Josh and Gemma Make a Baby(4)

“Umm, uhhh, no?”

How did I manage to get a hoarder doctor with verbal diarrhea? This must be why all the other doctors were booked for two months out, while this doctor had immediate availability.

Dr. Ingraham ignored my no and pulled out two bottles of water from a mini fridge under his desk.

I sat back down in my creaky chair and crossed my legs. The latte and the bottle of water had hit my bladder and I really needed to pee. Like, really needed to pee.

“I reviewed your file. Stage four endometriosis. Blocked tubes. You had surgery when you were, what, twenty-four? What else. Ruptured cyst. Good, good.” He looked down at the manila file on his desk and somehow made his recitation sound like wonderfully cheery news.

“Twenty-two,” I corrected.

“Twenty-two what?”

“I had surgery when I was twenty-two. The surgeon said it looked like…really bad.” I winced. I couldn’t make myself repeat his exact words. “He said I’d never have children.” I admitted the last in a low voice. I hoped Dr. Ingraham would disagree with the surgeon’s assessment.

“Ha! They always say that, don’t they? Idiots. Blunder-brained morons. Just because the waterslide is closed doesn’t mean you can’t swim in the pool.” Dr. Ingraham squinted at me to see if I appreciated his analogy.

“So my pool is open?” I asked hopefully.

“Ahaaa, ahaaaa,” Dr. Ingraham said. “That’s what we’re here to find out. Water?” He held up the bottle.

“No. No thanks.” I waved it away.

He smiled and opened the cap. Then he grabbed a slightly dirty glass and started to pour the water into it. As the water splashed into the glass, my bladder protested. I clenched my legs together.

“Let me explain some fertility concepts to you. Ready?”

I nodded and he started in on his explanation.

“See here. You have a bunch of eggs each month that have the capacity to grow.” He grabbed a pile of plastic eggs off his desk and held them up. To me they looked like a sushi garnish.

He flew the eggs through the air like a toy. “These eggs are like a group of people waiting for the subway at rush hour. When the train arrives it’s packed and there’s only room for one person to squeeze in. Whoever’s lucky enough to be standing by the door gets on. Unfortunately everyone else is left behind and they all die.” He dropped the model eggs and I watched in horror as they clattered on the desk and knocked against the plastic penis. “But that one lucky egg grows and gets to ovulate. Isn’t that special?”

So. Wow.

I tried to listen. I promise, I really, really tried. It was horrifying, and weird and all sorts of stuff, but Dr. Ingraham kept pouring more water into his glass, and taking long, gulping drinks, then talking, then pouring more water. And every time he did, all I could think was how badly I had to pee.

“The sperm have to travel the equivalent of around the world to meet the egg at the end of the tube. Because of that, you need to have millions of sperm at the start so a few can make the journey. We can improve the odds by selecting the strongest, best-shaped sperm and giving them a head start. That’s called an intrauterine insemination or IUI. You can’t do IUI because your tubes are blocked. Your waterslide is out of order. See?”

Why did he have to keep talking about water?

I nodded my head and squeezed my legs. He poured more water and it made a tinkling sound. It was agony.

Gulp, gulp. Whhhhhy?

Fifteen minutes later, he was still talking.

“If you really want the egg and the sperm to meet, we do IVF. That means picking the best-looking sperm and injecting it into the egg. This is like pushing two kids together at the high school dance—most times it works but sometimes you get rejection.” He coughed, then mumbled, “At least that was my high school story.”

I gave him a sympathetic wince. But it was hard to concentrate on anything he was saying. I squirmed in my seat and shifted, trying to find a spot where it didn’t feel like I was going to burst.

Finally, he said, “And that’s the end of the fertility lesson for today.”

I blew out a long, grateful breath.

“Any questions?” Dr. Ingraham asked.

“No,” I said hurriedly. “When can I start?”

AKA, please, please let me go pee in a cup.

Dr. Ingraham looked incredibly pleased. “I like your enthusiasm. I’ll have the nurse get some urine and blood.”

Thank goodness.

“Next time, we’ll get your partner’s semen sample.”

“My what?”

Dr. Ingraham flipped through my chart. “Your partner. You checked the box indicating that you have a male partner.”

I leaned forward and tried to see my questionnaire, but my bladder gave an outraged spasm and I sat back down.

“Did you check the wrong box? If so, I can describe the donor sperm system. It’s fascinating. You see, there’s a database that-”

Oh my gosh. And that was when, for the first time in my life, I let my bladder change the course of my fate, and perhaps my life.

“I have a partner,” I blurted out. “He has amazing, super-awesome, winner sperm. He danced with all the girls in high school. Never got rejected. Not once. We’re good. All good.”

There. Right there.