue, “I guess I’m sorry for wasting your time. I took the test, and I didn’t think to take another. It said ‘pregnant’ clear as day. I didn’t even question it.”
Why would I doubt it? I’ve been trying to get pregnant. It finally happened. I cried…
Out of literal joy.
“You most certainly didn’t waste my time. This happens more often than you think. Quality control for home pregnancy tests is becoming a little frustrating. On top of that, you are on a lot of hormone-heavy medication. The nausea was well-timed and that in itself could’ve been misleading. I’m very sorry.”
“It’s okay. We’ve been through this before.” I ignore the tightening in my chest and force myself to keep my voice steady. “All right. So we go another round. I thought the seventh time would be the charm, but maybe it’s the eighth, you know? I’ll just, um…make the usual appointment, a few days before my ovulation window—”
“Amani?” My first name sounds odd coming from Dr. Michel. I’m so used to “Ms. Rhodes” by now. “I normally only recommend three to four rounds of IUI before we move on to other treatments. We’re well past that. I think we can safely assume at this point that this method of conception isn’t going to be successful.”
I inhale and touch my stomach, hyperaware that I’ve been talking to a fictitious cluster of cells for the past couple of weeks. “When I first came to this facility, you told me that IVF was twenty times the cost of IUI.”
“That’s still accurate,” he replies. “And your insurance doesn’t cover it.”
“And the success rate…remind me again?”
He hangs his head. “Better than IUI, but—”
“It’s fine. I’ll find the money. Let’s just move on to IVF then.”
Dr. Michel swivels around to collect a blue folder. He holds it in the air but doesn’t open it. “Your hormone levels,” he says like it’s an explanation.
“Are?” I ask.
“Have you ever heard of POI?”
“POI?”
“Primary ovarian insufficiency. It’s rare but real and it is a major inhibitor to successful conception.”
“No.” My eyelids feel heavy as I blink. “So I’m infertile?”
Dr. Michel shakes his head like a teacher at a student who misunderstood that one plus one is not eleven. “Infertile wouldn’t be clinically correct. There are rare circumstances where women diagnosed with POI still conceive, even naturally without any medical interference. But those cases are very few and far between.”
“So wouldn’t IVF help those odds?”
He clasps his hands together. “A big part of my job is to help you succeed. It would be irresponsible for me to recommend a course of treatment that in my opinion is futile.”
“I don’t understand, Dr. Michel.”
“I had suspicions after our fourth round of IUI, but the reason you’re not getting pregnant is due to your eggs—both the sporadic nature of their release and the quality. I want to do some additional tests, but do you happen to know if your mother or grandmother experienced irregular cycles and early menopause?”
Mom was one and done. She had me at nineteen. I remember her telling me she had weird periods her entire life. The fact that I only have a cycle once every other month wasn’t abnormal in my household. I didn’t really think much of it.
“It’s possible,” I mumble. “So with things as they currently are, if we proceeded with IVF immediately, what are my chances?”
“Rough estimate?”
“Sure.”
He shrugs. “Less than ten percent.”
“Less than ten percent?” I parrot back. “Wow.”
“There’s more of a chance if we used both donor eggs and sperm.”
Donor eggs?“So it wouldn’t be my baby?”
He clicks his tongue in a painfully patronizing way. “Of course it’d be your baby, Ms. Rhodes. You’d carry the baby. They just wouldn’t share your DNA. Even if you didn’t become pregnant, an adoptive mother is still a mother to her child, right?”
Of course. But that’s not why I’m here. I want to grow a baby, and when it’s delivered, I want to look down at that baby bundle and see my eyes, nose, or lips. I want to have the world’s most genuine connection and divine purpose that people can’t poke, prod, and break apart.
I want what Noa has with Jonah. The way he desperately needs her after every elbow scrape and knee bump, expecting her to fix it. The way she can hold his entire four-year-old world together simply with sweet kisses and cuddles. I want to matter, to be needed in a real way.
It’s not until Dr. Michel swivels around and grabs a box of tissues before offering me one that I realize I’m crying. I didn’t notice the warm streaks running down my cheeks. But now I do. Now, I notice my hands shaking as I reach for the tissue box and swipe underneath my eyes. I sniffle loudly then hold my breath, trying to suck back my disappointment.
“I’m okay,” I state clearly once I’m composed.
Dr. Michel reaches out, his hand hovering briefly over my knee before he ultimately pats the side of the cushioned exam table instead of my leg. He must feel the urge to comfort me, and believe me—I’m craving it. If he wasn’t my doctor, if we weren’t alone in an exam room, if his integrity and ethics wouldn’t be called into question, I would ask this man to hug me. Really hug me. A big, friendly bear hug. Just until I got to my feet and felt steady…
Because I think if I keep trying to do this alone, I’m going to fall apart.
“I don’t want to lead you down a treatment plan that is only going to cause you disappointment. In my professional opinion, proceeding with IVF with your eggs has a very slim chance of success. I’d recommend you consider donor eggs, or the clinic can help you find alternative paths to becoming a mother, namely adoption.” Dr. Michel studies my eyes, waiting for a reaction, but when I don’t respond, he continues, “Why don’t we just take off the rest of the summer, perhaps. Take two months to just let your body reset. Then at the end of the summer, we can talk about whatever you want. For now, just focus on the other aspects of your life. Spend time with your friends. You’re young, full of energy, smart…”
An insomniac…sad…missing home…feeling helpless.I mentally finish Dr. Michel’s list.
“…just take a summer to have some fun, relieve the stress, and we’ll talk about options in a couple of months, okay?”
“Lovely,” I muster. I wonder if Dr. Michel can hear my sarcasm. I’m not so skilled at masking it. Staying focused on the next chapter of my life is the only thing that’s keeping me stitched together while the entire foundation of my current world seems to be shifting apart like Pangea.
“Great,” he replies, satisfied as he rises and heads toward the door. He seems so cold and dismissive all of the sudden, but I don’t know what the appropriate sendoff is after basically telling a woman her body is failing her and she’ll never conceive. A handshake? That aforementioned hug?
Dr. Michel pauses at the door and turns around. “Ms. Rhodes, do you have anyone you can talk to about this? Family? Friends? This is a lot to be going through on your own.”
Yes. But I haven’t been talking to anyone about it.“Thank you. I’m okay.”
He half-smiles. “Sometimes the only thing that stands in our way of feeling better is actually asking for what we need.” He winks and slips through the door before I can assure him I’m fine once more.
The problem is I don’t know what I need. I don’t know how to ask my four best friends, or even my mother for help, because I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know how to process the constant tightening in my chest whenever I turn on the camera to do my job. How do I explain the way I flinch whenever I hear my phone’s notification chime? I can’t pinpoint why it feels like there’s a twenty-pound weight on my chest at all times and it’s hard to breathe, the sky always looks filtered with a hue of gray, and I dread when people ask me if I’m okay because I have to lie every single time. I don’t think I can fix it. It’s been over a year and my anxiety is only getting worse, slipping dangerously close to what I can only describe as depression. I was trying my best to stave off the empty feelings. I spent some time with myself and really thought about what would feel more important to me than the constant approval or disapproval from faceless strangers on the internet.
In the sanctity of my most private thoughts, what is it that I really wanted? I thought about it for a long time, and the answer even surprised me.
I could only come up with one thing.
A family that’s all mine.
A baby.