But it’s been ten years. And unlike when I was sixteen and I dreaded what might come after Josh Lewenthal took my virginity…now at thirty-two, I want a family, a baby. Someone to cuddle, to go on bike rides with, to kiss bruised knees, to lie in the grass and look at clouds with, someone to love. I’ve been wanting it for years now.
I’d been waiting to find the right man. But unlike the carefree, I’ve-got-all-the-time-in-the-world dating scenes of my early twenties, or even the post-divorce dating app-fueled manic weekend hookups of my mid-twenties, my thirties have brought…Morts. I’ve seen it all. Men who are married and hiding it, men on their third divorce, men who live in their mom’s basement, men in their fifties having a midlife crisis who want to date a younger woman. All Morts.
I’ve been waiting for a good man to help make my dreams come true.
But, at that moment, I realized my dream doesn’t have to include marriage. Or a man.
Single women have babies all the time. I don’t need a fifty-year-old toupee-wearing man to have a future of happiness. I can make a future of happiness for myself.
Maybe, I can have a family. Maybe I can finish singing that lullaby.
I just need an egg, some sperm, and a doctor to help make the magic happen.
I can control my own destiny.
My mom wasn’t finished talking. “Josh Lewenthal will be at the party,” she said. “Did you know he has his own business? He draws web comics. Isn’t that strange? He’s moved back in with his dad. He’s living in the basement. The poor dear. Coming from a broken home. Be nice to him. You weren’t nice to him last year.”
“Okay, of course, Mr. Berners-Lee. Thanks for calling, I’ll talk to you soon,” I said, attempting to cut my mom short.
My mom sighed. “Bye, sweetie. See you in a few days. Wear something nice.”
I swiveled around and hung up the phone. Lavinia watched me from her desk. Her glasses were perched at the bottom of her nose. “Who was that?”
“Mr. Berners-Lee. About our SEO.” I grabbed my mouse and clicked it haphazardly.
“Mr. Berners-Lee?” she asked, sounding incredulous.
I looked around the office. No one else was paying any attention.
“That’s right,” I said. “He had some pointers.”
“Tim Berners-Lee had some pointers for you?”
“Yup.” I said. “Nice guy.”
“Tim Berners-Lee? The creator of the internet called to give you some pointers?”
Ugh. That’s why his name sounded familiar, I’d just been reading a motivational article about him. “Yup. If you can imagine it, you can do it.”
Lavinia rolled her eyes and turned away. Over her shoulder she said, “I never realized he would sound so much like a middle-aged woman.”
Across the office, one of the database techies snorted into his hand.
Oh well.
Nothing to say to that.
Besides, I had a goal now.
I clicked on my computer, searched the web and found a reproductive endocrinologist, an infertility doctor, only a few blocks from the office. I booked an appointment online for the next day.
The walls of the doctor’s office were plastered with thousands of baby photos and a sign that said ten thousand babies and counting. In case anyone was confused, this is a place where they make babies. It was a sleek, loft-style brick walled office with a large Georgia O’Keefe reproduction that either depicted a flower, an apricot or the female anatomy. Since I was in a baby making office, I’d go with the third guess.
The nurse on the phone told me to drink lots of water and not go pee before I arrived. Apparently, they needed a sample. So, I took her advice and on the way to my appointment I bought a large latte and a bottle of water and proceeded to chug both in five minutes flat.
Dr. Ingraham, the doctor I had my consult with, was not at all what I expected. After the modern loft décor of the lobby, I expected a trendy nerd kind of guy. Instead, Dr. Ingraham was five foot two, as round as he was wide, and bald. His office looked like an episode of one of those exposé hoarder shows. He sat at his desk barely visible behind stacks of papers, journals, cardboard boxes, and piles of plastic anatomy models—penises, uteruses, eggs, sperm, and more were all tossed about on his crowded desktop.
“How are you? How are you?” he asked. He pumped my hand from across the desk. Then, “What a stupid question. You’re infertile, that’s how you are. Well don’t worry, we’ll get you pregnant in no time. Would you like some water?”
“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?”