Last week, I was sitting in the office of HRC Fertility waiting to see Dr. Potter. I thought to myself, is it a good sign that he has the same last name as one of my favorite young adult literary heroes? Bee Gees played in the background. Also a good sign. At least the music had words. I would have preferred 80's. But if they had played some Smiths, I would have fainted especially if the song "Please Please Let Me Get What I Want" played.
I have abandoned my Riverside fertility clinic in favor of an Orange County one where the birth rates are higher and the office is more plush. I figure if I am going to pay thousands of dollars out of pocket, I should get a second opinion.
My quest for a baby is ongoing. The semantics of the process are getting tiring. More tests and retests. Today I am getting another uterine scan to check out my prospects. Let me warn you reader, at forty plus, fertility is a murky proposition at best.
"Only one out of ten of your own eggs will likely be viable," Doctor Potter told me last week. Doesn't seem too good of odds. Doctor Potter described it as crawling across a desert on your hands and knees. The analogy seemed a bit flawed. Was the desert my eggs or perhaps my uterus and where was the baby? I'll forgive him for the nonsensical comparison because I get what he's saying. It does not look good.
Some days it's all too much to handle. I want to turn back time and start trying in my early thirties. I want my child to be ten and in grade school. I would make sure she had the coolest clothes and we could go to the beach together and snuggle at night.
I finished my first felony trial yesterday and I would describe my mood as peckish. I'm tired. I got up at 4 a.m. to beat the traffic. I am sitting at a tiny coffee shop off of 32nd street in Newport Beach. It's 630 am and my appointment is in two hours. The coffee shop is quaint with small wooden tables and a no cell phone sign. The woman at the counter has a British accent and tells me full breakfast is at seven. "I'll wait," I say.
I get my cappuccino and take a seat. I have a couple books with me but spy a bookcase in the corner. John Irving's "A Prayer for Owen Meany" jumps out at me. I grab it and take it to my table.
The first paragraph of the book talks about how the narrator found God. Owen Meany was the reason. He calls him "a boy with a wrecked voice".
My own faith has been a rocky road. I feel as if my faith is being tested right now. God has gone in and out of my life at various points. I found him or her at UCR then again in the Bay. I lost God when my dad died. Those first couple years after his death were tough ones for me.
I want to have faith right now. To believe. To feel as if my prayers will be answered.
I want to hear God's voice in my ear and in my heart telling me that everything will be all right. That it is all meant to be. But I can't get that image of the desert out of my head. The only voice I hear is the doctor's telling me the odds are not good. I'm struggling to shut it out and to listen for the soft sounds of hope.
Lucinda Williams' voice comes on in the coffee shop and I am soothed somehow. My father's face comes to mind. And how he would always make us breakfast when we were little with the sounds of country music on the stereo. And I think of how hard my mom tried to have my twin sister and I. She lit candles at the church and prayed on it. She didn't give up.
Maybe it is not about the odds. Or maybe I don't know anything at all and I'm just searching for an answer to a question that I haven't yet asked.