A “missed miscarriage,” that was what they called it. A missed miscarriage. The phrase swirled in Kate’s mind as she lay on the gurney in Emergency, too numb to talk or move, even to cry. Her baby had died nearly two weeks earlier—they could tell from the size—but her body had held on to it, almost as if her mind had forbidden her cervix to open. But as it turned out, the mind could only do so much. Finally her cervix couldn’t hold on any more and all remaining traces of her baby had flushed out.
The funny thing about being pregnant, Kate thought, was that you were never ever alone. There was no other time in your life like it. Sure, if you had a toddler, you might feel like you were never alone, but there were always little pockets of time. When you went to check the mailbox. When you nipped to the store for milk. When your husband gave the little one a bath. But when you were pregnant, wherever you were your baby was too. Even if you were by yourself, they were with you.
Until they weren’t.
Emergency had been bustling when she’d arrived. Kate hadn’t known the doctor, and for that she was grateful. Some might have felt comforted by a familiar face, but Kate wasn’t one of them. Familiar faces were great for good news, but for bad she’d always found comfort in the unassuming stranger.
Having been through this twice before, Kate knew the drill. And yet, like a fool, she’d allowed herself to hope. There hadn’t been that much blood, the cramps hadn’t been that bad. As the doctor did his thing with the ultrasound she squinted at the screen waiting for a tiny heartbeat to come into view. But of course there was no heartbeat. David, she noticed, didn’t look. Inexplicably, it enraged her. Perhaps it was because it made her feel foolish, looking when it was so painfully obvious nothing would be there?
The doctor said they could stay as long as they wanted. They always said that. Kate herself had said it to patients, though she was always surprised when they did stay. Wouldn’t they rather be home? Now, suddenly, Kate understood. Cancer or miscarriage, as soon as they walked out the door it was the end of a chapter of their life.
“Katie,” David said. Kate rolled to face him, but he had nothing else to say. It might have been the light, but his face seemed an odd gray color. She observed the contours of his face as though they were individual, separate entities rather than part of a whole man.
“What’s wrong with me?” she whispered.
David smile was anguished. He didn’t try to respond. Probably because she knew the answer.
Unexplained infertility.
She’d assumed, at first, that the issue was David’s—a fair assumption, given that when they’d met David was being treated for testicular cancer. With Hilary on his arm, supporting him through treatment, Kate had been taken aback by the way he looked at her during appointments. He had seemed like such a family man—a handsome family man. It was Hilary who explained the situation, one day, while David was having his chemo.
“Oh we’re not together,” she’d said, chortling as though the very idea was preposterous.
David had burst out laughing too. “Us? Good God, no.”
“So you are…”
“Exes,” Hilary said cheerfully. “We were young,” she said by way of explanation. “And desperate. We came from a small town.”
David struggled with chemo. Kate did a home visit when Hilary called to say how ill he was, and she found he was mildly dehydrated, mildly delirious. She wanted to admit him for IV fluids, but he promised to drink a whole liter of water if she’d just hold his hand while he slept for a while. It wasn’t the first time she’d held a patient’s hand while they slept, but it had a new intimacy in the patient’s bedroom. His bed was enormous—bigger even than king-size—and his sheets were masculine and expensive. She remembered a fleeting, inappropriate thought about what it would be like to sleep in this bed, curled around this man. Even during chemo he was a ball of pure muscle, from his broad chest, which was just visible above the sheet, to his calves—one of which had flung free of the blankets. As she looked at him, she felt both horrified and thrilled by what he was stirring up in her. After an hour, she’d wriggled her hand free.
“I’m sorry,” he said as she was halfway across the room.
“No, I am,” she said. “I’m afraid I have to go.”
“I manipulated you. Making you hold hands with a dying old man.”
“You’re not dying,” she said automatically. And it was true. David’s prognosis was good. Unfortunately it didn’t make the chemo process any less ghastly.
He looked sheepish. “You were meant to say I’m not old.”
She smiled. David looked terrible, but there was an unmistakable twinkle in his eye. “You’re not that old,” she allowed.
She went to leave, then paused at the door. “Anyway, I’m sure a man like you doesn’t need cancer to get a girl to hold his hand.”
“I don’t,” he admitted. “But cancer has to be good for something.”
She didn’t agree to go on a date with him until after his treatment was finished. Apart from the ethical issues, she assured David that he didn’t have the strength to be starting a new relationship and battling cancer at the same time. He reluctantly waited, but later admitted to her that it was that kernel of hope that helped him endure the chemo.
Three years later, when despite their best efforts a baby hadn’t been conceived, it made sense that he should be the one to be tested. He’d had a testicle removed, but the test showed that the other one was performing well. Above average even. And so it followed that the problem must be hers.
She had ultrasounds. Laparoscopies. Dye injected into her fallopian tubes and followed on a screen. Test after test came back normal. Which left them with …
Unexplained infertility. The treatment prescribed: IVF.
Kate knew that David wasn’t thrilled by the prospect. But once they got through the first couple of squeamish appointments, it actually brought them closer. Every night, at the same time, he’d inject her with drugs (including one night at a country wedding when the pair of them had to shimmy into a portable toilet to get it done). It wasn’t a wonderful time by any stretch, but it was a close time in their relationship. As though they shared a secret.
When they got the call, they drove to the clinic to harvest Kate’s eggs. Even the word “harvest” hadn’t been enough to rain on Kate’s parade.
“Harvest my eggs!” she’d exclaimed on the road.
“Yeah, baby!” David sang. “Harvest my wife.”
David’s contribution had to be made eighteen hours later. Like everything to do with IVF, it was time-sensitive, but he wanted to do it at home rather than in a magazine-filled cubicle at the clinic. Kate liked the idea. Their baby could still be conceived as an act of love, an act of passion. She lit a candle, put on some music, and made sure it would memorable. But despite their best efforts, only one embryo was fertilized. An embryo that wasn’t to be.
The second time, when it was time for David’s contribution, they didn’t bother with a candle. Again, only one embryo was created. And failed to thrive.
The third time, Kate was distracted. It wasn’t happening for David, and time was of the essence.
“David, can you just…” She glanced at the clock. “I mean, why don’t we try—”
“Jesus, Kate,” he’d said, pushing her off him. “Just … can you just let me do this? I’ll be out in a minute.”
In the living room, Kate waited on the edge of the sofa. Then they drove to the clinic in silence.
With hindsight, she should have known this baby would be doomed. Conceived by a frozen egg and a reluctant sperm. What hope had this poor baby ever had?
Now, she squeezed his hand. “It will work next time,” she said with a breeziness that she recognized sounded plain wrong in this setting. David didn’t reply. He looked spent. Normally she only noticed his age in terms of how distinguished it made him, but today he looked old.
“Right?” she pressed.
He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let’s not worry about that just now, okay, babe? Let’s just take care of you.”
“But it will work. Next time. Won’t it?”
She heard the crazy in her voice. But you were allowed to be crazy in the face of tragedy, weren’t you? People made allowances for it.
David stood. “Can you walk or do you want me to get you a wheelchair?”
“David.”
He dropped his gaze. “Let’s not talk about it now,” he said, and Kate felt her heart splinter.
“Katie.” He ran his fingers through her hair. “I don’t want to see you like this. That’s why I think…”
“Stop,” she said into his chest. “Don’t say it. I can’t handle you saying it.”
“Okay,” he said quietly, kissing her forehead. “I won’t. Shhh. I won’t say it.”
But as Kate sobbed into her husband’s chest she realized he already had.