Chapter 2 #2
My stomach churns, not from the conversation so much as the stark realization that I am no longer in control of my body or my life.
My body, my routine, my fridge, my damn air freshener is all under the control of this woman who seems to have decided I’m a flesh-and-blood incubator for her child, rather than a person.
It’s becoming increasingly clear that I should have thought this through more carefully, because the part that really stings is that I let this happen.
“Do you even meditate?” Mrs. Whitmore asks suddenly.
“What?”
“I sent you a meditation app, the one you never downloaded.”
“I don’t usually meditate,” I answer. By the sound of things, what with my shifts at the diner, visiting Gran, and making sure I do everything else on their list, I’ll barely have time to think, let alone meditate.
“I think you’ll like it. It adjusts the sessions based on hormone fluctuations. I’ll walk you through it now, if you’d like.”
Before I can respond, her phone pings. She glances at it. “Blood sugar levels,” she says brightly. “You didn’t log your breakfast today.”
I carefully explain, “I was… rushing to get to this appointment.”
“I understand,” she cuts in. “But you need to set your alarm for earlier so you can follow through with your responsibilities to our unborn child. This isn’t your pregnancy.”
That sentence feels like a slap in the face, because she didn’t have viable eggs I agreed the clinic could use mine for the procedure.
But she’s right, technically. I gave up all rights to the egg. At the time it seemed like a minor detail. Since I was deemed to be extremely fertile and had thousands more eggs, it seemed like an easy ask at the time.
My body will be pregnant, and my hormones will be the ones shifting. My life will be the one changing, but none of it is mine to keep. This hits me hard. I grip the edge of the folder, my fingers digging into the cardboard.
Meanwhile, she’s going on about walking trackers and approved music playlists, but I can’t even begin to pay attention to her anymore because I’m on stimulus overload. This whole situation is nothing like what I thought it would be.
The door opens again, and Dr. Langford, the medical director, walks in with a file folder tucked under one arm. Mrs. Whitmore straightens her spine and sets her phone aside. Mr. Whitmore drapes his arm around her.
I grip the edges of the seat and brace myself for whatever news he has.
He takes a seat across from us, smoothing the hem of his white coat before opening the folder in his lap.
He looks between us, smile fixed and professional.
“Thank you all for coming,” he begins. “And Ms. Grant, thank you for being so cooperative throughout this process. I know IVF can be stressful.”
Mrs. Whitmore leans forward in her seat, purse in hand. “Has the implantation taken?”
“Yes,” he says hesitantly. “The test is positive. Ms. Grant is pregnant.”
Her hands fly to her mouth, “What wonderful news.”
Dr. Langford continues, “We even got your request that upon successful completion we transfer any and all case records to Dr. Krauss at Monarch Medical.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Whitmore says, “I’m sure your in-house physicians are proficient at their job, but we want our child to have the best prenatal care this region has to offer. Based on our research that would be Dr. Krauss who has admitting privileges at Monarch Medical.”
“Everything you just said is true. Unfortunately, that handoff won’t take place immediately.”
I can see the fury jump onto Mrs. Whitmore’s face but before she can speak, the medical director explains.
“Cases are typically transferred to an OB/GYN around eight to ten weeks, after confirming a heartbeat through ultrasound and ensuring hCG levels are rising appropriately. This is the point where the risk of miscarriage decreases to the levels associated with a naturally occurring pregnancy.”
He pauses for a moment and adds, “I would also remind you that you waited almost a year for an appointment with our clinic. If we were to transfer the case prematurely, and something were to go wrong, it might take even longer to start the process again. Our clinic is currently booked solid for the next year and half.”
Mr. Whitmore’s hand immediately comes out to rest on his wife’s arm. “We understand. Thank you for explaining these complexities to us. Naturally, we wouldn’t want to do anything to throw our timeline off.”
His wife responds tightly, “My husband is right, of course we want to ensure the viability of this pregnancy and preserve our open slot in case anything unpredictable happens. Now, the implantation took place fourteen days ago. How often do we need to come back before the transfer can take place?”
“The blood draw taken upon arrival this morning verified the presence of the pregnancy hormone hCG. Typically, appointments are scheduled every four weeks until twenty-eight weeks, every two to three until thirty-six weeks and then every week thereafter. Since you’re eager to transfer the case to Monarch Medical, we’ll schedule two more visits.
If everything’s going well, we’ll transfer the case to Dr. Krauss at the ten-week mark. ”
Mrs. Whitmore opens her mouth, I guess she wants to argue for the transfer to happen at eight weeks, but her husband clamps down on her arm.
His voice is calm and professional, “That will be fine. When we started this process, we agreed that the decision would be medically driven, not based on our emotions or eagerness to speed the process along.”
Mrs. Whitmore’s open mouth snaps shut in a heartbeat. I glance over at Mr. Whitmore, while I don’t particularly like him, at least he seems to be the voice of reason in the relationship.
We go back and forth with a few more questions and then thankfully part ways. And not a moment too soon.