Trying

by Heather MacKinnon

  His praise melted a small piece of the ice around my mangled heart. It felt nice to hear something had gone right. That my body had done its job for once. That maybe I wasn’t as broken as I felt.

  Dr. Hart closed the folder and threaded his fingers together in front of him. “Now that we know everything is working properly, let’s talk about Flomid.”

  This was it. Finally.

  “I want to write you a six-month prescription and see where we are after that. Based on your procedures, and Mr. Thompson’s test results, I don’t anticipate it will take very long at all for you to get pregnant.”

  My tortured heart thumped painfully in my chest as the first strands of optimism I’d felt in months slithered through me.

  But I still had my doubts. “What happens after six months?”

  Dr. Hart’s lips quirked into a small frown. “If you aren’t pregnant after six months, you’ll have to take a break from Flomid and we’ll talk about other options.”

  “Why is that?”

  Dr. Hart sighed. “If taken for extended periods of time, there have been studies that show Flomid increased the likelihood of ovarian cysts which can lead to cancer.”

  “Cancer?” Bryson’s voice was pitched higher than usual.

  Dr. Hart nodded. “Yes. However, the good news is, the best way to combat ovarian cancer is a pregnancy.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said.

  Bryson sat forward. “Now hold on a second, you’re telling me Flomid not only has all kinds of nasty side-effects, but it also causes cancer?” He turned to me. “Is this really a good idea, Mack? I don’t know if I like the sound of this.”

  I forced my lips into a brittle smile. “Yes, Bryson. This is what I want.”

  “Well, what about what I want?”

  “It’s not your body, it’s not your decision.”

  “I understand that, Mack, I’m just looking out for you. Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

  My eyes widened in a glare meant to intimidate Bryson into shutting up. “Yes. I’m sure.”

  His hazel eyes darted between my own for an extended moment before he sighed heavily and sat back in his chair. I turned to Dr. Hart who sat eyeing us with a small frown on his face.

  “Mr. Thompson, I can absolutely understand your hesitation. Flomid isn’t perfect, no drug is. I suggest you and your wife discuss this at length and decide what is best for the both of you.”

  The hell we would.

  I nodded once. “Thanks Dr. Hart. I’ll take the prescription.”

  He nodded and gathered up his folder. “I’ll have my nurse send it through to your pharmacy. If you have any questions or issues, feel free to call the office.”

  I reached forward and shook the hand he offered, and saw Bryson do the same out of the corner of my eye, although with much less warmth than I had.

  Once alone, Bryson sat forward and placed a hand on my arm. “Mack, think about this. Are you really sure this is what you want?”

  I turned to him slowly, pinning him with the sternest look I could form. “I’m sure I’ll do anything to have a baby. If that means shitty side-effects, I’ll take it.”

  “But it’s cancer, Mack. That’s nothing to play around with.”

  I scoffed and shook off his hand. “Flomid doesn’t just cause cancer, Bryson. If it did, it wouldn’t be prescribed. He said prolonged use could cause cancer. But I don’t plan on being on it for long. It should only take a few months for it to work and then I won’t have to take it anymore.”

  Bryson shook his head but kept his mouth shut. I knew he wasn’t happy about the situation, but what could he do? I wanted to take Flomid and there was nothing he could say to stop me.

  “What the fuck?” I yelled at the negative OPK.

  My twentieth that month. The doctor said I should ovulate between days ten and fourteen, and it was day twenty with no positive.

  I’d even taken two today, one of the expensive ones with smiley faces, and one of the cheap ones with pink lines, and neither one of them detected a pending ovulation. I covered my face with my hands and growled into my palms.

  The door flew open and Bryson skidded to a stop on the tile floor in front of me. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his chest heaving slightly.

  “Nothing.”

  He took a deep breath and shook his head. “I heard you yell.”

  “And did I call for you?”

  I saw his brows dip into a frown out of the corner of my eye as I washed my hands.

  “No, but–”

  “Then why did you come in here?”

  Bryson sighed. “I thought you needed me.”

  “If I need you, I’ll call for you,” I said as I brushed past him into the bedroom.

  I heard his heavy steps following me, but I ignored him.

  I’d been doing that a lot lately. Ignoring him. It was for his own good, really. I could feel the angry, bitter words burning their way up my throat, begging to be let loose. The only thing I could do to stop them was to keep quiet.

  “Mack, will you talk to me?”

  I sighed. Didn’t he know I couldn’t? That if I opened my mouth, only nastiness would fall from my tongue. That if I talked to him I’d only hurt him.

  “Not in the mood.”

  I heard him sigh before two large warm hands grasped my shoulders and spun me around. “Mack don’t ignore me.”

  I shook off his hands and placed mine on my hips. If I didn’t do something with them, I might use them to strangle him instead. “What the fuck do you want me to say, Bryson?”

  He took a step back, his eyes widening in surprise. “I just want to know what’s going on.”

  I threw my hands in the air. “Nothing is going on. That’s the problem. There’s nothing. I was supposed to ovulate a week ago and I’m still getting negative tests. I’m trying my hardest, but there’s nothing I can do about the fact that my body doesn’t want to work properly. What more do you want from me?”

  He placed his hands on my shoulders again and I just barely stopped myself from shrugging them off. “I just want to know what’s going on with you. I just want to be there for you.”

  His sweet words slid off my skin, falling to the floor in a puddle of compassion I didn’t deserve. I didn’t want his concern, or his soft eyes, or his understanding. I wanted to be left alone with my defective body, my dark thoughts, and the anger that never seemed to cool.

  “I just told you what’s happening. What more do you want me to say?”

  He sighed and slid his hands off my shoulders, letting them drop by his sides in defeat. “I just want to be there for you, Mack, but you gotta’ let me in. I’m trying to get through to you, trying to make you realize you aren’t alone in this, but I can’t do that from this side of the wall you’ve thrown up between us.”

  My eyes narrowed. “So, this is my fault too?”

  He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and took a deep breath. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, Bryson. Loud and fucking clear.”

  I spun on my heel and stormed out of the bedroom, leaving Bryson, and any lingering guilt I felt, behind me. I didn’t need either of them.

  It took me nine months to take the first six rounds of Flomid. The doctor thought the medication would regulate my cycles, but they’d continued to fluctuate. Some months it took me only twenty days to ovulate, others over forty.

  The only thing that remained the same was the single pink line that greeted me from every pregnancy test I took. Negative after negative test until I stopped trying altogether and would instead just wait for my period to start.

  After the first six rounds of Flomid were unsuccessful, I was given a three-month break from the medication before he prescribed me another three rounds. When that was still unsuccessful, we tried monitoring my cycles with ultrasounds and using hormone shots. After that didn’t work, we tried a few rounds of another fertility drug, but were met with similar results.
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  The doctor knocked and poked his head in the door, his usually bright smile noticeably dimmer. “Hi folks. How are we today?”

  I didn’t bother answering his question. I thought he could probably tell how I felt.

  He took a seat and sighed as he flipped through a few papers in his folder. Finally, he looked up and folded his hands in front of him. “So, this latest drug doesn’t seem to have worked hmm?”

  I gulped and nodded.

  The doctor clenched and unclenched his hands in front of him. “I wish I had some answers for you, Mrs. Thompson, but the truth of the matter is, sometimes there aren’t any. Sometimes infertility is unexplainable and the best we can do is work around it.”

  “What does that mean?” I rasped.

  “The next step would be to talk about IUI or IVF.”

  I was already shaking my head, but it was Bryson who spoke up. “What does that mean?”

  “We can try to impregnate Mrs. Thompson with your semen in a procedure called IUI or intrauterine insemination.”

  “Isn’t that what I’ve been doing for months?”

  A small strangled laugh escaped my lips and Dr. Hart smiled. “In a manner of speaking, yes. However, we have the advantage of using tools and procedures that have a higher rate of success than doing it the old-fashioned way.”

  “What about IVF?” he asked.

  “That’s where we extract an egg from Mrs. Thompson and fertilize it in a lab with your semen before replacing it in her. It has a higher rate of success, but it’s more invasive and more expensive.” The doctor turned to me then. “So, Mrs. Thompson, what do you think?”

  I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Behind my lids, I no longer saw the red rage that had burned through me for so long. Anger didn’t set me ablaze or jump off the tip of my tongue any longer.

  There wasn’t even the dark blue that had been on the perimeter since the first negative pregnancy test. The sadness had adhered to my limbs like long strands of seaweed, clinging and relentless until it settled around me like a second skin.

  For more than two-and-a-half years, those two emotions, anger and sadness, had taken turns rioting throughout my body. Passing the control of my actions between them like a basketball.

  I’d been tossed back and forth between the two for so long and suddenly I realized, neither of them painted my world any longer. Instead of the crimson or navy that I’d grown accustomed to, there was only black.

  Like a vacuum, a gaping chasm that all my hopes had been sucked into. The blackness erased everything else I was feeling, leaving me numb and cold, like I was floating in space with nothing to tether me.

  It was as freeing as it was alarming.

  I just couldn’t find it in me to care anymore.

  “No.”

  The doctor frowned. “Pardon?”

  “No. I don’t want to do it. I’m done.”

  “Mrs. Thompson?”

  “I need a break. I can’t keep doing this.” My voice broke slightly on the last word, but I pushed on. “I need a break,” I repeated, pulling my eyes away from the doctor to stare at the table in front of me.

  Bryson’s hand landed on my back between my shoulder blades and I tensed at the contact. “If you want to take a break, we’ll take a break, Mack. No problem.”

  I wanted to feel relieved. I knew I should, but I didn’t.

  As impossible as it was, I wanted Bryson to take up this weight and carry it for me. I wanted him to have to deal with the stress of endless tests, to monitor every symptom, to give up alcohol and limit his caffeine intake. He could take the side effects of the hormones and the anxiety of testing.

  Wasn’t it only fair that he should have to stare at those single pink lines every month or so and meet my eager gaze, only to tell me he’d failed again?

  I knew it wasn’t realistic, but I couldn’t help the tangy taste of bitterness on my tongue as I bit it.

  With a deep breath, I looked up and met the doctor’s watery blue eyes. “I need a break,” I said once more.

  Dr. Hart nodded. “I understand completely. You know where to find me when you’re ready to start trying again.”

  Trying.

  As if it was something that involved effort. Like if you just gave it your all, you’d be successful.

  Well, I’d been trying for as long as I could stand. For as long as my marriage could take.

  And now, it was time to call time of death on our hopes for a family. It was crystal clear that I wasn’t meant to carry a child. That it wasn’t in the cards for us to start a family of our own.

  Maybe sometime in the future, we’d look into adoption, but for right now, I needed to just be. Needed to set hope aside because it was killing me to keep it alive.

  Dr. Hart stood and shook both our hands before a nurse came to the door and led us out of the office. She dropped us off at the front desk with a smile and we turned to the receptionist.

  “Do y’all need to make a follow-up appointment?”

  I gulped and lifted my lips into what I hoped looked like a smile. “No, thank you. Are we all set?”

  The receptionist nodded, and we walked out of the doctor’s office for the last time, together but miles apart.

  We loaded into Bryson’s car and he waited until he’d started the car before turning to me. “Are you sure this is what you want, Mack?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Why don’t we give it a couple months, and then we can talk about one of those IV things the doctor was talking about?”

  The Mackenzie from a two years ago would have laughed at him messing up another acronym, but this Mackenzie just shook her head.

  “I’m done, Bryson. It’s over.”

  He scoffed. “It’s not over, Mack, plenty of couples go through this. The doctor said there were other options.”

  I shook my head. “I’m done,” I repeated.

  “Mackenzie, I think you should give it some time and think about it.”

  I knew he wasn’t going to give up. When he thought he knew what was best for me, he was relentless.

  I shook my head and looked out my window. “Just leave it alone, Bryson.”

  “But, Mack–”

  “Leave me alone, Bryson.”

  I heard his jaw close with a snap and my insides twisted while I felt the heat from his stare on the side of my face. I didn’t respond, didn’t look at him, didn’t acknowledge the hurt I knew I’d just caused. I needed him to stop. It didn’t matter to me how.

  “Fine, Mack. If that’s what you want, I’ll leave you alone.”

  Chapter 18

  Present

  I could barely remember the drive home. I’d arrived at a predictably empty house and immediately made a beeline for the upstairs bathroom. After rummaging around in the cabinet beneath the sink, I unearthed the collection of pregnancy tests I’d amassed and selected one of the good ones. The kind that cost so much at the pharmacy, you just ignored the little price sticker and winced when you handed over your debit card.

  My hands shook as I ripped open the box and emptied its contents. I knew the directions by heart but reread them, anyway. I’m not sure if I was procrastinating, or so nervous I would do the test wrong that I felt I needed the refresher, but I read them through twice.

  I took a glance in the mirror and frowned at the woman in its reflection. Her light gray eyes were wide with fear, her face pale and drawn. She shook her head along with me and took a deep breath that lessened the terrified sheen in her eyes.

  I needed to get myself together.

  I took another deep breath, and then one more for good measure. I could do this. I’d done it dozens of times before and I could do it again.

  Even with those reassuring words, I knew this time was different.

  I had real reasons to suspect this test would be the one to come back positive, and I was terrified. Not of a positive, but of the hope I felt bubbling up inside that threatened to choke me.

  In the past when
I’d taken a pregnancy test, especially during the last few months I was actively trying, I hadn’t let my hope build up, and therefore had a shorter distance to fall when it came back negative. This time, however, despite my best efforts, hope had grown and swelled until it was towering inside me like a massive skyscraper, pointed at the top and deadly. As strong as it looked, I knew it would only take a slight breeze to topple it and I shuddered just thinking about the wreckage it’d leave behind.

  With another look in the mirror, I took one last fortifying breath.

  “Quit being a punk, Mack, and take the damn test.”

  I nodded at my brash words of encouragement and turned away from the woman in the mirror that was so clearly only hanging on by the thinnest of threads.

  After finishing my business, I placed the test face down on the counter and did my best to not stare at it while I washed my hands. Most women would probably leave it face up and watch the lines develop, but I was superstitious and preferred to wait the requisite three minutes before reading the test.

  Those one hundred and eighty seconds were the longest of my life. It felt as though empires could have risen and crumbled in the time it took that test to develop. The sun rose and fell countless times and the moon spun around the earth endlessly while I waited for my phone to finish counting down the minutes.

  Even though I was watching the seconds tick away, the blaring sound of the finished timer jolted my frazzled nerves and I just barely refrained from jumping in place. I took another peek at the woman in the mirror and saw she looked just as scared as I felt. Her lips trembled, and her eyes were glassy with unshed tears, but her jaw was set, and her shoulders were pushed back.

  We’d get through this like we got through everything else. With maybe a few tears, and a couple glasses of wine, but still whole on the other side despite it all.

  With one last deep breath, I reached for the test and flipped it over, retracting my fingers as soon as I could like it burned.