Inconceivable! (43 page)

“We removed all three. Dr. Marche’s office has the eggs and your sperm,” Dr. Barnes said to John.

I kept my eyes closed as I lay on the hospital bed, the perfect set-up for eavesdropping.

“So, his office will call and tell us what happens next?” John’s voice revealed his stress.

“That’s right. You know, we were lucky to get three eggs because her ovaries had a surprisingly weak response to the stimulating drugs. If you end up doing another cycle, at least we’ll know to start her on a stronger dose right from the beginning. She should wake up soon, and the nurse will be in to check on her shortly.”

I heard footsteps as Dr. Barnes left the room. He had done the egg retrieval; Dr. Marche would oversee the petri dish work and then transfer the embryos to my uterus in five days.

I kept my eyes closed. Three eggs retrieved.
Suck it, infertility!
I silently thanked God. The ultrasounds leading up to the retrieval revealed three follicles was the best my body could do, even with a high dosage of the follicle stimulating drugs. It was a depressingly low number for a woman my age. Most women in their twenties who do IVF produce eight or more eggs with one IVF cycle. At least, that’s what I’d gleaned from the infertility discussion boards. More eggs meant a better chance of having embryos left over to freeze and use later. I did feel grateful for the three little eggs my body had grown to maturity. It certainly could’ve been worse.

“Hey. How do you feel?” John asked, walking over to my hospital bed.

“Sleepy. Happy. He got three, right?”

“Three little miracles. Dr. Barnes says they’re on their way to Dr. Marche so he can inject the sperm and wait for them to grow into embryos. Hatty, I think we’ve found the answer. I believe it’s going to happen.” He tucked my hair behind my ears.

“Me too.” I closed my eyes. “Give me my phone, please.” I dialed my mom’s cell phone. She answered immediately.

“What’s the news?” Anxiety rang in my mom’s voice.

“Three. They got three eggs.”
Happy dance!

“Oh, hon. That’s wonderful. We’re so excited for you. Do you need anything?” My mom wanted to be right in the middle of our IVF drama, so I appreciated her willingness to keep a respectable distance. I just wanted to keep this low key and low stress.

“No. We’re fine.”

“Are you and John still planning to come down here after the embryo transfer?”

“Yes, as long as there aren’t any hitches. We don’t know how many of those eggs will become embryos. There might not be anything to transfer.” The very thought of failing at this point made me want to hurl. Surely,
surely
it would work.

“Hatty, I want to tell you something.”

I waited and heard her fidgeting.

“Your dad and I tried to give you a brother or sister.”

“What do you mean?”

“We tried for years to get pregnant after you were born. But it never happened. My doctor could never figure out the problem. It took us two years to get pregnant with you.”

“But I thought you guys only wanted one child.” I remembered the conversations we’d had from time to time when I was young. The issue of a sibling came up whenever one of my friends welcomed a new baby sister or brother.

“It was just easier to explain it that way instead of sharing our heartbreak with you.”

“So, what does that mean?” Admittedly, I was a little pissed they’d lied to me.

“It means I understand how you feel. And I’m proud of you and John for pursuing your dream to be parents, even with all the mean things they say about you in the tabloids. It’s a testament to how much you love your child.”

My free hand reached down to my abdomen; it would soon hold my baby.

“Thanks, mom. I love you.”

“I love you too. Call me after the embryo transfer and let me know how it goes. We’ll see you in a few days.”

The metal stirrups were cold enough to penetrate through my socks, making me shiver.

Before I could truly ponder the awkwardness of my body’s position, Dr. Marche spoke. “Hatty, I need you to scoot your bottom down to the end of the table.”

I did as he asked, putting myself in just the right position for the embryo transfer.

“John, talk to her. Help her relax.” Dr. Marche reached around to the tray behind him.

“We’re walking down the beach, feeling the water as it runs over our toes.” John spoke soothingly.

Dr. Marche didn’t believe in using anesthesia for the embryo transfer, preferring the patient to stay awake but completely relaxed. As John kept talking through the guided meditation, Dr. Marche turned back to me with a metal instrument in his hand. It looked like there was a string of spaghetti on the end. I knew it held the three embryos, three little spheres of potential life. They’d outgrown their petri dish and needed a home. I could give them one.

In a matter of a few more moments, Dr. Marche was done. “It was flawless, Hatty. Let me help you up.”

With him and John on each side of me, I removed my feet from the stirrups and stood. They helped me to the recovery room next door where I was allowed to lie down for a few minutes.

“Stay here as long as you wish, but there’s no medical need to rest. You’re free to go whenever you feel ready.”

“And what about sex?” John asked.

“I’d recommend waiting five days. You’re good to resume normal sexual activity after that.”

Before Dr. Marche left the room, I said, “Thank you. Thank you, so much.”

“You’re most welcome.”

When he was gone, John whispered. “Normal sexual activity, huh? I wonder what he considers abnormal sexual activity?” I laughed and appreciated John’s ability to interject some levity into the moment. The hard part was behind us.

I closed my eyes and imagined the embryos floating inside my uterus and willed them to find a soft, welcoming spot to land. There was only a one percent chance all three would survive, but I sometimes imagined life with triplets. It would be like a starving person devouring a large pizza in one sitting: overwhelming and divine.

he Fairfield Dairy here in Nixa made an ice cream flavor in honor of your visit: Chocolate Royale! And we’re going to serve it for dessert.” The pastor of my parents’ church boomed into the microphone.

The fifty people gathered in the fellowship hall cheered and laughed at his announcement.

After the embryo transfer, John had three days of smelter-related meetings in St. Louis. Then, we’d boarded a chartered plane and flew to Springfield with Astrid and our guards in tow. My parents met us in the General Aviation lobby and drove us to their house in Nixa. To wrap up our visit, we were about to enjoy Sunday lunch with some church folks.

“Hatty, John. Before we eat, I’d like to say a blessing over you.”

I nodded. This was par for the course in my corner of Missouri.

“Heavenly Father, thank you for bringing Hatty and John here to us. And we thank you for Hatty’s precious parents who raised such a God-fearing daughter. We thank you for the leadership you’ve entrusted to John and Hatty, and ask that you give them both wisdom as they guide their country in a way that honors and glorifies you. Now, bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies and bless the hands that prepared it. Amen.”

I doubted John had ever been the object of this kind of prayer. He grinned and looked appreciative, even though this form of religion was completely foreign to him. We sat at a table with my parents, three members of the United Methodist Women’s group, and Nixa’s mayor.

“Hatty, you’re positively glowing. Married life agrees with you, sweetie.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hammond. I’m very happy.”

“Don’t worry about getting pregnant. I know it’ll happen in the Lord’s time.”

Is it the Lord’s time for me to crawl under the table to escape this conversation, Mrs. Hammond?
“Yes. Thank you. We’re just trying to be patient.”

I reached under the table and squeezed John’s leg.

“What are we having for lunch? I hear you ladies are wonderful cooks.” He knew how to redirect conversations like a pro.

“Well, it’s a chicken casserole Mildred makes only on very special occasions.” Mrs. Hammond gave a little nod to Mildred Hagler who sat beside my mom.

“It sounds delicious,” John said with a smile. I was fairly certain he’d never tasted a casserole in his life.

“Well, John, were your meetings in St. Louis productive?” I didn’t know Mayor Jim Swafford, but my parents disliked him. How obnoxious of him to ask about such a sensitive issue.

“Yes, they were. Thank you for asking.”

We listened as the mayor droned on about the importance of protecting watersheds, an issue near and dear to his heart, he said, as long as it didn’t impinge on the city’s budget priorities. I quieted my desire to put on my reporter’s hat and call out the contradictions in what he said.

After lunch, I lost track of how many dead-fish handshakes I endured; it didn’t bother me in the slightest because each person at the church loved my family. John had multiple lipstick prints on his cheeks.

When we were outside the church with my parents, I handed John a tissue. “Here. The ladies of Nixa United Methodist Church marked you.”

“They’re lovely.”

“They’re my people. This is where I’m from. Now you know why I’m so direct. People here don’t pussyfoot around sensitive issues.”

“Did you just say ‘pussyfoot?’” He gave me a wicked smile.

“Oh, no. Look at the time. We need to head out,” I said, not wanting my parents to hear John mistakenly imply the word “pussyfoot” had something to do with sex.
Très embarrassing.

“I can’t believe you have to go back to Toulene already! Four days isn’t enough time.” Mom embraced me.

“I know. But you guys can come this fall or for Christmas. You can help me decorate the nursery.” My hand dropped to my lower abdomen. “Just a week and a half until we find out if it worked.”

“Oh honey, it will. I’m sure of it.” Mom gave me another squeeze.

Then it was Dad’s turn. He gave me and John big hugs. “Let us know if you need anything.”

“I will, Dad. I love you.”

“John, take good care of my girl.”

“I always do, sir.”