Inconceivable! Page 24

  I wiped at the tears that oozed down my temples.

  Prince John and Hatty Search for Answers to Fertility Problem

  By Clarence Watson

  August 3, 2015

  Prince John and Duchess Hatty are taking an extended tour of the United States, but only after reportedly visiting a doctor of Chinese medicine in Toulene for acupuncture treatments.

  “It’s clear the desperation is setting in if they’re looking at alternative therapies to help them get pregnant,” said, Nic Capucine, a longtime observer of the royal family.

  During their visit to the states, the couple will spend a week in Maui, and then attend the wedding of two friends in Iowa. Next, they’ll travel to Missouri where Prince John will spend several weeks in St. Louis meeting with local and state officials to learn about the environmental problems that led to the closure of the lead smelter in Herculaneum, Missouri.

  A press release from the palace about the couple’s visit to America said the prince hopes he can gain insights from Missouri officials as Toulene’s government considers what to do with the smelter near Kortrijk. There are still occasional protests meant to highlight claims that pollution from the facility is causing health problems for local residents.

  Representatives for Prince John and Duchess Hatty had no comment on reports of the couple’s ongoing infertility struggles.

  fter the acupuncturist came to the townhouse we were renting in St Louis, John and I headed to Zia’s. It was a lovely little place on The Hill, a neighborhood renowned for its Italian restaurants. The owner let us have a private room anytime we wanted to dine there.

  When we finished eating, I checked my phone. “It’s time. Do you mind if I do it here at the table?”

  “Of course not,” John said, and he pulled out his phone.

  He was reading a book by Dr. Matt Marche, the man overseeing our IVF cycle. It explained the process in detail. There was a list of the drugs we’d use to suppress my body’s natural cycle so we could accelerate the growth of follicles on my ovaries. The book outlined the surgery I’d have to remove the eggs from the follicles so Dr. Marche could work his petri dish magic. He’d inject John’s sperm directly into each egg. If the eggs and sperm fell in love and stuck together, the doctor would then transfer the resulting embryos from the petri dish to my uterus. All the while, I’d continue injecting myself with the medications that kept my body on track to nurture these little lives. Freaking amazing.

  I removed the “pen” from its case and made sure I had the appropriate dose remaining. I twisted the top and set it on the table. We’d had a private class with a nurse to learn how to do all the injections for the cycle. I pinched the flesh on my abdomen, inserted the needle at the end of the pen, and released the skin. Then, I pushed the top down until it clicked.

  As I removed the thin needle, I looked up and saw John watching me. “I love you more than you’ll ever know.” He reached over and squeezed my hand.

  “If that’s true, then grow a beard.”

  Since we’d been in the states, he’d gone a day here and there without shaving, just long enough to achieve a nice five o’clock shadow. I hadn’t thought it was possible for him to be any sexier until I saw his scruffy face.

  “You know what? With all the stuff you’re doing to your body, growing a beard is the least I can do to be a supportive husband.” He handed me the small round bandage to cover the place where I’d inserted the needle.

  “Are you serious? Don’t tease me. Ozarks girls totally dig beards.”

  “I’m serious. No more shaving until the end of our two-week wait after the embryo transfer.”

  “I’m holding you to it, mister!” I leaned in and kissed his lips. “That’ll feel different when your beard comes in. So sexy. And speaking of beards, I still can’t believe Sam had a beard for their wedding!”

  “Plato grew up in Iowa. Maybe he likes beards too. Have you heard from them since they left for Ethiopia?”

  “Plato sent me a photo of Sam on top of a building. He said they were installing a new roof on an orphanage.”

  “Celebrating their love by showing love to others. It makes perfect sense.” John picked up the needle pen from the table and handed it to me.

  “You know, they want me to come with them to Ethiopia sometime.

  “I certainly wouldn’t want you going there once you’re pregnant. Maybe after Baby King’s a bit older.”

  Before we left the sanctuary of our little room at Zia’s, I opened my large purse and placed the needle in the bright red sharps disposal bin I had to carry with me.

  “I’m glad I caught you before your hot date,” I said into the phone. I was elated that Tilda had finally found someone who made her swoon.

  “Please. We’re literally going for coffee. Boring.” The delight in her voice betrayed her words.

  “Well, I always knew you’d find a man who wasn’t intimidated by your beauty and success.”

  “Okay. Enough talk about me and Kellan. How are things going there?”

  “So far, we’re on track. They had to increase the dosage for my ovary stimulating drugs because my follicles weren’t growing as fast or as big as they wanted. I go back for an ultrasound tomorrow to check for progress.”

  I left out the part about how, during the first two ultrasounds, the technician had failed to find any measurable follicles. Without big follicles, Dr. Marche would cancel the cycle.

  “Did your parents come to St. Louis?”

  “No. We’re planning to visit them after the embryo transfer. I just want to focus on taking care of myself and being with John.”

  “So, have you told him about your conversation with the queen?”

  “Not yet. I just don’t know how to bring it up.”

  “How about we hang up right now, and you walk over to him and say, ‘Hey! Your grandmother says she’s going to order an annulment of our marriage if we can’t get pregnant. What are you going to do about it?’”

  “Like it’s that easy.”

  “It is. Didn’t you learn how to ask tough questions in one of your journalism classes?”

  “Okay, I’ll do it. But only because I can’t stand having the weight of this on me.”

  “And the stress could impact the success of the cycle. I’m going to let you go. We’ll talk again after you’ve got those little babies nesting in your uterus. Love you! Miss you!”

  After I hung up, I walked downstairs. John was running on the treadmill we had set up in the spare bedroom.

  “Can I talk to you?”

  “Of course.” He kept running without slowing down.

  “Okay. Well, before we left Toulene…”

  “Sorry. Could you hand me that towel?”

  I grabbed it from the bed and slung it across the side of the machine.

  “Now what were you going to tell me?” He scrutinized the meters on the treadmill’s control panel as he wiped the sweat from his neck.

  “Never mind. We’ll talk about it later. But let me ask you something else. Would you ever consider adoption?”

  He kept jogging with his eyes on the digital display. “I’ve never considered it because it’s not possible. We have strict laws in Toulene about the line of succession, including a restriction that says only a natural-born son is considered an heir.”

  “But how can you just dismiss the idea? I grew up with a girl who was adopted from China. Her parents also adopted a girl from Korea. They were such a sweet family.”

  “I’m sure they were. And adoption is beautiful but it’s not for us.” He stopped the treadmill, wiped his face, kissed me on the forehead, and walked out of the room.

  John had just raised the stakes for our IVF cycle. I had held adoption in the back of my mind as the ultimate Plan B if we couldn’t get pregnant. Now, that wasn’t even an option. I went to our bedroom upstairs, opened my laptop, and began typing a long post to the women on the infertility discussion boards. I needed to vent.

  “We removed
all three. Dr. Marche’s office has the eggs and your sperm,” Dr. Barnes said to John.

  I kept my eyes closed as I lay on the hospital bed, the perfect set-up for eavesdropping.

  “So, his office will call and tell us what happens next?” John’s voice revealed his stress.

  “That’s right. You know, we were lucky to get three eggs because her ovaries had a surprisingly weak response to the stimulating drugs. If you end up doing another cycle, at least we’ll know to start her on a stronger dose right from the beginning. She should wake up soon, and the nurse will be in to check on her shortly.”

  I heard footsteps as Dr. Barnes left the room. He had done the egg retrieval; Dr. Marche would oversee the petri dish work and then transfer the embryos to my uterus in five days.

  I kept my eyes closed. Three eggs retrieved. Suck it, infertility! I silently thanked God. The ultrasounds leading up to the retrieval revealed three follicles was the best my body could do, even with a high dosage of the follicle stimulating drugs. It was a depressingly low number for a woman my age. Most women in their twenties who do IVF produce eight or more eggs with one IVF cycle. At least, that’s what I’d gleaned from the infertility discussion boards. More eggs meant a better chance of having embryos left over to freeze and use later. I did feel grateful for the three little eggs my body had grown to maturity. It certainly could’ve been worse.

  “Hey. How do you feel?” John asked, walking over to my hospital bed.

  “Sleepy. Happy. He got three, right?”

  “Three little miracles. Dr. Barnes says they’re on their way to Dr. Marche so he can inject the sperm and wait for them to grow into embryos. Hatty, I think we’ve found the answer. I believe it’s going to happen.” He tucked my hair behind my ears.

  “Me too.” I closed my eyes. “Give me my phone, please.” I dialed my mom’s cell phone. She answered immediately.

  “What’s the news?” Anxiety rang in my mom’s voice.

  “Three. They got three eggs.” Happy dance!

  “Oh, hon. That’s wonderful. We’re so excited for you. Do you need anything?” My mom wanted to be right in the middle of our IVF drama, so I appreciated her willingness to keep a respectable distance. I just wanted to keep this low key and low stress.

  “No. We’re fine.”

  “Are you and John still planning to come down here after the embryo transfer?”

  “Yes, as long as there aren’t any hitches. We don’t know how many of those eggs will become embryos. There might not be anything to transfer.” The very thought of failing at this point made me want to hurl. Surely, surely it would work.

  “Hatty, I want to tell you something.”

  I waited and heard her fidgeting.

  “Your dad and I tried to give you a brother or sister.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We tried for years to get pregnant after you were born. But it never happened. My doctor could never figure out the problem. It took us two years to get pregnant with you.”

  “But I thought you guys only wanted one child.” I remembered the conversations we’d had from time to time when I was young. The issue of a sibling came up whenever one of my friends welcomed a new baby sister or brother.

  “It was just easier to explain it that way instead of sharing our heartbreak with you.”

  “So, what does that mean?” Admittedly, I was a little pissed they’d lied to me.

  “It means I understand how you feel. And I’m proud of you and John for pursuing your dream to be parents, even with all the mean things they say about you in the tabloids. It’s a testament to how much you love your child.”

  My free hand reached down to my abdomen; it would soon hold my baby.

  “Thanks, mom. I love you.”

  “I love you too. Call me after the embryo transfer and let me know how it goes. We’ll see you in a few days.”

  The metal stirrups were cold enough to penetrate through my socks, making me shiver.

  Before I could truly ponder the awkwardness of my body’s position, Dr. Marche spoke. “Hatty, I need you to scoot your bottom down to the end of the table.”

  I did as he asked, putting myself in just the right position for the embryo transfer.

  “John, talk to her. Help her relax.” Dr. Marche reached around to the tray behind him.

  “We’re walking down the beach, feeling the water as it runs over our toes.” John spoke soothingly.

  Dr. Marche didn’t believe in using anesthesia for the embryo transfer, preferring the patient to stay awake but completely relaxed. As John kept talking through the guided meditation, Dr. Marche turned back to me with a metal instrument in his hand. It looked like there was a string of spaghetti on the end. I knew it held the three embryos, three little spheres of potential life. They’d outgrown their petri dish and needed a home. I could give them one.

  In a matter of a few more moments, Dr. Marche was done. “It was flawless, Hatty. Let me help you up.”

  With him and John on each side of me, I removed my feet from the stirrups and stood. They helped me to the recovery room next door where I was allowed to lie down for a few minutes.

  “Stay here as long as you wish, but there’s no medical need to rest. You’re free to go whenever you feel ready.”

  “And what about sex?” John asked.

  “I’d recommend waiting five days. You’re good to resume normal sexual activity after that.”

  Before Dr. Marche left the room, I said, “Thank you. Thank you, so much.”

  “You’re most welcome.”

  When he was gone, John whispered. “Normal sexual activity, huh? I wonder what he considers abnormal sexual activity?” I laughed and appreciated John’s ability to interject some levity into the moment. The hard part was behind us.

  I closed my eyes and imagined the embryos floating inside my uterus and willed them to find a soft, welcoming spot to land. There was only a one percent chance all three would survive, but I sometimes imagined life with triplets. It would be like a starving person devouring a large pizza in one sitting: overwhelming and divine.

  he Fairfield Dairy here in Nixa made an ice cream flavor in honor of your visit: Chocolate Royale! And we’re going to serve it for dessert.” The pastor of my parents’ church boomed into the microphone.

  The fifty people gathered in the fellowship hall cheered and laughed at his announcement.

  After the embryo transfer, John had three days of smelter-related meetings in St. Louis. Then, we’d boarded a chartered plane and flew to Springfield with Astrid and our guards in tow. My parents met us in the General Aviation lobby and drove us to their house in Nixa. To wrap up our visit, we were about to enjoy Sunday lunch with some church folks.

  “Hatty, John. Before we eat, I’d like to say a blessing over you.”

  I nodded. This was par for the course in my corner of Missouri.

  “Heavenly Father, thank you for bringing Hatty and John here to us. And we thank you for Hatty’s precious parents who raised such a God-fearing daughter. We thank you for the leadership you’ve entrusted to John and Hatty, and ask that you give them both wisdom as they guide their country in a way that honors and glorifies you. Now, bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies and bless the hands that prepared it. Amen.”

  I doubted John had ever been the object of this kind of prayer. He grinned and looked appreciative, even though this form of religion was completely foreign to him. We sat at a table with my parents, three members of the United Methodist Women’s group, and Nixa’s mayor.

  “Hatty, you’re positively glowing. Married life agrees with you, sweetie.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hammond. I’m very happy.”

  “Don’t worry about getting pregnant. I know it’ll happen in the Lord’s time.”

  Is it the Lord’s time for me to crawl under the table to escape this conversation, Mrs. Hammond? “Yes. Thank you. We’re just trying to be patient.”

  I reached under the table and
squeezed John’s leg.

  “What are we having for lunch? I hear you ladies are wonderful cooks.” He knew how to redirect conversations like a pro.

  “Well, it’s a chicken casserole Mildred makes only on very special occasions.” Mrs. Hammond gave a little nod to Mildred Hagler who sat beside my mom.

  “It sounds delicious,” John said with a smile. I was fairly certain he’d never tasted a casserole in his life.

  “Well, John, were your meetings in St. Louis productive?” I didn’t know Mayor Jim Swafford, but my parents disliked him. How obnoxious of him to ask about such a sensitive issue.

  “Yes, they were. Thank you for asking.”

  We listened as the mayor droned on about the importance of protecting watersheds, an issue near and dear to his heart, he said, as long as it didn’t impinge on the city’s budget priorities. I quieted my desire to put on my reporter’s hat and call out the contradictions in what he said.

  After lunch, I lost track of how many dead-fish handshakes I endured; it didn’t bother me in the slightest because each person at the church loved my family. John had multiple lipstick prints on his cheeks.

  When we were outside the church with my parents, I handed John a tissue. “Here. The ladies of Nixa United Methodist Church marked you.”

  “They’re lovely.”

  “They’re my people. This is where I’m from. Now you know why I’m so direct. People here don’t pussyfoot around sensitive issues.”

  “Did you just say ‘pussyfoot?’” He gave me a wicked smile.

  “Oh, no. Look at the time. We need to head out,” I said, not wanting my parents to hear John mistakenly imply the word “pussyfoot” had something to do with sex. Très embarrassing.

  “I can’t believe you have to go back to Toulene already! Four days isn’t enough time.” Mom embraced me.

  “I know. But you guys can come this fall or for Christmas. You can help me decorate the nursery.” My hand dropped to my lower abdomen. “Just a week and a half until we find out if it worked.”