by Anna Rezes
“Yes! That sounds like fun.”
“How about this? Tomorrow, you can pick out an outfit for me to wear to the winery.”
“You’ll wear it no matter what?”
I narrowed my eyes. “As long as it covers everything it’s supposed to.”
“I promise to respect your modesty,” she said with a smirk. “I know how straitlaced you pretend to be.”
“Pretend?”
“Okay, maybe you’re not pretending. Maybe you’ve just been conditioned. The clothes, the food, the way you’re driving right now!” She gestured to the dashboard. “Damn, Grandpa?”
“What? Because I’m going the speed limit. I follow the rules. It’s not my fault everyone else is speeding.”
She barked a laugh. “Oliver you and I got into a public food fight earlier, but you won’t drive five miles an hour over the speed limit.”
“Those are completely different things.”
“Okay, Grandpa.”
I grinned. “You will not peer-pressure me into speeding. Now, tell me where you want to get a burger before we pass everything.”
I pulled out of the drive-thru, and Willa already had straws in our drinks. She sorted through the bag, handing me my burger, but not before she folded the wrapper down so I could hold it without making a mess.
Her quirks made me happy. The fact that she was a pro at folding down fast-food wrappers made me smile. The napkins she tucked into her dress like a makeshift bib made me laugh. I was thrilled she had so easily agreed to go to the beach even though the sun was setting, and we would barely see the beach before the sun disappeared. Then she took a bite of her cheeseburger and moaned her approval, and I found I loved that best of all.
“I’m a bad influence on you,” she said between bites.
“You’re definitely a bad influence. Good thing I don’t fall for peer pressure.”
“Everyone who has peers falls for peer pressure.”
“Liar!” I laughed.
“I’m serious,” she exclaimed, “It’s true!”
“What makes you think that?”
“It’s how we fit in. It’s how we feel normal—by doing the things normal people do.”
“So, I have no choice in the matter?”
“It’s how society works. We all fall for it to some degree because it’s what we know, so without even realizing it, we fall for peer pressure.”
“What if we stopped caring if we were weirdos who didn’t fit in. Would that negate the problem?” I asked, peeking at her in time to see her eyes narrow.
She took a drink of her soda and said, “If we really didn’t care what other people thought we would probably be criminals and we wouldn’t be driving the speed limit because we’d do whatever we felt like. It’d be chaos.”
“Are you saying peer pressure is a good thing?” I asked, wondering where she was going.
“I don’t know. To be honest, I’ve never really thought about it before. I just wanted to trick you into thinking I had profound thoughts, so you didn’t notice me scarfing down this cheeseburger. You were too busy thinking to realize I’m a messy eater.”
I laughed, “Your bib already gave that away.” I could not stop laughing. Her makeshift bib was splattered with condiments, and she had mustard on her lip. I’d never been more attracted to anyone in my life. Addison and I never laughed this way. I’d never realized what I was missing, but now that I experienced it, I didn’t want to give it up.
“We never finished our twenty questions,” she said, “We both have two questions left.”
“Go for it,” I said.
She thought for a moment. “What is your favorite flower?”
I gave her a look, confused before saying, “The fire flower from Mario that lets you shoot fireballs.”
She snorted, covering her mouth. “Oh my God!” she exclaimed through her laughter. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“What’s yours?” I asked.
“Well, before you brought up Mario, I was going to say lilies, but now that I remember there is a flower that lets you shoot fireballs, I might have a new favorite.”
“Get your own flower,” I teased.
“Your superpower might suck, but at least your flower choice is spot on.”
“Are you still on that? Flying would be awesome!”
“Until you got sucked through an airplane turbine. It’s your question,” she prompted.
“Fine.” I wanted the rest of her story but didn’t want her to be sad, so I skirted the subject. “Did you and Evan ever go to marriage counseling?”
“A couple of times,” she answered.
“Was it helpful?”
“That’s two questions.”
I was going to drop it, but then she said, “That just means I get to ask you another question.”
“Fair is fair,” I said.
“In general,” she started, “I’ve always been against telling strangers my problems, present company excluded. But we were years into our fertility struggle and drowning in our situation. So, we invited a counselor in, and she was able to see options that we couldn’t see because we were too close.
“In my mind, it was like Evan and I were trapped in the center of a hedge maze. We tried all the options in front of us, so in our desperation, we began chopping at the walls, trying to break free. But the hedges kept growing as we cut them down. We were wearing ourselves down and beating ourselves up, and yet, we weren’t getting anywhere. We were destroying ourselves inside this labyrinth of our own making until our counselor gave us a metaphorical ladder so we could climb to the top of the hedges and see which direction to go.
“She suggested joining an online support group. I was skeptical that infertility groups existed but was shocked at the number of people struggling. She also encouraged us to do IVF, where they take the woman’s egg and a man’s sperm, mix them together, and after they combined, put them in a uterus.
“We had a consult with the doctor, and he felt confident it would take on the first try. We went through classes, meetings, and mounds of paperwork. I had to give myself a ton of injections, and I went for blood draws and ultrasounds every few days, but I didn’t mind because I was so hopeful.
“Evan was there with me the day they retrieved my eggs. He held my hand, and we watched the monitor as the doctor drained the follicles, and the lab tech counted the number. From everything I’d read, I was expecting eight to fifteen. The tech had only counted six. I was upset but tried to rein in my reaction because at least I had six.
“I always thought I was healthy and young, so the amount and quality of my eggs would be on the higher end. I kept thinking I wouldn’t lose as many as those other women who had more severe cases. I was still trying to deny my medical issue.
“The nurse delicately explained that the immature eggs would not become embryos. I knew this but wanted an immediate number. Would that leave us with five, three, two? And even if we had several embryos, that didn’t mean they would make it to day-five embryos.” She paused, contemplative. “I know I’m probably speaking gibberish to you right now. I’ll give you the condensed version.”
“It’s okay. I can follow most of it. I want to know, Willa,” I said so she wouldn’t second guess herself.
She nodded and took a breath. “You’re like my very own sexy judgmental therapist.”
I scowled at her, outraged, “Judgmental?”
“And sexy,” she said. “Okay, you’re not judgmental, I just need you to be less . . . you.”
“Oh, so, less perfect?” I joked.
“Exactly,” she said, trying to stay light.
“Go on, tell me all of your problems.”
She wiggled in her seat, removing her “bib,” and saying, “Evan and I went home after the egg retrieval. I took a nap, and when I woke, my cramping from the procedure had passed, but my mind was a train wreck. Evan had to run out, and I was so relieved he wasn’t around because then I didn’t have to try to hide what I was feeling. And hones
tly, I couldn’t understand what I was feeling.
“I was stunned by how little control I had over the situation. It was all up to the lab. The helplessness I felt was overwhelming. Evan had his own emotions, but I was too raw to focus on him.
“The lab called two days later to tell me we had four embryos. I could handle four. I was expecting at least a couple of the eggs weren’t mature enough. The embryologist informed me they would call with another update in two days. That was forty-eight hours away. It was 2,880 minutes until the next call, and I didn’t know what to do for the next 2,880 minutes?
“I never expected to feel so helpless during the process. It was hard to leave something so fragile and important—something that should be happening inside of my body—in the hands of a stranger. With the other treatments, I could at least fake the element of control, but with this, it was entirely out of my hands. All I could do was find distractions until the next phone call.”
She gasped, “Oliver, pull over! Pull over! There’s a thrift store.”
She said this as we were already passing the parking lot, then looked disappointed we didn’t make it. As I pulled into the next lot to turn around, I asked, “You really want to go thrifting instead of to the beach.”
“I want both!” She slapped my arm excitedly. “I have such a great idea! The hotel has washers and dryers, right?”
“I think so. If not, they have a laundry service,” he said.
She pulled out her phone and began searching while I pulled into the thrift store parking lot.
“They do,” she said. “It’s next to the gym. We have to use quarters. Or we can use their laundry service.”
“Willa, what are you thinking? You’re being very intense.”
She unbuckled and turned her whole body toward me. “Okay, here’s what I propose. We find outfits for the winery. I will find an outfit for you, and you find something for me, but neither of us sees what we pick for each other until we are getting ready tomorrow.”
“You trust me that much?”
“We still have the same modesty rule, and remember, we will have to be seen with each other so keep that in mind.”
“This could be really fun. I’m in, but I have one more rule. It has to be weather appropriate. I don’t want to pass out because you put me in a winter coat in the middle of the summer.”
“You think your problem will be too many clothes?” She laughed, and I didn’t know how concerned I should be, but I didn’t know the people here, so I guess it didn’t matter . . . much.
“Okay, I’m in,” I said.
She held out her hand to shake, and I took it. “Okay, break!” she said before darting out of the truck. She turned toward me as we walked inside, saying, “No peeking! And be quick. I don’t want to miss the sunset.”
I nodded and started for the women’s section while she went to the men’s.
Willa
Oliver wore a mischievous grin as we walked out of the thrift store carrying our bags. We’d had to exchange clothing sizes before we really started our search, but we were quick about it, making it in and out in fifteen minutes. I had been true to my word and hadn’t peeked at his purchase, but I was so curious.
We climbed into his truck, stashing our bags in separate places. He started the vehicle, and as we got back on the road, he said, “You stopped in the middle of your story earlier.”
It surprised me that he wanted me to continue my depressing story, but I started up where I left off. “People say all you need is one, and though it’s a nice thought, each embryo transfer has a thirty to fifty percent chance of becoming a baby. That—at best—is the flip of a coin! So only needing one was not the comfort people meant it to be.
“Two days passed, and I got the call from the embryologist. I expected we might lose one or maybe even two, but this news seemed much worse. The guy rattled off some numbers, and I wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but it didn’t sound good. Then I had to wait another 2,880 minutes.
“We never expected that we might lose them all. We spent every penny we had and couldn’t afford to go through another round.
“I wondered how I could have been so stupid that I hadn’t even considered the option of having no embryos to transfer. I always pictured we’d have like eight or maybe nine. It wasn’t a matter of if it would work; it was a matter of when it worked. I was so unprepared because hope had lifted me so high only to let me fall. Some days I feel like I’m still falling.”
“I’m so sorry, Willa,” Oliver whispered, “Life can be so painful.”
His words fueled me to continue, “I fucking jumped in with both feet and all my hope, and potential joy was ripped out of my heart via a phone call. They called on my way into work. I was so frantic that I accidentally sent them to voicemail, and I’m so glad I did. It was a mercy because I didn’t want to talk to the lab tech after they gave me devastating news. They basically said the embryos were incomplete and missing parts of their structure. The quality was so poor that they had already discarded them. All of our little em-babies were gone.
“I listened to this message less than five minutes before I had to be at work. I called Evan, but he was in meetings all morning. I needed to talk to someone, so I called my mom as I pulled into the school parking lot. When she answered, I couldn’t speak. I didn’t want to say the words out loud. I didn’t want it to be real. I made a poor attempt to speak as a sob ripped my chest in two. My mom cried with me, trying to soothe my broken heart as hers broke too. I talked to her for a few minutes before I walked into work. I was an absolute mess. I pulled myself together and got through the day by compartmentalizing.
“After that, the grief came in waves. My emotions were all over the place. I was angry we spent all of our savings and devastated it didn’t work. One moment I was desperate to try again, and in the next moment, I wanted to use our money on things that wouldn’t break our hearts and leave us with nothing but sore bodies and empty pockets.
“I had a hard time accepting the loss, maybe because I had never failed so hard at something before. I put all my eggs in that basket, only for them to be deemed defective and discarded. I felt like a piece of me died along with our em-babies.
“There were options. The first avenue I explored was the one that wouldn’t break my heart but living a life without children felt like a broken life for me. Adopting was just as expensive and potentially even more heartbreaking. So, we waited six months, took out a loan, and tried again.
“I didn’t think I could go through it again. I swear I had PTSD. Every time I stepped into that doctor’s office, I would sweat, and my heart would race. Every doctor’s visit reopened my past trauma. It was more emotional the second time. We went into debt for something we weren’t sure would even work. Emotionally I was a train wreck, but medically, the process was the same. Only the second time, we ended up with two transferable embryos.
“I was over the moon happy. I’d waited so long. We transferred both embryos, and a few weeks later, I found out one stuck. It was my first positive pregnancy test. I wanted to frame it, but that’s gross and weird.
“I will never forget hearing my baby’s heartbeat and seeing the flutter on the ultrasound screen. I got to experience morning sickness, and I’ve never been more grateful for something so awful. Then, eight and a half weeks in, I started bleeding. My OB told me to go straight to the hospital, and they took me back right away. I was . . .” My words drifted, and for a second, I was back there.
I was in that hospital room, lying in bed, staring at the blank TV screen.
There in that hospital room, I found out what it was like to lose a piece of my soul. My heart kept beating despite the gaping hole through the center, and I was breathing, yet I knew I would never catch my breath again.
Then I realized that someone in that hospital was probably giving birth to a healthy baby even though they didn’t deserve it—even though they did nothing but have a quick fuck to make such a precious gift—even though t
here was no way they could love their baby as much as I loved the little peanut that I had to flush down the toilet.
“Willa?” Oliver’s voice snapped me out of my memory.
I was crying. Not a single tear that gracefully leaks from one eye like you see on TV. These tears were dripping from my chin and running down my neck. They slid along my chest, falling between my breasts where the moisture caught in the lining of my bra, right over my beating but broken heart. Right where the grief belonged.
I forgot to breathe for a moment and gasped as I wiped my tears. “Sorry, Oliver.”
“Never apologize for feeling sad.”
I swallowed and grabbed napkins from the glove compartment. As I mopped up my face, I said, “We lost our baby, and I hated that I was surrounded by people who didn’t have any idea what I was going through. I wanted everyone to hurt the way I hurt, and yet I didn’t. I just wanted people to understand and give me the space I needed to grieve like I had lost a baby. But most people didn’t see it that way, so I shoved the grief down as far as it would go until it ripped me apart from the inside, turning me into nothing more than a walking massacre living beneath a flimsy smile.”
“God, Willa, that’s awful.”
It was awful, and there had been triggers everywhere. They were unavoidable. I held it together the best I could, but there were still times I would be in the middle of something and out of nowhere an all-consuming sadness pulled the breath from my lungs and the tears from my eyes.
I said, “We didn’t want people to feel sorry for us. We wanted them to care, but we wanted peace, without the words of friends and strangers poking at our hearts in the most unpleasant way.”
I stopped talking after that. It was a bad idea to bring this up. I didn’t want to relive the worst part of my life. I didn’t want to look too closely at all the places where I fell short.
Oliver didn’t deserve this negativity, so I reminded him that there was some good. “Life tastes bitter sometimes, but I have drops of sweetness, like my mom and dad, Jodi, Bella. I don’t take them for granted, at least I try not to.”
