Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
Amy
We sit in Dr. Hughes’s office awaiting the outcome of our tests. I twist my hands together nervously; my palms slick with sweat. Terry sits beside me, his hands kneading at his jeans. We haven’t spoken since we arrived.
Today is D-day. Today, we find out if one of us is at fault for our inability to have a family or if the original diagnosis of unexplained infertility will remain. I’ve rehearsed both versions of the conversation in my head. I hate them equally.
The door swings open, and our doctor walks in and drops into the chair opposite us.
“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Trodden. It’s lovely to see you both again.
” He gives us a warm smile. “As you know, you’re both here to discuss your test results and the treatment plan moving forward.
” We nod. “Mr. Trodden, I’m happy to tell you that we’ve found no issues with your sample.
Your sperm is abundant and of good quality, especially for a man your age. ”
Terry sits straighter in the chair, puffing his chest out with pride. His mouth splits into a wide grin. I half expect him to jump up and start happy dancing around the room. The leather chair hisses beneath him. I pray for mine to swallow me whole.
“You hear that, Amz?” he says with a chuckle. “My swimmers are good.” He raises his hand to high-five me before catching my eye. The blood drains from his face at my expression. I feel sick. “I’m sorry,” he mutters and settles back in his chair.
“If I may continue, Mr. Trodden,” the doctor asks, and my errant husband mumbles an apology. “Mrs. Trodden.”
“Amy,” I correct him.
“Amy,” he says, “unfortunately your tests have shown that your Anti-Mullerian Hormone, AMH, is below normal levels. What this means is you have fewer eggs on average in your ovaries than other women your age. This tells us your reproductive window may be closing. You have fewer eggs in reserve, as it were.” Terry leans across and picks up my hand, holding it tight.
His thumb draws slow circles; it feels like an apology and a plea. Neither are comforting.
“Does this mean Amy can’t conceive?” he asks.
The doctor shakes his head. “Not at all. It means that time is of the essence, and the fact you’ve not conceived naturally convinces me IVF is the best option moving forward, to give you both the best chance of having your baby.” He smiles kindly. “Is there anything you would like to ask?”
“When do we start?” I focus on a scuff on the floor. If he smiles again, I may cry.
Deep down, I always knew the issue was mine.
A memory flashes before my eyes. The gray clinic hallway, the hum of the fluorescent lights, Bex’s fingers laced through mine while the nurse ticked boxes on a form. Sixteen, terrified, pregnant with the baby I couldn’t care for. I’ve never told Terry.
Sometimes I wonder who they would’ve been. On the darker nights, I consider whether this situation is karma for the past. When I allow myself to return to that moment too often, I’m certain it is.
“When are you due your next period?” the doctor asks, snapping me from my cruel thoughts.
“In two weeks,” I respond.
“We start then,” he advises. “We’ll do everything we can, Amy, to make your wishes come true.” I twist out a small smile, one I hope conveys my forced thanks.
***
I wrap my arms around Katie as both our tears fall. “I can’t believe I won’t be here to support you through this,” she says. “Maybe I should delay the start date. Just until you’ve completed your treatment cycle and know the result.”
Shaking my head, I lift her suitcase to her car.
“Don’t be silly. You’re on the end of the phone.
It’s not as if you’re moving to the other side of the world.
It’s only Scotland. Terry is here with me; I’m not on my own,” I assure her.
“I’ll miss you, though.” The words come steadier than I feel, but I don’t want her worrying.
She places her hands on my shoulders and looks me deep in the eye. “She would be so proud of you, Amz.” She’s talking about my sister, and it causes me to well up. “I’m here for you, remember that.”
With that, she climbs in her car and trundles off to her new adventure in Scotland, where she’s taken a job housesitting a mansion and its pets for six months while the owners are abroad.
Her divorce was recently finalized, and she needs to leave London.
I hope she finds what she’s looking for. I hope I do, too.
***
After weeks of tests, injections, and consultations, it’s time to transfer our fertilized embryo back into my womb.
Overall, the procedure was as successful as it could have been.
My low AMH meant the doctors didn’t expect much.
No big harvest of dozens of eggs like the stories online. Just a handful, if I’m lucky.
In the end, I produced five. Three survived the process and were paired with Terry’s sperm with gloved hands.
They called them embryos. I called them our last chance.
The doctor showed us a photo of the strongest one.
The winner. A cluster of cells that had the best chance of becoming our child. I felt guilty picking one.
Late July, they wheel me in.
As I lie in the operating room, the nurses lift my feet into stirrups to spread my legs wide.
The thin hospital gown is my only protection against the world.
It crackles every time I breathe. Metal clicks to my left, and someone says “ready” to someone else who isn’t me.
Cold gel, lots of muttering, then movement between my legs.
I stare at a stain shaped like a comma on the ceiling and try not to think.
No fewer than seven people are in the operating room.
They move around me, fully covered in surgical gowns and masks.
A group stands at the bottom of the bed, staring between my legs.
I close my eyes, throw my head back on the pillow and count to one thousand.
Please, just put my baby inside me. Please let one chance be enough.
Afterward, I’m taken to the recovery room and told to lie still for one hour.
Don’t move, don’t pee. Tears fill my eyes at the shitty situation, knowing this is my last chance to be a mother, and according to the doctor, pissing early could risk that.
But if I don’t, I swear my bladder may split.
Necessity versus biology—what a ridiculous duel.
My bladder is bursting by the time I’m allowed to use the bedpan, then the bastard piss won’t appear. The clock ticks. Nurses scurry around. Nothing. You couldn’t make this shit up. When it finally appears, I cry from relief or fury, probably both.
Two weeks later, no period has arrived. I allow myself to hope, slightly. A few more days pass, and the nurse calls to schedule my appointment for blood tests.
“Please don’t use an over-the-counter test, Mrs. Trodden,” she says on the phone. “Whatever the outcome, we need to carry out the blood tests to finalize the results.”
It’s a Tuesday afternoon when we jump in the car to head to the fertility clinic.
Terry holds my hand as we weave through the traffic, only releasing it to change gears.
Every so often, he peeks over and gives me a soft smile.
We’ve never discussed the possible result, but both of us know my period hasn’t arrived.
As we pull into the parking lot, my eye is drawn to the fertility clinic.
The mirrored cube sits by itself, surrounded by manicured gardens.
A small sign over the sliding doors is the only hint of what happens in this place.
It is the epitome of discretion. Dreams made and unmade inside, and you’d never know.
Terry reverses into a parking spot and cuts the engine. We both sit for a moment. I catch sight of myself in the mirror, worn out by a pregnancy that hasn’t begun.
“You ready?” he asks.
Braving a look at him, I nod. My stomach twists with nerves.
After pushing open the passenger door, I step out into the summer sunshine.
A few drops of rain fall on us as we make our way to the building.
My stomach knots again. Calm down. Breathe in, breathe out.
Count the steps. Ignore the possibilities inside.
The sliding doors part, and we step through them into the familiar reception area.
Inside, the clinic is as sleek and modern as its exterior, all chrome and glass.
A young woman with a neat blonde bun and pale pink lips sits, tapping away animatedly behind a desk.
She looks up as we approach and smiles. “Good afternoon. How may I help?” she says mechanically, as if reading from a cheat sheet.
“Mr. and Mrs. Trodden,” Terry replies, and she taps her keyboard meticulously.
“Take a seat, please. A nurse will be with you shortly.” She gestures toward a leather sofa adjacent to the desk.
As we sit next to each other, Terry never lets go of my hand.
His focus is trained between his feet, his breathing audible.
I squeeze twice, signaling I’m here. He squeezes back. He is too.
The click of heels on tile causes us both to lift our eyes in the direction of the noise. A short woman wearing a white lab coat approaches us with a clipboard and pen poised.
“Mr. and Mrs. Trodden?” she says. Her demeanor is completely professional with barely a hint of a smile. “This way, please.”
We stand abruptly and scurry behind her.
For a short woman, she covers a lot of ground with each step.
I almost have to run to keep up. She leads us into a small consulting room.
When I sit, the plastic chair is cold through my dress, like being twelve again sitting in the principal’s office awaiting your fate.
“Now, Mrs. Trodden, I’m going to take a blood sample.
This will be analyzed in the next hour, and we will call you with the results.
” Like a good girl, I roll up my sleeve, and she stabs me with the sharp metal.
My blood fills the tube. She writes my name on a label and sticks it on.
“I’ll call you soon,” she says and leaves.
Terry and I look at each other, perplexed and not knowing what to do. “Can we leave?” he asks.
“I think so.”
He walks over and holds out his hand. He never even had the chance to sit down.
I take it and rise to my feet, my stomach tightening once more.
We leave the clinic, get into our car, and start to drive home.
The whole journey is spent in silence; my hope and terror twist within. Every red light feels like an omen.
My phone springing to life after thirty minutes causes me to jump out of my skin. The name Fertility Clinic is displayed on the screen.
“Answer it,” Terry prompts as he pulls to the side of the road and cuts the ignition.
“Hello,” I say after hitting the green button.
“Mrs. Trodden?” the kindly male voice says. “This is Dr. Hughes.”
“Yes, it’s Amy speaking,” I confirm. Terry signals at the speaker button on the handset, and I switch it on.
“Could you confirm your date of birth, please?” he asks, and I do.
He takes a breath. “Mrs. Trodden, I’m sorry to call with bad news, but the treatment cycle has not been successful.
According to your blood results, at this point in time, you’re not pregnant.
I expect your monthly cycle to commence in the next few days. ”
I glance to my husband, who has turned away and is looking out of the window, staring at the cars whizzing past. “I’m sorry once again. Please call the center if you wish to book a follow-up appointment or discuss your options moving forward.”
“Thank you, doctor,” I mumble and hang up.
The grief I should feel doesn’t arrive as expected. I feel numb. Nothing. In my heart, I knew this wouldn’t happen for us. I was proven right. The calm inside is almost a relief.
“Can we go home, Terry, please?” I say, emotionless. He turns the key, releases the handbrake, and pulls out into the traffic.
We arrive home, and I head straight to the bathroom. As I slide down my panties, the tell-tale signs of womanhood mark the crotch. The dream of having a child of my own is officially over. Verdict delivered.
I press my palm to my belly and wait for the pain. Instead, there’s only the familiar monthly ache. A hollow peace that signals I’ve given up.