Chapter Seven
September arrived—marking the one-year anniversary since Wes and I had started trying to have a baby—and with it came my “monthly bill.”
By this time, I had accepted the fact that fate was not simply going to hand me a golden ticket to motherhood right out of the gate, and despite my efforts to follow Angie’s advice and not put stress on my marriage, our love life had taken a bit of a hit. Sex was no longer something we did to express our love for each other when we were in the mood. It had become an obligation. Sometimes even a chore.
Often, I would lay awake at night staring into the future, fearing that five more years would pass, and we would still be without children. I imagined myself continuing to take my temperature each month, forcing Wes into the bedroom at the right time, even when neither of us felt like it.
Surely if this continued, romance between us would no longer exist as we once knew it, and I didn’t want that to happen.
To my credit, I made every effort not to behave in a clinical or hurried fashion when I knew I was ovulating. I lit candles and I wore sexy nighties, but it wasn’t easy to be playful when fear was starting to take hold—fear that it might not ever happen for us.
I wish I could say that I was able to be patient, like Wes, and that I truly believed in my heart that it would happen when the time was right. But I didn’t believe it. In fact, as the weeks passed, I felt more and more certain that something was terribly wrong, even though I had no proof.
Nevertheless, I couldn’t help working myself up into a state of hopeful anticipation each month, which only made everything worse. I told myself: Surely the magic has happened at last and I’ll finally be able to share the happy news that I’m in the family way.
My fantasies were elaborate.
“Do you want to know if it’s a boy or a girl?” my mother would ask.
“No, we want it to be a surprise,” I would reply.
Wes’s parents would hug me, and George would pat Wes on the back and say, “Well done, Wes. Congratulations. You’ve made us both very happy.”
There would be baby showers and books to read about baby care, Lamaze classes and prenatal vitamins, and morning sickness that I would never resent, not for a single moment. I wanted to feel sick. I daydreamed about how I would have to excuse myself from the classroom to rush to the washroom and find a toilet.
How crazy is that? Fantasizing about throwing up!
And I couldn’t wait to gain weight and look at myself in the mirror and plan how I would lose it later. I would join one of those outdoor “new mommy” exercise classes with other young mothers, where we would meet in the park with our strollers, find a shady spot under some trees, and do squats and sit-ups while our babies watched from the cute flannel blankets we spread out on the grass.
I saw those mothers sometimes, when I was out for a run by myself on the weekends. I tried not to stare at them, but it wasn’t easy. I wanted so badly to be among them.
Sometimes I closed my eyes and imagined myself cradling my sweet baby in my arms, rocking her back to sleep in the nursery after rising from bed in the middle of the night to change her diaper and feed her.
I shouldn’t have let myself indulge in those fantasies. Angie told me not to because she said they would raise me to a very high place from which to fall each month.
Looking back on it, she was right about that. I wish I could have been less hopeful and less inclined to daydream. Maybe then, I might have been more aware of what was happening around me—and the fact that something was about to come down on my marriage like a sledgehammer.
Although, the blame can’t be entirely laid at my feet. What happened was shocking and unbelievable. I don’t think any normal person would have seen it coming.
* * *
“Well…” I said to Wes on our third anniversary, which we spent at home that year to save money. “It’s been a whole year and we’re still trying. Do you think it’s time we go and see someone? Because I’d like to know if we’re just spinning our wheels. Maybe we need some help.”
It had been a number of weeks since I’d brought up the pregnancy issue with Wes. When my period started each month, I cried privately and quietly in the bathroom. Or I talked to Angie, who always understood, because she was going through the same thing. I did not make a point of announcing to Wes that we had failed. Again and again.
Wes didn’t need me to tell him. He knew. He also understood that asking me about it would only rub salt in the wound. And of course he knew that I would tell him immediately if there was something good to report.
“Yes,” he said at last. “I think it’s time. Why don’t you make the appointment.” He reached across the breakfast table and squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry, babe. I’m sure we just need to keep trying, but if you want me to get tested to make sure I’m not shooting blanks, I’m totally willing to do that.”
“It might not be you,” I said. “It could be me.”
He lowered his gaze to his plate of scrambled eggs and poked at it with his fork. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.” He said nothing for a moment or two, then his eyes lifted. “And let’s not obsess about whether it’s you or me. We’re a team and we’re in this together.”
I felt a surge of relief—that he was willing to explore what might be wrong. I loved that we were about to become pro-active, because the last thing I wanted was to continue to feel so powerless—as if the possibility of having a child was completely out of our hands. Surely there were things we could do to increase our chances of making it happen. Surely it wasn’t all up to fate?
On top of that, if there was something wrong with one of us, medically, we needed to get help and not waste time, because I wasn’t getting any younger. I hated to say it—it sounded so cliché—but I could feel the clock starting to tick, and it made me nervous. Maybe even a little frantic.
Thank God I had Angie to talk to. She was the only person who really understood.