Khaki

HAPPY CLAMS

Here’s something I know: Homes with small children should forgo white sofas, regardless of how much Scotchgard they have. Here’s something else I know: Men don’t like fertility clinics. Cups and small rooms and other things that you’re too young to hear about are involved. Graham might have been “sure” that that Sunday morning baby-making session had taken, but, a week and another negative test later, I thought I might disintegrate into a puddle of tears on the Stark area rug–covered ground. I reminded myself about a million times a day how lucky I was to have one healthy, beautiful child. But I felt like another baby was the missing piece in our family puzzle.

I had waited as long as I could to broach the subject. As the edge came off the cool and the whole world felt like it was going to burst into bloom on the first warm day, I knew my time had come. I wasn’t going to be the only one who hadn’t blossomed. So I said, “Honey, I’m making us a doctor’s appointment, you know, to make sure everything is okay.”

He gave me an Elvis lip and replied, “We’re young and healthy, babydoll. We’ve just got to keep trying.”

I crossed my arms, looking down on him where he was lounging shirtless on the couch, watching SportsCenter. His tight, toned abdomen and upper body, sculpted by nothing more than good genes and sweaty, manual labor, almost distracted me enough that I let him win. Almost. I got my wits about me and sighed loudly, and, when he saw my serious expression, he said, “Fine. Make the appointment, and I’ll go.”

Truth be told, I simply assumed something was wrong with him. I had, after all, successfully created one offspring with another man. So it shocked the daylights out of me when a doctor who looked young enough to be one of Graham’s summer high school farmhands said, “Mrs. Jacobs, I’m so sorry to tell you this, but according to your preliminary tests and ultrasounds, it appears that you have a condition called endometriosis.”

I only half listened to him chattering on about tissue surrounding my ovaries. I was stunned because I hadn’t let myself consider that something might actually be wrong with me. I think I came back into the space across from the huge, mahogany CEO desk that made my physician look even more like he was playing pretend right about the time he said, “A simple laparoscopic surgery could both diagnose the extent of the disease and clean it up so that it would be easier for you to conceive.”

Without so much as thinking, I said, “Great. I’m available tomorrow.”

Graham looked at me skeptically and said, “Khaki, let’s not be so hasty.”

I glared at him and, I must admit, raised my voice a bit. “Hasty? I’m fairly sure that after three years making this decision isn’t hasty. I want to be pregnant now.”

I knew I sounded like a spoiled child, but I didn’t care. I turned my raised, worked-up voice to the doctor. “This surgery will mean I’ll get pregnant, right?”

He looked a little scared of me, which was logical. I was something to fear.

“Well,” he started, “it will certainly increase your odds, but . . .”

I set my hand on the desk and peered at him. “But what? Spit it out. What are you trying to tell me?”

He leaned back farther in his chair, and said, “There’s some evidence that women with endometriosis have difficulty carrying a child. Uterine muscle cells lose their ability to expand and contract—”

I inhaled sharply and loudly, cutting him off. “What’s the bottom line?” I asked, far too irritated to sit through an hour’s worth of medical jibber-jabber.

“The uterus isn’t . . .” He rubbed his fingers together, looking for the right word. “Stretchy.”

My OB-GYN had just used the word stretchy when referring to my uterus, and I might not be able to have a baby. Not the news I had dreamed of. Instead of asking for a Kleenex, I looked at Graham and said, “I am happy to discuss this with you further when we get home.” Then I looked back at the doctor and said, “Theoretically, how quickly would I be able to get in for the surgery?”

“Well,” he said, and I could tell by his body language that he was fully prepared to put both hands up to cover his face in case I launched a pointy object at him. “Dr. Stinson is one of the foremost experts in the country in this disease, so I would assume you would want him to do the surgery.”

“Of course,” Graham responded before I had the chance to say that any old resident would be fine with me as long as he or she could un-gunk my ovaries.

“Honestly, you’re probably looking at seven to eight months before he can work you in.”

I pulled my thick sweater tighter around my waist and practically spat at him, “What!”

I thought about Alex, like I do about every thirty seconds when I’m not with him. Finding out you’re pregnant with your dead husband’s baby pretty much classifies as a miracle no matter how it happens, so I wasn’t one bit above believing that his conception was an act of God. But I asked all the same, “So if I have this condition, why did I have such an easy time getting pregnant and carrying my son?”

The doctor just shook his head. “I wish I had a clear answer to that question.”

I wanted to roll my eyes, but I was starting to calm down a bit, realizing how lucky I was to have Alex, how I had taken for granted how simple and natural it had all seemed, like it was my right as a woman to automatically get pregnant.

The doctor continued, “The disease affects every woman differently, so you may have had it all along and it didn’t affect your fertility, or it may have started after you already had your son. We may be a little bit clearer on that after the surgery, but there’s no way to really know for sure when it began.”

I nodded and looked at Graham, wondering how difficult it was for him to look unfazed by all of this. But I wasn’t surprised. He was always, always my rock.

I stood up, grabbed my toy- and Goldfish-full Lanvin tote off the floor and said, “Thank you so much, but I think I’ll try to find someone who can work me in a little more quickly.”

I was already Googling “endometriosis experts NC” on my phone as Graham followed me out the door saying, “Sweetheart, I know you’re upset, but let’s calm down for a second.”

I crossed my arms and huffed, “I don’t have time to calm down. I have to find another doctor, and Daniel is coming to town today to help me buy for the store and I have to get a blog post done in the car on the way back to Kinston, and I promised Father John that I’d design the event hall for the church bazaar this weekend.” I sighed, let my shoulders fall, and said, “And all I want to do is climb in bed with my little boy and take a nap.”

In the midst of that freezing parking lot, my breath billowing around me like the steam I needed to blow off, Graham, as he so often does, wrapped his strong arms around me and rested his chin on top of my head. He was as rock-solid and even-keel as I was crumbling and hysterical.

“It’s going to be okay, you know,” he said. He kissed the top of my head. “If this is supposed to happen for us, it will.” He kissed me again and added, “And if it’s just the three of us, I’m happy as a clam.” I could feel his jaw shift into a smile as he said, “We’ll get a bigger boat.” He squeezed me tighter. “Hell, maybe we can even upgrade you to a little larger work apartment in the city.”

He was trying to cheer me up, and I didn’t want him to know I was crying, so I didn’t say anything. I pulled back, turned away quickly so that he wouldn’t see me wipe my eyes, and said, “How do we know those clams are even happy?”

He smiled and opened my car door for me. As I stepped up on the running board of the Suburban, I said, “Do you think this is why my stomach hurts so badly all the time?”

Graham shook his head. “Your stomach hurts all the time and you didn’t think to have it checked out?”

I shrugged. “I thought maybe it was from having a baby.” I leaned my head against the window, the freezing pane soothing my hot head. “Plus, who has the time?”

As I looked out the window, the sky appearing again after the level after level of concrete parking garage, I realized that maybe I had been in denial all this time. Deep down, I knew something was wrong. But considering that I might not be able to have any more children was like considering moving to another country. For some people it might have been just right. For me, it felt completely foreign.