10. TRUTH #2
I kept a journal for the next couple of weeks of my IVF process. Just in case anything went wrong, I wanted to have some sort of documentation for my peace of mind. I read through it because shit was getting real. The egg retrieval was next, and I was losing my shit.
Day One
The first injection wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.
I did it in the bahtroom at the clinic with the needle kit spread out on the counter—alcohol swabs, pre-filled syringe, gauze pads, instructions printed on clinic letterhead. Dr. Beaumont’s nurse had walked me through it twice, but my hands still shook as I uncapped the needle.
The pinch was sharp but quick.
I pressed the plunger slowly, watching the clear liquid disappear into my thigh.
When it was done, I sat there for a long moment, staring at the tiny bead of blood on my skin.
This is really happening.
I cleaned up, threw everything in the sharps container Dr. Beaumont had in the bathroom, and went home.
Day Three
The second injection was easier.
The third one hurt more than the first two combined.
I sat on the bathroom floor afterward, pressing a cold washcloth against the injection site. The skin was red and tender, a dull ache radiating down my thigh.
Mama knocked on the door.
“You alright in there?”
“Yeah,” I called back. “Just tired.”
She didn’t respond, but I heard her footsteps linger outside the door before she walked away.
I pulled myself up and looked at my reflection in the mirror.
My face looked the same.
But something underneath felt different.
Like my body was already changing in ways I couldn’t see yet.
Day Five
I cried at a Folgers commercial.
Not the sad kind of commercial—the one where the son comes home from college and surprises his parents on Spring Break. The kind that’s supposed to make you smile.
But I sat on Mama’s couch with tears streaming down my face, sobbing like somebody had died.
Mama looked over from her recliner, eyebrows raised.
“You okay, baby?”
“I don’t know,” I said, wiping my face with the back of my hand. “I don’t know why I’m crying.”
She didn’t say anything.
Just turned back to the TV.
But I felt her watching me from the corner of her eye for the rest of the night.
Day Six
I was starving.
Not regular hungry—starving.
I ate two bowls of cereal, three pieces of toast, and half a rotisserie chicken from Rouses before noon.
By 2 PM, I was nauseous.
I barely made it to the bathroom before I threw up everything I’d eaten.
Mama stood in the doorway, arms crossed.
“You pregnant already?” she asked.
“No,” I said, wiping my mouth. “It’s the hormones. They mess with your stomach.”
She nodded slowly.
“Mm-hmm.”
She didn’t believe me.
But she didn’t push.
Day Eight
Saroya called while I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.
“Hey, girl. You busy?”
“No,” I said. “Just resting.”
“You sound weird.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? You sound… I don’t know. Off.”
I closed my eyes.
“Just tired from from these harmones.”
Silence on the other end.
Then, “Alright. Well, call me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
I hung up.
Day Nine
My body felt like it didn’t belong to me anymore.
Everything ached—my back, my hips, my breasts so tender I couldn’t even hug Mama without wincing.
I was bloated, exhausted, irritable.
And I still had five more days of injections to go.
Day Eleven
I woke up at 3 AM craving pickles and peanut butter.
Not together.
Separately.
But I ate them both standing in front of the open fridge, the cold air washing over my face while Mama’s house creaked and settled around me.
When I climbed back into bed, I couldn’t fall asleep.
I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling my body do things I couldn’t control.
Cramping. Bloating. A strange heaviness in my abdomen that hadn’t been there before.
This was supposed to be simple.
Injections. Egg retrieval. Implantation.
But nothing about this felt simple.
Day Thirteen
I broke down in the shower.
Not because anything was wrong.
Not because I was in pain.
Just because I was tired.
Tired of the injections.
Tired of my body not feeling like mine.
I sat on the shower floor with the water beating down on my back and cried until the water ran cold.
When I got out, Mama was sitting on my bed.
“You need to tell me what’s going on,” she said quietly.
“I already told you.”
“I know what you told me.” Her voice was firm. “But I’m your mama. And I know when something’s wrong.”
I sat down next to her, wrapped in my towel, water dripping onto the floor.
“It’s just hard,” I said finally. “Harder than I thought it would be.”
She nodded.
“Most things worth doing are.”
She didn’t ask for details.
Didn’t push.
Just sat with me until I stopped shaking.
Day Fourteen
The morning of the egg retrieval, I woke up before my alarm.
My stomach was in knots.
I wasn’t allowed to eat or drink anything—doctor’s orders—so I just sat at the kitchen table, staring at the clock.
Mama made herself coffee but didn’t offer me any.
“You ready?” she asked.
“No.”
“You gon’ do it anyway?”
“Yeah.”
She nodded. “That’s my girl.”
The clinic was cold.
Sterile.
The kind of cold that seeped into your bones and made everything feel more real than you wanted it to.
I checked in at the front desk, signed the consent forms, and followed the nurse back to the pre-op area.
She handed me a hospital gown and a pair of non-slip socks.
“Change into this,” she said. “Everything off, including underwear. You can leave your socks on if you want.”
I nodded.
When she left, I stood there for a long moment, staring at the gown in my hands.
This is it.
I changed quickly, folded my clothes into a neat pile, and sat on the edge of the bed.
My hands were shaking.
The nurse came back with an IV kit.
“Just a little stick,” she said, sliding the needle into the back of my hand.
I didn’t flinch.
I’d gotten used to needles over the past two weeks.
“Dr. Beaumont will be in shortly to go over the procedure,” the nurse said. “Try to relax.”
She left.
I sat there alone, the IV tubing taped to my hand, the gown too thin, the room too cold.
And then I heard voices in the hallway.
Dr. Beaumont’s voice.
And another voice I recognized immediately.
Amai.
My heart kicked hard in my chest.
The nurse pulled back the curtain.
“Alright, sweetie. Let’s get you to the procedure room.”
I stood, my legs unsteady, and followed her down the hallway.
And that’s when I saw him.
Amai.
Sitting in the waiting room.
Dark suit. Perfectly pressed. Hands folded in his lap.
But his eyes tracked me the moment I stepped into the hallway.
We didn’t speak.
I didn’t know what to say.
He didn’t move.
Just watched me.
And something in my chest—something that had been wound tight for two weeks—loosened just a little.
Because he was there.
He didn’t have to be.
The contract didn’t require it.
But he was there.
The nurse guided me into the procedure room, helped me onto the table, adjusted the stirrups.
Dr. Beaumont came in, smiling warmly.
“How are you feeling, Truth?”
“Nervous,” I admitted.
“That’s normal.” She squeezed my hand. “We’re going to take good care of you. The anesthesiologist is going to give you something to help you relax, and then we’ll get started. You’ll be asleep for the whole thing. When you wake up, it’ll be over.”
I nodded.
The anesthesiologist appeared at my side, adjusting the IV.
“You’re going to feel a little cold sensation,” he said. “And then you’ll start to feel sleepy. Just let it happen.”
The cold rushed through my veins.
And the last thing I thought before everything went dark?—
He’s here.
He came.
And that meant something.
I woke up to the sound of machines beeping.
My mouth tasted like metal and cotton. My throat was dry. My body felt heavy—like someone had filled my limbs with sand and forgotten to drain it out.
I blinked.
The ceiling tiles above me were white. Bland. Water-stained in one corner.
I blinked again.
The room came into focus slowly—pale green walls, a privacy curtain half-drawn, a monitor beside the bed displaying numbers I didn’t understand.
My right hand throbbed.
I looked down.
IV line taped to the back of my hand. Clear tubing snaking up to a bag hanging from a metal pole.
And then I felt it.
A dull, insistent ache low in my abdomen.
Not sharp. Not unbearable.
Just there.
A reminder that something had been done to my body while I was unconscious.
I shifted slightly, testing the pain.
It didn’t get worse.
Just stayed—constant, heavy, like a bruise from the inside.
I closed my eyes.
Tried to remember how I’d gotten here.
The procedure room. Dr. Beaumont’s warm smile. The anesthesiologist’s voice telling me to relax.
The cold rushing through my veins.
And before that?—
Amai.
In the waiting room.
Watching me.
I opened my eyes again.
Stared at the ceiling tiles.
Fourteen eggs.
That’s what Dr. Beaumont said before the procedure.
We’re hoping for a good retrieval. Your hormone levels look excellent.
I wondered if they’d gotten them.
Wondered if right now, somewhere in this building, fourteen pieces of me were sitting in little dishes under bright lights.
Waiting.
The door opened.
A nurse stepped in—different from the one who’d prepped me earlier. Older, with kind eyes and scrubs covered in cartoon cats.
“Hey there,” she said softly. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” I said. My voice came out hoarse.
“That’s normal. The anesthesia takes a little while to wear off.” She checked the monitor and made a note on her clipboard. “Any pain?”
“A little. Down here.” I gestured vaguely toward my lower abdomen.
“That’s normal too. Cramping is expected after retrieval. We’ll get you some Tylenol before you leave.” She smiled. “You did great, by the way.”
I looked at her.
“We retrieved fourteen eggs,” she said. “That’s excellent for your age and hormone levels. Dr. Beaumont is very pleased.”
Fourteen.
The number sat in my chest like a stone.
Fourteen pieces of myself.
Fourteen chances.