“Why?”
“I’m feeling really insecure in my manhood. Have you seen the size of that thing?” He nods at the ginormous strangely penile probe in Dr. Ingraham’s hand. “That’s gotta be an XXL Trojan at the very least.”
I can’t help it, I laugh, and then cover my mouth with my hand and try to hold it in. Josh smiles at me, and suddenly, this moment isn’t nearly half as awkward as it could be.
Dr. Ingraham starts the ultrasound and describes everything he sees in detail.
“This is your uterus, it tips forward. See that? Some uteruses tip backward. Hmm. Your lining looks appropriate for where you are in your menstrual cycle. That’s good. I don’t see any fibroids or problems with the uterus muscle.”
I look at the screen and then back at Josh. He’s watching me, avoiding looking down at the ultrasound end of the room. When he sees me turned toward him he smiles and winks.
Dr. Ingraham continues. “Over here is your ovary. These little black circles are follicles, the special cysts that contain eggs. I can count them...let’s see, twelve. Good. That’s in the range I’d expect. This area here is a cyst which looks like endometriosis....”
He keeps talking as he probes around, describing everything. There’s my ovaries. My uterus. Some follicles. Evidence of endometriosis.
Every now and then I sneak a glance at Josh. For the whole ultrasound he keeps his face turned toward mine. Which, you know, for Josh, really is kind of sweet.
Finally, Dr. Ingraham, pulls the ultrasound probe and the catheter out.
“That’s that. Everything looks good. Your swimming pool is ready for a swimmer. We can start IVF at the beginning of your next cycle. That’s depending on the quality of sperm, of course.” He turns to Josh. “It all depends on you, champ.”
It’s my turn to look at Josh and give him a reassuring smile.
I sit in the lobby while I wait for Josh to finish up in “The Production Room.”
I cross and uncross my legs, shifting impatiently as I glance at the clock. What’s taking so long? He’s been back there at least fifteen minutes.
After the ultrasound, Dr. Ingraham ran over my bloodwork and urine. Everything looked good, my AMH, my thyroid, my STD tests, everything was normal. Josh had his blood taken for STDs and then a nurse with a pixie cut and sequined glasses led him away to produce a sample.
I glance at the clock. That was seventeen minutes ago.
Two couples have been called to the back.
There are only three other couples left in the room and a woman sitting by herself in the corner. She has a magazine held in front of her, and she’s wearing a wig, a baseball hat and huge sunglasses. In New York City, the only thing that can mean is she’s either a fugitive from justice, or she’s anywhere from mildly to wildly famous and doesn’t want to be spotted by the autograph-seeking masses around her.
I try to ignore everyone. I tap my foot and stare at the big Georgia O’Keeffe painting on the far wall.
When I’ve nearly decided that the painting is one hundred percent definitely a flower, not part of the female anatomy like I thought last time, my phone buzzes.
I open my purse and look at the screen.
It’s a text from Josh.
Josh: I’m in the production room.
I stare at the phone, mystified as to what I’m supposed to say to that.
Gemma: Okay?
Josh texts a picture. It’s of a room. I’m guessing it’s “The Production Room.” Unfortunately, it’s also the saddest, most depressing-looking room I’ve ever seen. It’s about six foot by four foot. The walls are stark white and the floor is old gray tile. There’s one of those wall collection metal shelves for the sample jar, a tissue dispenser in the wall, a garbage can, and printed instructions taped to the wall. That’s it. No color, no decoration, no dirty magazines, no flat screen TV playing porn to get a guy in the mood. Nothing.
I text Josh back.
Gemma: Is that the production room?
Josh: Yeah…
I wait. Josh is typing another message.
When it comes through I stare at my phone in surprise.
Josh: It’s not working.
I look around the waiting room, and I’m sort of surprised that no one is staring at me in shock. Did Josh Lewenthal just tell me that he can’t produce a sample?
The news plays on a muted TV near the scheduling desk. All the other couples are either watching it, looking at their phones, or reading a magazine. No one is paying me any attention. I quickly type back.
Gemma: What’s not working?
Josh: It’s a lot of pressure. I need some inspiration. This room sucks.
I blow out a breath.
I mean, I get what he’s saying. It would be hard to get in the mood in a room that looks like a Russian prison cell. The tissue is for you to weep into.
I shift back into my chair and try to think of a solution. Ah, got it.
Gemma: Look up porn on your phone.
I blush and pull at the winter scarf around my neck. I can’t believe I just wrote that.
Josh: I can’t believe you just wrote that.
Ha. I write him back.
Gemma: Well?
Josh: It’s not working. Send me a pic of some skin.
Excuse me? Did he just ask me to send him a dirty picture? Of myself?
Gemma: No way.
Josh: Come on. I need help.
I close my eyes. Fine. If you want something bad enough, you’ll do whatever it takes to get it, even text dirty pics to “The Production Room.”
I stand up and stride to the desk.
“Can I have the key to the bathroom please?”
The same scheduler that was completely disinterested in me last week tosses the key at me.
“Thanks,” I mumble, terrified that she somehow has mind-reading powers and knows exactly what I’m about to do.
I shut the bathroom door behind me. Surprisingly, the bathroom’s really clean. They must’ve actually sent someone over to clean it after Dr. Ingraham called. Huh.
My phone buzzes again.
Josh: They’re knocking on the door, Gemma. The pressure is a bit much here. Skin?
I snort. Then I try to think of the least embarrassing place I can take a picture of that may elicit some sort of reaction.