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.
That’s the moment when Josh Lewenthal came into the picture, even though I didn’t know it yet.
All because I really, really needed to pee.
Minutes later, I felt sweet, sweet relief as I peed into a cup. Then I gave some blood so the lab could run their tests. Finally, I went to the front desk to make my next appointment. And when the scheduling person asked the name of my partner in a bored, couldn’t-care-less tone, I started to explain that I didn’t really have a partner, that I would have to use a donor.
She pointed to a flyer on the desk called Anonymous Donor Sperm and You.
And it’s like Ian says, sometimes you can feel fate steering you, because when I saw the flier and the smiling stranger with little illustrated sperm floating around him, I said, “I mean, actually, I do have a partner. Probably. Have one. Yup.”
The scheduler rolled her eyes. “What’s your partner’s name?”
At her prompting, a name popped into my head. My mom had just mentioned him, he was living in his dad’s basement, writing web comics, thirty-three years old, no marriage, no girlfriend, no kids, not much of a future really. Probably he’d be happy to help. He was my brother’s best friend, sort of like family, at least the kind of family that sleeps on your couch and eats all the food in your fridge. It’s almost like I’d be doing him a favor.
The scheduler sighed as I took long, long seconds to consider what I was about to do. Would I? Could I? Should I?
Yes.
I did it.
I lied.
“His name is Josh Lewenthal.”
3
Here I am again. Standing in front of my parents’ house for their thirty-fifth annual Wieners and Wine New Year’s Resolution party. The cold wind bites my cheeks and blows snowflakes past. I pull my wool coat tight and look up at the white colonial still trimmed in Christmas lights and pine-scented garland.
Josh will be here, just like he has been for the past ten years. My mom likes to invite him to all our family events since “the poor dear comes from a broken home.” She’s long forgotten that she warned me to stay away from him.
I swing open the door and take in the familiar smell of the New Year’s buffet and the happy noises of family and friends congregating.
“Auntie Gemma!” My nieces and nephew, Sasha, Maemie, Mary and Colin, or “the four horsemen of the apocalypse,” as I affectionately call them, race up to me as soon as I step inside. The girls shriek and dance around me.