Here to Stay (30 page)

“And you’ve been married how long now?”

“Almost a year.”

Leblanc flipped through his notes. “You’re thirty-eight… Your wife is thirty-seven. Do you feel you’ve spent enough time together as a couple? Truly enjoying each other and the time alone?”

“We do. And we both feel comfortable with it being just the two of us, in case none of this works out.”

LeBlanc rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I’m interested by something you said in passing. How since you’ve reconciled with your current wife, your cells are happy.”

“It’s always been that way,” Erik said. “Since the day I met her. Like I could feel my atoms lining up whenever I was with her. It’s hard to explain.”

LeBlanc nodded. “Your cells are happy,” he said again. He opened a drawer in his desk and without ceremony plonked one of the ubiquitous specimen cups in front of Erik. “Let’s see if that’s indeed the case.”

Erik raised eyebrows at him and then flicked his head toward the thick medical history file.

“Always look for the simplest solution first,” LeBlanc said.

“Well,” LeBlanc said at the follow-up. “This isn’t a miraculous reversal of fortune by any means. But I wouldn’t call you a lost cause.”

He turned the lab report toward Erik and pointed with a finger. “Counts still aren’t anything near what we want, but you did move the needle. Four years ago, your average sample yielded three million sperm per milliliter which is considered severe. Today’s sample shows seven million per milliliter.”

“Shut up,” Erik said. “Seven?”

LeBlanc’s finger circled. “Lucky seven.”

“The whole time I was being monitored, I never shot over five.” He looked up. “So now my counts merely suck instead of being abysmal. What about the motility?”

“
What indeed.” The doctor’s finger now made a circular motion around the words Type C. “You were Type D before. No motility whatsoever.”

“What’s C?”

“Your boys are swimming. Swimming a little stupidly— That is to say, they move their tails but they have little to no forward progression.”

“I see.”

“All the same, I wouldn’t discount your cellular happiness theory. Clearly your body is in a better place these days.”

“So what’s your plan?”

“Most likely we’ll have to do a surgical extraction again, and IVF with ICSI. Assuming, of course, your wife has no issues. Given her age, I’m afraid statistics aren’t on her side. It’s just a hard fact of female life. But we won’t know anything until we see her.”

The dull ache of regret for the lost years surfaced in Erik’s stomach. He managed a small smile. “You could say I was living a Type C life for a bunch of years. Moving my tail a lot but not progressing forward.”

LeBlanc laughed and rubbed his hands together with relish. “Well, let’s have Madame come in, shall we?”

“BUCKLE UP,” ERIK SAID as they drove home from the clinic. “The ride gets kind of crazy from here.”

“Bring it,” Daisy said absently, reading over a pamphlet on IVF. An additional thick sheaf of papers was in her lap. These were the only sources of information she was permitted. Dr. Alibrandi, the obstetrician assigned to their case, was adamant.

“Stay
off
the internet,” Alibrandi said. “You have questions, you call us. Any online chat rooms or forums, I’m telling you—you will be a lunatic before we even start. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Daisy said.

“Don’t lose your sense of humor,” LeBlanc said when he saw them in the hall.

“I promise,” Erik said.

“This is complicated,” Daisy said, flipping pages. “Because of how you time everything. A lot of hurry up and wait.”

“It is,” Erik said. “I feel bad because I’m the one with the issues, but one procedure and I’m done. You get all the hassle and discomfort.”

She hummed in her chest then put the papers down in her lap again. “I’m not afraid of physical discomfort. Being a dancer I don’t go a day without some part of my body hurting. The shots? I used to cut myself with glass so how bad can shots be?”

Erik gave a small laugh.

“Well.” Her shoulders rose and fell as she took a deep breath. “I hope everything’s all right on my end.”

“How do you mean,” he said, taking her hand.

“I’m thirty-seven.”

“Which isn’t
that
old. Come on, forty-seven would be more of an issue.”

Another inhale. “I starved myself for so many years,” she said. “All that chain-smoking and starving and abuse. It had to have some kind of effect. It worries me.”

They were at a red light. He squeezed her hand and brought it up to his mouth. “We’ll find out soon enough,” he said. “Try not to worry until we have something real to worry about.”

“After everything we’ve been through,” she said. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll catch a break.”

The light turned green and they both burst into cynical laughter.

Daisy made big calendars to hang on her office wall and started grooming an assistant ballet mistress who could cover classes and rehearsals when Daisy was at appointments. The first month was mostly reviewing IVF protocol at the clinic. Daisy went in for one procedure where a mock embryo transfer was done. A dress rehearsal to test the size and placement of the catheter which, hopefully, would eventually place a fertilized egg into her womb.

The second month kicked off with birth control pills to synchronize and monitor her cycle. This phase could last up to three months, depending on how her ovaries responded. She was at the clinic every morning for blood work and ultrasounds.

“Nothing like a needle and a trans-vaginal probe to start your day,” she said.

Over the next two weeks, the lab relayed good news on Daisy’s blood work. “Your levels are perfect,” the nurse said. “Right where we want them.”

“You have the ovaries of a twenty-eight-year-old,” the ultrasound technician said.

“Oh my God, are we actually catching a break?” Daisy asked Erik, who was watching the monitor.

“Let me check.” He moved to the window and peeked between two slats of the venetian blinds. “Just as I thought,” he said. “The harbor turned to blood, huge cracks in the Earth’s surface and big rocks falling out of the sky.”

Before Daisy’s cycle started again, they attended the injectables class and after a two-hour wait at the pharmacy, went home with a cooler of vials, a case of syringes and another sheaf of printed instructions. Daisy made another calendar to hang on the bathroom wall.

“I got this,” Erik said on the first scheduled night. “I used to do this to myself three times a week.”

“Yeah, little subcutaneous ones on your legs. Not intramuscular ones in your butt.”

“Same principle,” he said, flicking the syringe to get the air bubbles out. “And I’d take one in the ass every now and then.”

“I’m telling Will,” she said.

Erik pulled the cap off the needle. “All right, come on. The trick is to do it fast. The buildup is worse than the shot.”

His heart was thumping but he acted cool, remembering the nurse’s advice to keep it business the first few times. (“No jokes, no chatter, no ass patting,” she said. “Just do it.”)

He found the sweet spot (“Stay above the crack, outside half of the cheek”) and swabbed it with the alcohol. Spread the skin as taut as he could.

“Take a breath in, on three,” he said. “One, two, three.”

Like a dart he jabbed. Daisy gave a small grunt and blew her breath out. He pulled the plunger back a hair and then pressed it down.

“Jesus,” she said through her teeth.

“Sorry.”

“The push burns.”

“Done,” he said, tossing the syringe in the disposal container they were given and massaging the skin around the injection site.

“All right,” Daisy said, pulling her pants back in place. “Nice job, Fish.”

“Thanks, Marge.”

She crossed out the day on the calendar, kissed him and left the bathroom. Erik exhaled and looked at his shaking hands.

AS HE DID WITH Melanie, Erik had sperm surgically extracted. It couldn’t be cryogenically stored, so the procedure had to be done within a day of the egg harvesting. If Dr. LeBlanc couldn’t get any viable sperm, the cycle would be lost, but the retrieved eggs could be frozen to use with a later attempt. Or with a donor.

“Who’s second banana?” Will asked one night. “You still want your brother?”

“Well, I want you,” Erik said. “But your ship has sailed.”

“I can’t do anything to help?” Will said. “Come and jerk you off? Just once? Please?”

Erik threw a specimen cup at Will’s head. “Jerk that, asshole.”

Plans B, C and D had been sketched out. If they got both sperm and eggs, they’d proceed with IVF. If they got eggs but no sperm, they’d still proceed, but with Pete donating. If the IVF failed on either account, they’d take a huge vacation somewhere, regroup and look at adopting.

“Thus shall be the plan,” Erik said.

“Subject to sudden emotional change and-or life’s bullshit sense of humor,” Daisy said. “Without warning.”

Two weeks passed. Daisy spent her life on the phone. She was on a first-name basis with the pharmacist and already added five nurses to her Christmas card list. Her thighs and glutes were bruised and her breasts ached, which made finding a comfortable sleeping position nearly impossible. She went through her day tired, sore and moody. When Erik called her cell, she answered like a law firm. “Tired, sore and moody, may I fucking help you?”

But the break they seemed to have caught stayed in their hands. After all the shots, the morning monitoring appointments, ultrasounds to measure follicles and blood work to measure hormone levels, finally it was time for harvest.

They arrived together at the clinic for the sperm extraction. LeBlanc encouraged wives and partners to be present at procedures. “You’ve been robbed of all the fun in making babies,” he said. “Nothing sexy going on here. You should be able to be close. Hold hands. At least feel like you’re doing it together.”

“He’s such a sap,” one of the nurses said.

“I believe in the power of love,” LeBlanc said. “Fine, I’m a sap. It’s my downfall.”

“Or your saving grace,” Erik said. He appreciated having anyone’s hand to hold while getting a needle of Novocaine in each testicle. He also appreciated the Ativan they threw in his IV line. Now he was just full of floaty dread, instead of anxious and full of nauseating dread.