Often, I would lay awake at night staring into the future, fearing that five more years would pass, and we would still be without children. I imagined myself continuing to take my temperature each month, forcing Wes into the bedroom at the right time, even when neither of us felt like it.
Surely if this continued, romance between us would no longer exist as we once knew it, and I didn’t want that to happen.
To my credit, I made every effort not to behave in a clinical or hurried fashion when I knew I was ovulating. I lit candles and I wore sexy nighties, but it wasn’t easy to be playful when fear was starting to take hold—fear that it might not ever happen for us.
I wish I could say that I was able to be patient, like Wes, and that I truly believed in my heart that it would happen when the time was right. But I didn’t believe it. In fact, as the weeks passed, I felt more and more certain that something was terribly wrong, even though I had no proof.
Nevertheless, I couldn’t help working myself up into a state of hopeful anticipation each month, which only made everything worse. I told myself: Surely the magic has happened at last and I’ll finally be able to share the happy news that I’m in the family way.
My fantasies were elaborate.
“Do you want to know if it’s a boy or a girl?” my mother would ask.
“No, we want it to be a surprise,” I would reply.
Wes’s parents would hug me, and George would pat Wes on the back and say, “Well done, Wes. Congratulations. You’ve made us both very happy.”
There would be baby showers and books to read about baby care, Lamaze classes and prenatal vitamins, and morning sickness that I would never resent, not for a single moment. I wanted to feel sick. I daydreamed about how I would have to excuse myself from the classroom to rush to the washroom and find a toilet.
How crazy is that? Fantasizing about throwing up!
And I couldn’t wait to gain weight and look at myself in the mirror and plan how I would lose it later. I would join one of those outdoor “new mommy” exercise classes with other young mothers, where we would meet in the park with our strollers, find a shady spot under some trees, and do squats and sit-ups while our babies watched from the cute flannel blankets we spread out on the grass.
I saw those mothers sometimes, when I was out for a run by myself on the weekends. I tried not to stare at them, but it wasn’t easy. I wanted so badly to be among them.
Sometimes I closed my eyes and imagined myself cradling my sweet baby in my arms, rocking her back to sleep in the nursery after rising from bed in the middle of the night to change her diaper and feed her.
I shouldn’t have let myself indulge in those fantasies. Angie told me not to because she said they would raise me to a very high place from which to fall each month.
Looking back on it, she was right about that. I wish I could have been less hopeful and less inclined to daydream. Maybe then, I might have been more aware of what was happening around me—and the fact that something was about to come down on my marriage like a sledgehammer.
Although, the blame can’t be entirely laid at my feet. What happened was shocking and unbelievable. I don’t think any normal person would have seen it coming.
* * *
“Well…” I said to Wes on our third anniversary, which we spent at home that year to save money. “It’s been a whole year and we’re still trying. Do you think it’s time we go and see someone? Because I’d like to know if we’re just spinning our wheels. Maybe we need some help.”
It had been a number of weeks since I’d brought up the pregnancy issue with Wes. When my period started each month, I cried privately and quietly in the bathroom. Or I talked to Angie, who always understood, because she was going through the same thing. I did not make a point of announcing to Wes that we had failed. Again and again.
Wes didn’t need me to tell him. He knew. He also understood that asking me about it would only rub salt in the wound. And of course he knew that I would tell him immediately if there was something good to report.
“Yes,” he said at last. “I think it’s time. Why don’t you make the appointment.” He reached across the breakfast table and squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry, babe. I’m sure we just need to keep trying, but if you want me to get tested to make sure I’m not shooting blanks, I’m totally willing to do that.”
“It might not be you,” I said. “It could be me.”
He lowered his gaze to his plate of scrambled eggs and poked at it with his fork. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.” He said nothing for a moment or two, then his eyes lifted. “And let’s not obsess about whether it’s you or me. We’re a team and we’re in this together.”
I felt a surge of relief—that he was willing to explore what might be wrong. I loved that we were about to become pro-active, because the last thing I wanted was to continue to feel so powerless—as if the possibility of having a child was completely out of our hands. Surely there were things we could do to increase our chances of making it happen. Surely it wasn’t all up to fate?
On top of that, if there was something wrong with one of us, medically, we needed to get help and not waste time, because I wasn’t getting any younger. I hated to say it—it sounded so cliché—but I could feel the clock starting to tick, and it made me nervous. Maybe even a little frantic.
Thank God I had Angie to talk to. She was the only person who really understood.
Chapter Eight
Wes and I started out by booking an appointment with my family doctor, who assured us that we had done the right thing to wait a year before coming to see her. She explained that it’s not uncommon for couples not to conceive right away. But often, they grow antsy after only a few months, in which case she advised them to keep trying and come back after a year if they still weren’t pregnant.
I laughed. “Actually, I wanted to come after three months, but Wes convinced me to keep trying a little while longer.”
Dr. Melanson smiled at him. “Don’t fault her for being a keener.”
He reached for my hand. “I never would.”
Dr. Melanson regarded us both for a few seconds. I had the distinct impression she was gauging the strength of our relationship, and whether or not we were having sex in the first place. Which we were.
She wheeled her chair forward a bit and picked up her pen to take some notes in our file. “Let’s get right down to it then.” She turned her eyes to me. “First of all, Claire. Do you have regular periods?”
“Yes,” I replied. “It’s like clockwork every month, and I’ve been taking my temperature to figure out when I’m ovulating. I read that it happens between day ten and seventeen of the cycle.”
She nodded and wrote that down. “Very good. Clearly you’ve been educating yourself.” She glanced back and forth between the two of us. “And how often do you have sex?”
I blushed, and Wes grinned sheepishly at me.
“I’m not here to judge you,” Dr. Melanson said. “And all of this is strictly confidential. I just need to know the facts.”
I took a deep breath and sat up straighter. “Usually about three times a week. Sometimes only twice if we’re busy at the school. But when I’m ovulating, we make sure to do it every other day.”
“Excellent,” she said, noting that in the file.
Dr. Melanson then asked us a few more detailed questions about our sex life, which I won’t repeat here. Eventually she moved on to explain what we should expect from these appointments, and what would happen next.
“First, we’ll deal with you, Wes, and get a sperm sample. Incidentally, just so you know, we’re not here to point fingers at either of you. Statistically speaking, one third of couples have an infertility problem involving the male, while one third of the problems involve the female, and another third involve both. So that’s why we need to examine each of you, individually.”
“Interesting,” I said, pleased to hear that Wes and I were on equal footing, at least statistically.
<
br /> Dr. Melanson seemed a bit distracted as she wrote something down on a separate sheet of pink paper, which she handed to Wes. “This is a requisition for you to provide a sperm sample. You can do that in the next few days. The instructions are on the sheet and there’s a number to call. And Wes…I’d like to see you back here in two weeks for a complete physical.”
“Sure,” he said, taking the sheet of paper from her.
“What about me?” I asked. “Aren’t there any tests I should be taking? Or are there some fertility drugs we should be looking at?”
Dr. Melanson rose from her chair and handed me a sheet of paper as well. “Let’s take this one step at a time. For now, I want to get your blood work done, Claire, and I’d like to book you in for a physical as well. But I would like to have the results of Wes’s sperm test before I see either of you again. Why don’t you book separate appointments on the same day two weeks from now? I’ll have more information then, and we can figure out how to move forward. In the meantime, just try to relax and keep doing what you’ve been doing.”
Wes and I stood up.
“Thank you,” I said as we walked out.
When we reached our car, I threw my arms around Wes’s neck, because I felt elated. Even though we had no information yet, I was grateful that someone was going to look into our situation, medically, and figure out what was wrong, if anything.
At the same time, I was still impatient. I wished we didn’t have to wait two whole weeks before we could return for our physicals and get the results from Wes’s sperm test. I wanted things to move much faster than that.
* * *
After two weeks twiddling my thumbs, waiting in suspense to return to the clinic for back-to-back appointments, the day finally arrived.
Wes was called in first, so I was forced to sit and wait a little longer. It was torture.
Finally, he emerged from the examination room and sat down beside me.
I closed the thriller novel I’d been trying to read and held it on my lap. “Well?”
“It went great,” he told me.
“Really? What did she say?”
He leaned closer and spoke softly. “That my sperm count is off the charts, and motility is terrific. Everything looks really good.”
I let out a breath and sat back. “Phew. That’s a relief. So at least we’re all good on your end. One less thing to worry about.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine, too.” Wes pulled out his phone to check his messages. “And if there’s anything wrong, they’ll be able to help us. Like you said, you might just need to take some fertility drugs to increase our chances. Or maybe this is the week we’ll get lucky and they’ll be referring us to an obstetrician on the next visit.”
He said that because I was ovulating this week. We had done it twice the night before, and I was hopeful, as always.
A nurse entered the waiting room and called my name. I rose from my seat and shoved my book into my purse.
“Wish me luck,” I said to Wes as I followed the nurse into the examination room.
Chapter Nine
It was an interesting visit with Dr. Melanson.
First she took my blood pressure. It was a very healthy 118 over 79. She then went over my blood work, and the results were perfect. I wasn’t surprised, as I’d never had any health issues before. I ate well and got plenty of exercise. Other than having some trouble getting pregnant, I felt great.
She then asked me a number of questions while taking notes in my file. We discussed my family’s medical history and allergies and all the other things doctors usually ask. Then my answer to one particular question caused her to look up from the chart and study me more intently.
“You were thrown from a horse?” she asked. “When did this happen?”
I cleared my throat and strove to provide the sorts of details she might be looking for.
“I was fourteen years old. It was one of those public trail rides at a farm somewhere in the boonies, but the horse I was on got spooked for some reason and just started bucking all over the place. I was knocked unconscious and I had to have surgery so they could fix my bladder.”
She lowered her gaze and wrote that down.
“That farm doesn’t offer trail rides anymore,” I added.
She started writing faster, and it seemed she was already forming some conclusions. I started to feel a little sick. My heart pounded hard in my chest.
Could this be the reason why I wasn’t getting pregnant? Was I a lost cause?
She set the chart down on her desk and met my gaze.
“The first thing I want to do,” she said, “is refer you to an excellent gynecologist. She’s a fertility specialist, and she’ll arrange for you to have an ultrasound to see how things look.”
“What will that show?” I asked, struggling not to reveal my concern that something was wrong with me and it was not fixable.
“We’ll be looking for unusual growths or tumors,” she explained. “Don’t worry. It’s a standard test we do, just to rule things out. After that, you can meet with Dr. Walker for the results and she’ll take over from there.”
“Okay,” I replied, feeling uncomfortable that she was passing me on to someone else, further up the chain. Clearly mine was looking to be a complicated case.
“I can try to get you in next week,” she said, looking back down at the chart.
“Okay, but am I all right?” I asked. “Do you think something’s wrong with me? Is it because I fell off that horse?”
Dr. Melanson gave me a compassionate smile and laid a hand on my knee. “Please try not to worry, Claire. We don’t know anything for sure yet, but we’ll figure it out, one step at a time. You’ll be in good hands with Dr. Walker. She’s amazing. She’s going to do everything she can to help you.”
Help me?
Certainly, that’s why I was there. I wanted help. But when Dr. Melanson put it like that…I felt like I was back in that nightmare, drowning in a flood, and I was beginning to panic.
Chapter Ten
Another week of excruciating suspense passed by at a snail’s pace. It was pure torture because I couldn’t help but assume the worst—that I was totally barren because of the trauma I had suffered as a teen.
After talking to Angie about it after our next yoga class, I began to research the subject on the Internet. Some of what I read boosted my spirits, while other bits of information only made me feel more worried and pessimistic.
I was desperate for answers and frustrated by the fact that I was completely powerless to make things move any faster. I even tried calling the doctor’s office to see if they could fit me in sooner for the ultrasound, but they couldn’t do it. They were booked solid.
“You need to relax about all this,” Wes said to me one night when he came home from the gym and found me sitting in the dark, at the desk in the spare bedroom with the laptop open in front of me.
“I can’t,” I replied, not turning around or rising to greet him, because I had just clicked on an interesting link I wanted to follow. “I’m just so worried that something’s wrong with me. I can’t explain it, but I have a bad feeling.”
He approached and stood behind me. “This is the age of modern medicine. I’m sure they’ll be able to fix whatever’s wrong.”
“Maybe.” I started reading the information on the website home page as soon as it opened in front of me.
Wes exhaled heavily and turned away. A moment later, I heard him in the kitchen, making something to eat. He was slamming cupboard doors.
Realizing I’d been distracted when he came in, I closed my laptop, rose from my chair, and went into the kitchen.
“How was your workout?” I carefully asked.
“Fine,” he tersely replied.
I frowned as I watched him move around the kitchen, because this wasn’t like him, to be so visibly irritable.
“You seem angry,” I said.
He glanced at me briefly and merely shrugged as he slapped pean
ut butter on a slice of bread, practically ripping it to shreds with the knife.
I was surprised and baffled because he never behaved this way. I wasn’t even sure what was wrong—only that his aggravation seemed to come out of left field. Sure…I may have been a bit preoccupied lately, but certainly it wasn’t enough to warrant this sudden cold shoulder treatment.
All I wanted to do was resolve whatever the problem was, so I spoke calmly. “I’m sorry if I’ve been distracted lately. It’s just that…” I moved a little closer. “I’m starting to get a bit scared that it’s never going to happen for us, that I’m never going to be able to give you children, and I know how much it means to you. To both of us. Is that why you’re upset? Because we’ve hit some roadblocks?”
Wes wouldn’t look at me as he moved to the fridge. He pulled out a carton of milk and poured himself a glass.
“I’m just getting tired of this, Claire. You’ve been completely obsessed.” He shook his head. “We don’t talk about anything except fertility and your ovulatory cycle, and all the worst case scenarios—like years going by and the two of us still being childless. ‘Oh, woe is me.’ Seriously, Claire? If you ask me, the reason we can’t get pregnant has nothing to do with infertility. It’s because you’re so stressed out about it. There’s probably nothing wrong with you. I wish you’d just relax and let nature take its course.” He rolled his eyes. “And don’t even get me started on our sex life.”
I stood in shock as he strode past me to the living room. Never once in our marriage had he spoken to me like that, nor had he ever expressed any frustration or discontent about our situation. He’d always been supportive and optimistic.
He flopped down on the sofa, put his feet up on the coffee table, and picked up the remote control. He turned on a football game.
Christmas Miracles Page 21
