Finding Bliss (19 page)

“It sounds like Tylah is vereh busy with his business.”

“He is, yes. We both are.”

“And we would hate to see him under any added stress, what with his work becoming more and more demandin’.”

“I think he thrives on being busy; it’s a real rush for him.”

“He’s always been so ambitious, that one, we wouldn’t want anything to slow him down. I’m sure if you can make things nice and peaceful for him at home that will help a great deal.”

“I try to,” I said, glancing toward the door, praying for him to walk up and rescue me.

“You know God will nevah give us more than we can handle, and it sounds like the both of you are just too busy right now to be thinking about starting a family.”

I forced a smile. “That’s precisely why we’re taking God out of it,” I said, but my joke fell flat. Like a homemade apple pie tumbling off a windowsill. Facedown. “Wouldn’t you and Dr. Reed like to have a grandchild?” I added.

“Of course we would, if it’s blessed by God. You cannot force these things.”

So God was going to deliver my baby? Maybe he’s also the one who sends the stork?
I thought while she went on. Proved a fool once again: believing all I had to do was have sex to conceive.

“We don’t want to mess with fate, now do we? Perhaps if it’s not working out for you…it’s just not the right time. And who knows what havoc those drugs can wreak on your body and how they’ll disturb a little one growing in there. I read a story once of how this lovely couple ended up with five premature babies, and two of them were connected. It put a terrible strain on their marriage.”

I took a subtle yet deep breath and folded my hands in my lap. “It’s all perfectly safe, and we’re starting next week.”

She smiled. “Please do let me know when Mitch and Hollis’s wedding is. I’d be delighted to send them something off their registry.”

A
week later I began injecting myself with a cocktail of drugs that included Menotropin, also known as “nun pee.” Not only was I unable to make a baby, but I was being forced to take protein hormones from the urine of celibate, postmenopausal women. Specifically nuns, I was told. My shame had no bounds at that point.

Giving yourself a shot in the stomach, or anywhere else for that matter, is about as unnatural as giving yourself a haircut. I was waging a civil war in my brain: the first couple times, my body actually recoiled from my hand. During that first week, I was instructed to take the three shots at the same time each day. So every morning at six thirty I would make the bed, give myself three shots in the stomach, have my coffee, and leave for work by eight. Every other day, I ran to the fertility clinic during my lunch hour for an ultrasound and blood work so that they could monitor the progress of my follicles. A word I never thought I would say or hear so many times in one lifetime. On the eighth day of my monitoring, they told me everything was looking good and sent me home to take my “trigger” shot at six thirty. Exactly thirty-six hours later, they would extract my eggs and set them up on a group date with Tyler’s sperm. The trigger shot, which needed to be injected into my lower back at the designated hour, would eventually release my eggs. This one, I could not administer myself.

It was our third wedding anniversary. However, instead of celebrating with champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries, my husband was slowly approaching me with a syringe. His hand was steady, his eyes fierce and determined as I backed myself up against the kitchen counter. There were tears in my eyes, but that didn’t faze him. My hormones were in the hands of a fertility specialist, and there was almost nothing that didn’t bring me to tears those days. I knew I had to have that final shot in my lower back. I knew the chopstick-sized needle would hurt. I knew I would have to endure more weight gain and pregnancy symptoms, even though I wasn’t officially pregnant. My jeans had gone from a size six to a size ten in seven months, and I knew I had to endure the retrieval procedure—which I’d heard was an evil, painful surgery—where the doctor sucks the eggs out of your ovaries and leaves you eggless and doubled over with cramps. I also knew Tyler would have to take that embarrassing walk to the “donor room” equipped with pornography, baby oil, and hand sanitizer again. But I still didn’t know for sure if any of it was going to work. This was not how I’d imagined us making a baby. None of this had ever crossed my mind when we got married and decided to start a family. We’d been so focused on using protection and
avoiding
getting pregnant before we were ready.

“Come on, Chloe,” Tyler said, holding the syringe steady. He looked like he’d rather sit through five hours of needlepoint instruction from his mother than do what he was about to do. “This isn’t any fun for me either, so don’t drag it out.”

I nodded, closed my eyes, and then turned around and lifted my shirt. I tensed up and moaned through closed lips as he sunk the needle into me.

“It’s done,” he said, patting me on the shoulder.

“Thanks, honey,” I whispered and opened my eyes. Tyler turned me back around, cupped my chin in his hands, brought his face to mine, and kissed me twice on the lips.

“I’m sorry you have to go through all of this,” he said. “If we’d been heroine addicts like I suggested a while back, that shot would’ve been no problem.”

I managed a smile. “If we’d been heroine addicts, I’d probably have seven kids by now,” I said bitterly.

The next day was Saturday, and I went to Target to pick up some cleaning supplies, an errand that should’ve lasted all of fifteen minutes, but instead turned into two hours of me stalking innocent women and children throughout the store. It was like standing in the middle of a bakery when you’re on a diet. There were children and families everywhere. Some kids were happily swinging sippy cups in their front cart seat, while others were getting yelled at for touching things or whacking their siblings. I closely observed every single one of them. But the worst for me was a young girl with no wedding ring and a barefoot baby resting clumsily on her hip. She looked frazzled and overwhelmed, and I immediately labeled her child as an accident. She’d probably gotten drunk, slept with some guy, and ended up with more than she’d bargained for. Maybe she loved him, and he broke her heart? Maybe she’d only known him for three horny hours? It didn’t matter, because she was my biggest nemesis. The girl who had no desire for or intention of getting pregnant, but won the baby lottery whether she liked it or not. The girl who had the one thing I couldn’t obtain on my own no matter how hard I studied or worked. I wanted to run up to her, place my hands on her shoulders, and tell her that while she might be overwhelmed and questioning her fate, she should cherish the gift that she’d been given. She should know how hard it was to create a child, and she needed to appreciate what she had.

But who was I to judge? I left the store that day brokenhearted and empty-handed, and called one of my favorite moms in the world: Grace’s mom, Sydney. She’d shown me the true meaning of a mother’s love and had always treated me as nothing less than beloved family. She was also the one woman I knew who had everything in common with that young, ill-equipped girl in Target.

T
en minutes after peeling out of the Target parking lot, I entered Grace’s childhood home and found her mom in a familiar position: unloading the dishwasher.

“This is a nice surprise, Chloe,” she said, even though I’d phoned ahead. “How’s your mom?”

It was always the first thing she asked me. “She’s doing okay. It’s awfully hard to talk to her on the phone these days—or in person for that matter. She doesn’t always have a grasp of what’s going on or why I’m calling. I never know what awaits me on the other end of the line, but she has a woman who checks on her every day and keeps me up to date.”

She smiled, lips pursed. “I’m so sorry.”

I nodded and then grabbed an apple from the wire basket in front of me.

“What’s Tyler up to today?” she asked.

“He’s golfing.”

“Good for him. Grace mentioned that you and she were going to get together in a couple weeks for dinner.”

“Mmm hmm,” I mumbled mid-chew.

Sydney closed the dishwasher and walked over to me. “She also told me you’ve been swamped at work. Have your doctors told you to take it easy at all? I want to make sure you’re taking care of
yourself,” she said, sitting down next to me. “How are your treatments going?”

I’d been struggling to conceive for so long that there was almost nothing else I thought of or talked about. I’d begun to avoid phone calls from my friends because I couldn’t bear the tone in their voices when they’d ask me how I was doing or how things were progressing. I blamed everything on work, telling people that I couldn’t make plans because I was overwhelmed at the office. I knew everyone was simply trying to be supportive, but it had become painful for me to put on a happy face and pretend like I wasn’t dying inside every time someone would ask when Tyler and I were going to start a family. I wanted to give people good news as much as they wanted to hear it, but I had nothing.

“I took the trigger shot last night,” I said.

“That’s exciting.”

“I guess. I’m just so nervous and anxious…and tired. In addition to being narcoleptic, my brain is exhausted. I can barely concentrate on anything other than work and these treatments. I haven’t made dinner, cleaned the house, filed my nails, or even had sex with my poor husband in weeks.” I paused. “Tyler asked me to pick up some shoes for him a week ago, and I literally can’t do it. Either I forget to do it or I sit on the couch thinking I should go and do it, but instead can’t bring myself to get up.”

Grace’s mom sighed and gave me that look that I loathed. That look where her head tilted, her forehead contracted, and her eyes glistened with pity. She wanted nothing more than to make everything better for me, and seeing her genuine concern made me miss my own mother. Or at least the fact that my mother wasn’t the one sitting across from me, yearning for my happiness.

When Grace’s mom was a senior in college, she’d slept with a guy at a fraternity dance and found out she was pregnant during
final exams eight weeks later. No belly shots or lubed-up ultrasound wands for her. Just good ol’ drunken sex to get the job done. He had not responded kindly to her when she initially told him about the pregnancy—in fact, he ran for the hills and disappeared altogether. It had taken her years to tell Grace the truth about who her real father was, and it wasn’t until we graduated from college that she got the chance to meet him in person. According to Grace, the meeting was both revolutionary and uneventful. Unlike me, Grace had always wanted to connect with her biological father, but more out of curiosity than anything else. Not because she longed for a father. No, there was no void there.

Grace’s mom was famous for finding the most creative ways to warn us about premarital sex, without making Grace feel like the embodiment of a young girl’s regretful decision.

Girls, you’re so young. Don’t get yourself into a situation that will stifle your youth.

Not every situation works out like mine did. In fact, very few have a happy ending.

Don’t be afraid to ask me for help.

If you’re having sex, you better be using protection! Are you having sex? Wait, don’t tell me.

If you are having sex, you should be using protection…for many reasons.

You’re using protection, right? Never mind, don’t tell me.

“You’re doing everything you can do, Chloe. I’m so sorry that you have to go through all of this, but imagine how much more you’ll appreciate the good news when you get it.” She smiled and squeezed my hand.

“What if I don’t get it?” I asked, but being pessimistic had never done me any good. It only forced people to give obligatory compliments and words of encouragement. “I honestly don’t think I can
go through this again,” I said, lowering my head into my hands. My body had become a voodoo doll, subject to needles, pills, and probes. I was sore, bloated, fatigued, depressed, and the thought of starting over was unbearable.

“I have no doubt that you will have your child. One way or another, you and Tyler will be blessed with the baby you deserve,” she said softly.

“I hope so, and I’m trying to be more optimistic. Tyler has been great, and all I’ve been doing is moping around feeling sorry for myself.”

I had completely lost sight of the things that were going well in my life. Tyler’s business was thriving, I was kicking ass in court, and our marriage was solid. However, I couldn’t help but go to that dark, insecure place in the back of my mind where I wondered whether our relationship would survive if I were ultimately unable to get pregnant. Sure, he was wonderfully supportive now, and confident to a fault, but what would happen to us if there was no baby at the finish line? Would Tyler still want to grow old together with no children? Thoughts like that kept me up at night and were the one thing I couldn’t talk about with him.

“Thanks for the chat. I’m sorry to drag you down with me today,” I said.

“Chloe, I think you think you’re a bigger downer than you really are. Do people feel bad about what you’re going through? Naturally. But no one wears the burden more than you do. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk to me. And while I wish everything could go smoothly for you in life, it’s simply not possible. As much as I hate seeing you like this, it would make me feel worse to think you’re trying to protect me in some way by not talking to me about it.” She lowered her gaze to make eye contact with me. “Okay? So don’t you worry about upsetting me with any of it. I’m a big girl.”

“No, you’re a little shorty,” I said and laughed. Grace and I used to tease her all the time since she was easily six inches shorter than both of us.

“Very funny. I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your winning sense of humor.”

I jerked my head up and threw my hands in the air. “Oh, and did I mention I’m taking nun pee?”