Finding Bliss (16 page)

“We have a bed, Mom,” Tyler said without looking up from his plate.

“Vereh well, but you can’t be sittin’ on that old davenport in the family room. I saw one with the most gorgeous floral print that I’ll have sent over next Thursday. A proper floral print will look perfect under your front window.”

I kicked Tyler on the shin under the table, but he said nothing. Grace’s mom, Sydney, looked at me with wide eyes like she was finally starting to understand what I’d been telling her about Dixie Reed all these years.

“That’s very generous of you, but not neces—” I started to say.

“And I’ve ordered you a subscription to
Southern Living
magazine,” Mrs. Reed interjected before delicately patting her mouth
with the linen napkin. “Tylah, dear, did you hear that Sadie recently married and moved into the most elegant three-story colonial up in Lake Forest? Her whole front drive is lined with magnolia trees. You’re not too far from each other now.”

“Excuse me,” I said and pushed my chair away from the table. “I’m going to get dessert ready.”

Grace followed and found me tossing things into the kitchen sink. She placed a hand on my shoulder. “She’s awful; don’t let her get to you.”

I turned to face her. “Seriously, Grace, have you ever seen someone behave that way? And I don’t know if Tyler is oblivious to it or if he just doesn’t give a shit, but he should be defending me in there.”

“I’m sure he’s just used to the way she is, and has trained himself to ignore anything and everything that comes out of her mouth.”

“I literally drove forty minutes out of my way to pick up Dr. Reed’s favorite lemon tart. I’m just waiting for her to announce that she read an article in
Newsweek
about how citrus fruits are loaded with pore-clogging toxins.”

“Shhh.” Grace laughed. “Do as Tyler does, and just ignore her.”

I sighed and returned to the table with some more bread.

Despite what Dixie Reed thought of the house, I loved it more than anything in the world. It represented so much to me: everything I’d worked for, time I’d sacrificed away from Tyler, a sense of normalcy. It was a place unlike anything I’d ever dared to imagine for myself, and would eventually hold everything that was precious to me. The layout was open and warm. The doorbell chimed instead of buzzed. There was even a wraparound porch and swing set in the backyard that we had asked the previous owners to leave behind when we purchased the home. All it needed was a baby.

But a year later, those swings were still empty.

T
yler and I began our quest for a child like everyone else. As soon as we were married, I went off the pill, and we had sex. Lots of it. We were newlyweds, still eager to grope each other in cabs and French-kiss at restaurants. And having spent the last few years doing everything I could to
prevent
myself from getting pregnant, I figured it would happen as soon as I threw out the birth control. I mean, my mother had spent an entire decade of my youth telling me how easily it could happen and how to avoid it; surely once I was unprotected, I would get pregnant with little or no effort.

Not so much.

For a while I was content to be busy with work, and convinced myself that it would happen when it happened. But once we’d moved into our new home, I became more and more anxious. That swing set became a daily reminder of my childless state, and I was fielding relentless questions from people asking when Tyler and I were starting a family. I spent hours online reading blogs and seeking advice from other women experiencing their own tribulations with infertility. I equally stalked and avoided friends on Facebook, amazed at how many of them were either pregnant or had just given birth. Newborns and pregnant women were suddenly popping up all around me and taunting me at every turn. Pointing at me and playing on my insecurities and fears like school-yard bullies.

And then Grace announced she was pregnant, further exacerbating my self-pity. I had never noticed how many pregnant women there were before. Worse was when women would complain about being pregnant. One day I was in the ladies’ room at work, and the receptionist from the third floor waddled in and chatted me up as I was washing my hands.

“Ugh.” She sighed. “If I have to pee one more time this morning, I’m going to scream.”

I pursed my lips into a half smile.

“And my ankles are killing me; I can hardly walk.”

I grabbed a white trifold paper towel from the dispenser and dried my hands. “I’m sure it’ll all be worth it.”

“Yeah right; soon I’ll have three brats refusing to listen to me!” She laughed heartily.

I walked out of that bathroom without a word and into the one just below it on the second floor. I sat in a stall and cried. I hated feeling sorry for myself, and I hated being jealous even more. I had spent my entire life accepting the hand I’d been dealt, and teaching myself the skills that were necessary to change things. But there I was, given a situation that I couldn’t study for, negotiate with, or purchase. Tyler would do his best to try to convince me to be patient. To remind me that it would happen for us when the time was right, but he wasn’t nearly as anxious as I was.

So after five months of officially “trying” and being disappointed every time my period arrived—much like a surprise visit from my mother-in-law—I sought help from my gynecologist.

“I have a what?” I asked Dr. Leonard.

“You have a uterine abnormality,” he told me. “It’s quite common really, and varies among women. Yours is shaped more like a T than the typical pear shape.”

I shook my head. His words were clearly spoken, but made little sense to me. All I heard was: “In addition to your size-ten shoes, you have a strange uterus. Basically, you’re kind of freakish. You’re abnormal. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.”

“What exactly does a T-shaped uterus mean? Is that why I’m having so much trouble getting pregnant?” I asked him. “Will I be able to get pregnant?”

“Generally speaking, uterine abnormalities don’t affect your ability to become pregnant and give birth. However, it may be more difficult for you to carry your baby for the full nine months of pregnancy. It’s really hard to say at this point.”

I pondered his explanation, but couldn’t worry about carrying a child before I actually conceived one.

“This is going to sound stupid, but is there anything else I should be doing to get pregnant other than having sex?” I asked.

He smiled at me and my T-shaped uterus.

“I’ve tried using ovulation kits once or twice, and lying with my feet elevated after sex,” I continued. Little did he know I’d nearly perfected my post-intercourse headstand.

“You can always try artificial insemination if you’re feeling discouraged.”

And with that suggestion, our mission began—and our fun newlywed sex ended.

Over the course of a year, Tyler and I tried four artificial inseminations, during which time I became addicted to pregnancy kits. My doctor had warned me not to use them, insisting that the results would be skewed, but I was obsessed. The insemination process consisted of me sitting on the examination table waiting for José, the lab technician, to roll in the ultrasound machine, which was basically a dildo with a camera. By law, José was not allowed to insert it inside of me, so I was left to do the task myself…with José
cheering me on. Once the wand was in position, my body would tense up like a cat being forced to wear a sweater. I became immobile and frozen, unable to move or breathe comfortably, just praying the whole thing would end quickly. Pride had become a distant memory…as had fun newlywed sex. Even as a young girl I had always been modest, never one to flaunt my cleavage or wear short skirts to accentuate my long legs. Yet, there I was at the ripe old age of twenty-nine with my legs spread and my crotch on display for anyone with a white lab coat.

Once the condom-covered magic wand was inside me, José would begin his hunt through my ovaries, looking for those golden eggs. He needed to confirm I was producing enough, and that they were big enough to do the job. After confirming my eggs were good to go, the technician would get them gussied up for their date with Tyler’s sperm.

That same day, Tyler would also have had to go to the clinic and leave his “deposit.” As embarrassing as the procedures I had to endure were, I’m not sure there’s anything more humiliating for a man than walking past a crowd of people and into a room to leave a sperm sample.

“Good luck, honey!” I’d say, giving him a thumbs-up.

“I hope this kid appreciates my hard work,” Tyler would joke.

“We’ll make sure they know how much effort went into their conception.”

“Maybe we should leave the porn out of it,” he said.

“Agreed.”

Once Tyler did his job, a nurse would take Tyler’s sperm, wash them in the spin cycle, give them each a spritz of cologne and a tequila shot, and then load them into the turkey baster that would eventually be inserted into my waiting vagina. So this was how babies were made. After Tyler’s sperm were inside me, the nurses
would instruct us to have sex the next day in case there were any drunk, lazy sperm that didn’t feel like cooperating. After each insemination, I bought pregnancy kits by the cartonful, and had them hidden everywhere in the house. I was willing to pee on anything that would give me the results I was looking for.

My moods swung wildly, but the one thing I could count on was getting my period each month—and losing hope every time. During this time, Grace gave birth to a beautiful little girl named Francesca. I planned her baby shower and hosted it at my home. While she sat and opened gifts, my heart broke with every little bib and pink layette she held up in the air for a picture. Grace and I had always talked about starting a playgroup and how our kids would be best friends, just like we were. Only, by then I was a year behind.

Although Tyler and I had both been tested for every possible thing that might be preventing us from having a child, the doctors had found nothing concrete and simply labeled our problem as unknown. He was as supportive as he could be, but I knew it frustrated him to see me upset and have his manhood questioned. And while he’d told me repeatedly that he was fine with all of the doctors’ visits and procedures, I would occasionally catch him sighing and rolling his eyes when I’d mention some new test we had to endure. There was really no way to sugarcoat the fact that he had to masturbate in the doctor’s office while everyone outside knew what he was doing. So aware that they were basically waiting to greet him as he exited the room, semen sample in hand. He and I had laughed about it at first, and he’d tried so hard to pretend it wasn’t humiliating. Early on, we even made up a few nicknames for his sperm sample, such as Tea Time with Tyler and A Few Good Men, but those had long
since been forgotten. Our sense of humor had started to fade by failed attempt number four.

“Good luck, honey!” I’d say, and Tyler would walk past me with no retort.

Alas, none of the inseminations worked, and we were told that in vitro fertilization or adoption would be our only options.

K
imberly James is on line two,” my assistant Rachel’s voice rang through the intercom. “She says it’s urgent.”

I placed my coffee down and glanced at the clock; it was a quarter after seven in the morning. What urgency could this woman possibly have at this hour? “Put her through, and send Robert in here, please,” I said as I reached for line two. “This is Chloe,” I answered.

“We need to go back to court!” Kimberly James shouted. “He dropped the kids off last night, and they were a wreck, an absolute disaster. Lukey had dirty socks and wet feet, and Lila had ketchup in her hair!” She paused, waiting for my appalled reaction, which never came. “Chloe, did you hear me? I want you to file a motion to modify his visitation today.”

Being a divorce lawyer had its perks, and sharing your morning coffee with a lunatic was one of them. I took one of the many deep breaths I would take that day and answered her calmly. “I’m not going to file a motion to modify or terminate visitation just because your kids came home with dirty socks. And the reason I’m not going to do that, Kimberly, is because in order to do that you have to prove to the court serious endangerment or a substantial change in circumstances, not to mention this phone call alone has already cost you two hundred and fifty dollars. Filing a motion to go to court over this and have his visitation modified will cost you
an additional twenty-five hundred dollars. Enough money to purchase new socks for the remainder of both their lifetimes, thereby never having to wash another pair.”

“Put Robert on the phone,” she demanded.

“Robert is my paralegal. He takes orders from me, not my clients.”

Kimberly James hung up on me that morning, but it wasn’t the first or last time. A minute later, Robert walked into my office carrying three file folders and two doughnuts.

I sipped my coffee with one hand and rubbed my temples with the other. “Please remove one of those doughnuts from this office, whichever one you’re not eating,” I said. “I have to be at the fertility clinic at nine, so can you file the
Anderson
motion at the courthouse this morning?”

“Sure,” he said. “Everything okay?”

“We’re starting our IVF process. I may need to have some blood taken and an ultrasound to examine my follicles, to see how many eggs I’m producing and how big they are. I’m not sure; it’s our first consult. Glad you asked?”

Robert tossed his half-eaten doughnut in the garbage. “I’m full,” he said.

I playfully flung a binder clip at him. “Just file the
Anderson
petition and see if you can chat up their lawyer about settling. I need some feelers put out there to gauge how serious his wife is about keeping the house. Also, do not take any calls from Kimberly James this week. I’ll handle her.”

“Okay, boss, good luck with those eggs today.” He smiled. “Time to get cracking,” he said before sauntering out.

I went back to rubbing my temples and checking e-mails when I heard Rachel’s voice again. “Tyler is on line one.”