Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Amy
“Hey, boss lady,” Trey shouts from the reception desk. “Why the long face?” I hold up my hand, signaling that I don’t want to talk. His voice follows me, half concerned, half playful. I ignore it. It grates. I keep walking to my office door.
Once on the other side, I close it behind me and flick the lock. The faint click echoes like relief, erecting a barrier between me and the world outside. The blue sofa shoved in the corner looks appealing; I want to lie down and sleep for a week.
Terry and I had our first meeting with the fertility consultant this morning, and the odds of a successful IVF cycle are dismal.
I always knew they were, but having someone spell it out for you is devastating.
Dr. Hughes leaned back, and the chair leather sighed.
He looked young, older than a junior doctor, younger than the furniture.
His stats were good, which in this world tops out near twenty percent success.
“Mr. and Mrs. Trodden, thank you for coming in to see me today. It looks like we’re dealing with unexplained infertility.” We nodded but remained silent, focused on his every word. “When we don’t know the cause, we manage probabilities. We’ll do everything we can.”
He slid over a few leaflets. Cartoon eggs and sperm smiled back, lecturing about healthy eating and improving our chances. I wanted to laugh or cry. I’m not sure. But instead, I stared at the pink cartoon sperm waving like it knew something I didn’t.
“IVF is a physically and emotionally exhausting process for both of you. Mrs. Trodden…” I raised my hand to stop him.
“Please, call me Amy,” I told him.
“Amy,” he said, “there are tests we need before we start—ovarian reserves, scans, and infectious disease screening.” His eyes moved to Terry. “Then we’ll check your semen, Mr. Trodden.”
“When would you expect us to be able to start the process?” Terry asks, eyes fixed on the desk.
“In three months,” the doctor responded. “Early June is probable. All being well with the tests.” He turned his attention back to me. “We’ll stimulate your ovaries for a week or two. If follicles don’t develop, there’s a chance we cancel. If they do, thirty-six hours later, we retrieve your eggs.”
There was so much information to process and take on board. It felt like being handed a manual for building a miracle, knowing all the pieces weren’t in the box.
“At retrieval,” the doctor continued, “we will ask you to provide a sperm sample, Mr. Trodden. Usually, that’s straightforward. If not, there are other procedural options. We can go direct to the source.”
“Direct to the source?” Terry said, all the color draining from his cheeks. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Well, sometimes there are blockages between the testicles and ejaculate. In that rare case, we remove sperm directly from your testes.” My husband visibly paled further. The doctor kept talking about protein, sleep, and positive outcomes, and we left holding the leaflets like wet laundry.
The hospital café was quiet at four in the afternoon. Terry and I sat at a table in the corner. A small, burly woman with dyed black hair and heavily made-up eyes bounced over to take our order. “Two white coffees, please,” I said, and she smiled.
“Amz, the doctor said…” Terry tipped his chin at the leaflet on the table. “Decaf for hers,” he told the woman without looking up, and she left us alone.
“Terry, you can’t control everything I drink or eat.” I plucked a sugar packet from the condiments, twisting it until it split, white dust spilling over the melamine.
“I don’t want to, Amz,” he said, softer now. “But the doctor did say…”
“Let’s just have these and go. I have work to do.”
He exhaled through his nose.
“What was that for? You knew I was going back to the gym after our appointment.” Not waiting for an answer, I stood and left the table, striding toward the exit.
“We’ve not had our coffee yet,” he called after me. “Amz.”
I ignored him and kept walking, the need to clear my head intense. The double sliding doors squealed as they opened, the fresh spring air icy on my cheeks. I closed my eyes, and time stopped. The smell of disinfectant, latex and hope clung to my skin. A reminder of a dream gone sour.
Here is exactly where I didn’t want to be, jumping straight back on the infertility crazy train. But I’d promised to try even if I felt railroaded into it.
He walked up behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders.
His lips dropped to my ear. “I’m sorry. I love you.
This baby is the most important thing we could create, and I want it to happen so badly.
Sometimes I become obsessive.” I turned in his arms to face him and looked him directly in the eye.
“What if it doesn’t happen?” I asked. “Will you cope with that?” I searched his face, looking for a thread of understanding that this one round is all I’m prepared to go through.
He straightened and nodded, but I didn’t believe him.
His eyes had the hunger again, the one I’ve seen every time we waited for the second line.
This baby is a crucial conquest in my husband’s life.
When I reappear from my office, Trey is in the weights area surrounded by our bodybuilding squad.
We’ve developed a small team that want to attend competitions and train together.
Most of them followed Trey from his old gym.
They are a lovely crowd to train with. Their laughter rolls through the gym, sharp and bright, cutting through my dark thoughts.
“Amz,” Trey shouts, “we’re just discussing the competition schedule. Join us.” Trey’s husband, Derek, sits next to him with a clipboard, taking notes. He’s buff like Trey and all admin―glasses low on his nose, pencil behind his ear, a printed spreadsheet balanced on one knee.
For a while, Terry had been concerned about how close Trey and I were becoming.
He would constantly ask if he had been at the gym with me.
If he had a partner. Maybe out of pettiness, I omitted to tell him that he was gay.
His pestering annoyed me. I’d never given him any reason to doubt my loyalty to him.
It was harmless, letting him sweat. That’s what I told myself anyway. Though I enjoyed the proof that he still cared enough to be jealous. But at the Christmas party, it had all spilled into the open.
Trey had agreed to meet me at the gym an hour before the party started to decorate.
Terry had insisted on coming as he didn’t want me left alone with the smooth operator.
Another pair of hands is always helpful, so I let him tag along.
Trey tried to include my husband in our conversations; Terry merely grunted in response.
Being used to my husband’s prissy behavior, my friend kept chatting away.
Derek appeared at the door, bang on eight o’clock, when the party was due to start.
He was dressed in white jeans and a sparkly black shirt with a huge red Santa hat on his head.
“Let’s get this party started!” he shrieked over the blaring Christmas tunes.
He shimmied over to his husband and planted a monumental kiss on his lips.
Terry’s eyes popped wide, and his focus moved from them to me in question.
“He’s gay?” he mouthed. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” I walked over to him and wrapped my arms around his waist. “You’ve let me think he was chasing you for months, and all this time, it was me who needed to be careful.”
“Don’t be so dense,” I muttered, shaking my head. “You’re not his type.” He screwed up his face and stuck his tongue out.
“What’s wrong with me?” he said. “I’ve got all the right equipment.”
Trey, reading out the competition schedule and calling my name, interrupts the memory. “Amz,” he says, “which competitions are you planning to sign up for?”
I take a breath. “I’ll only be competing this month and next month.
” His eyebrows draw together in confusion.
“In June, I’ll be undergoing some treatment, so I’ll be out of action for a while.
” He nods, respecting my privacy by not asking for any further details.
Still, his gaze lingers. Curious. Kind. It’s more empathy than Terry’s shown in months, and it feels good.
The others divert his attention from me as they shout out dates they’re looking to sign up for.
“Okay, okay,” Trey barks, “one at a fucking time. Next month, the competition at Harley’s, let’s fill that roster first, shall we?”