“How’s his sperm count doing, anyway?”
“Well, let’s see. He switched from briefs to boxers. He gave up cycling. And he’s avoiding the sauna and hot tub. The boys function best at ninety-four to ninety-six degrees,” I say, gathering up my things.
“Tell me you’re kidding.”
I am kidding, but I give him a shrug, enjoying the rare role reversal. Usually I’m the gullible, confused one. Gabe mumbles something under his breath about me being insane as I head out the door, feeling inexplicably triumphant.
—
ODDLY ENOUGH, DR. Lazarus leaves me a message later that morning, saying that she got my test results and would like for me to call her back at my convenience. I listen to it twice, and although her voice is perfectly neutral, my heart fills with dread and despair. I feel certain that she’s going to give me disastrous news, and can barely keep it together during my ensuing science lesson on the differences between solids, liquids, and gases. The second the school day ends, I call her back, launching right in with “Just give it to me straight. I can’t have a baby, can I? I need to start looking into adoption?”
She pauses for a few horrifying seconds, then laughs and says, “Not at all, Josie. It’s not that dire….”
“Not that dire?” I say.
“It’s not dire at all.”
I blink back tears of relief as she calmly continues. “You’re fine. Just fine. And very healthy.”
“So I can have a baby?”
“Yes. You should be able to have a baby…but your ovarian reserve result, which measures the quantity and quality of your eggs and is a major indicator of fertility, is a bit on the low side for your age.”
“So…I’m more like forty than thirty-eight?”
“Something like that,” she says, with what I can tell is a smile. “It’s nothing to panic about…but at the same time, if this is something you’re really certain about, I don’t think you should wait for very long.”
“Like, how long do I have?” I say.
“It’s not that scientific,” she says. “But if I were you?…”
“Yes?” I say, putting all my faith in her reply. “If you were in my shoes…what would you do?”
“I would start trying immediately,” she says. “As soon as you make your donor decision.”
“Okay,” I tell her, instantly picturing Pete. “I will.”
—
THAT NIGHT, JUST after I’ve given Gabe the update on my ovarian reserve, Pete calls to chat. Although we’ve been talking on the phone fairly regularly, there’s still a little nervous energy when we do. Both of us are working to be witty, as is often the case with new friends, regardless of gender and whether one is considering donating his sperm to the other. About ten minutes into our conversation, he mentions that Gabe called him about going out on Saturday night.
“Oh, yeah…I know it’s last minute. But thirty-eight isn’t a birthday to get too excited about….” I say, thinking that that’s especially true when your eggs are more like forty. “No worries if you have plans…” I try to sound more nonchalant than I feel.
“I’m in,” he quickly says.
I smile and tell him good, I’m glad to hear it.
“I’ve been thinking about what to get you,” he says.
“Oh, you don’t have to get me anything. Your presence is present enough,” I joke. Incidentally, Meredith actually included that line on Harper’s last birthday invitation—which I thought was a little bit pretentious. I mean, puh-lease, just let people get your kid a twenty-dollar gift, already.
“Oh, is it?” Pete asks.
“That…and your sperm,” I add with a laugh.
“Just tell me when and where to make the deposit,” he says.
I know it’s only banter, but I seize the opportunity to tell him about my doctor’s appointment last week. “They call it prenatal consultation,” I say. “It was interesting. I really, really liked the doctor—Susan Lazarus. She was very nice, very smart. Gabe liked her, too, and he’s harder to please….” I bite my lip to halt the babbling, deciding not to tell him about my test results.
“Cool. So are you thinking of using Gabe now?” Pete asks. “For your donor?”
“Oh, God, no. Not at all. Never. He just went for moral support.” I take a deep breath, then add, “I told Dr. Lazarus about you, actually.”
“Oh, you did, did you?” he says, sounding flattered.
“Yeah. I told her that I had an excellent prospect….” My voice trails off, as I wonder how I’m ever going to take this conversation to the next level.
“And?” he asks.
“And…she…listened,” I say with a nervous laugh. “So would you want to meet her?”
“Sure,” he says, without a second of hesitation. “When?”
“At my next appointment?” I say, now sweating. I pick up the brochure that Dr. Lazarus gave me and start fanning myself with it.