“I never could have imagined that we would be doing this.” My husband said, shaking his head as he tied the last string on my hospital gown.
I perched nervously on my unforgiving hospital bed, wondering how long I could hold out before putting on the awful hair net trembling in my hands.
Two years of charting and needles and specialists and procedures and waiting and disappointment and this was our last chance.
I had spent months preparing. I had agonized over timing, breathed through the daily barrage of needles and stalked my nurse for constant reassurance. All we could do now was hope our last try brought our happy ending.
My rigid mattress fought against my need to relax as I welcomed the nurse, her shiny tray of morphine glistening, the only element that had a chance at quieting my raging nerves.
We talked about nothing and everything to pass the time. My husband, offering up plans for our landscaping and a restaurant he thought we should visit to distract me, I, bringing the conversation back, over and over again, to the road we were, hopefully, embarking on.
Slowly, the edges of my nerves began to soften, comfort began seeping in and I debated donning my hair net. I relaxed back into my filmy sheets and pulled the heavy warmth of the blankets at my feet up over my shaking legs.
We heard the rumblings of foreign conversation in the room next to us and launched into stories of shock and disbelief at our outcome if there were a mix up that day. Clearly my morphine had taken effect.
A doctor entered, covered in surgical garb, his face barely visible under the mint green mask. This small figure was not my doctor. The tall, brooding man whose expertise I had entrusted our future in was “unable to make it in today,” the unfamiliar voice explained, unapologetically to our expectant faces. He had “reviewed my charts” and would carry out everything just as we had previously discussed. There I sat, prepped physically and emotionally for this day. There was no turning back.
“There is just one thing I want to talk to you about,” this new figure in our room began, “you had agreed on the transfer of two embryos, is that correct?” I nodded, wide-eyed, as he continued, “I think it is best we implant three today.” He paused, looking down at his chart that had defined my life for the past two years and hopefully the next nine months, “I believe three will ensure success.”
Before my sane, unmedicated, clear-thinking husband could utter a reasonable word I spoke up,
years of disappointment and desperation for a baby, mixed fiercely with the morphine running deeply through my veins.
Yes, we will implant three, I told him, with the glazed over smile of a woman full of hormones and pain medicine and want.
Then the whole world shifted.
This post was written in response to the Red Dress Club prompt:
Write a piece that begins with the line, “I could never have imagined” and ends with the line, “Then the whole world shifted.”
Bring on the critiques, I’m ready this week…
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