Bringing in Finn (7 page)

I felt elated afterward, struck by the lightness that accompanied my confession. My mother had stayed with me; neither parent had said it was my fault. What I did not anticipate was that the acknowledgment they gifted me with was, for a time, a one-time thing. I didn't know how strange it would feel afterward when, for a period of several years, any reference I made to the abuse would be greeted with silence, as if the conversation in the car had not taken place, my words falling like snow.

After the experience, I'd moved closer, calling more regularly, sharing more of Bill and my life in the UK. But I'd kept a buffer of space, not venturing too close, proceeding cautiously in reconnecting.

 

Bill and I
arrived at the Reproductive Medicine Institute (RMI), Dr. Colaum's practice, at 10:01 AM. The office was located in a small, grid-shaped brick building on Ridge Road that looked like it had been built in the '70s. The lobby was small and unremarkable. The air was stuffy and hot. June had descended upon Chicago with a burst of heat that seemed to have been saved underground all winter and was now being released in a long, ferocious exhale.

The air conditioner, if there was one, appeared to be broken. While we waited for the elevator, I fanned my face with the folder of information the office had sent in advance of our appointment. We rode to the second floor and walked down a short hall to suite 205. The waiting room was cool and serene, with low lighting and furniture from the federalist period. Whoever had decorated had done so with care, and with a love of Frank Lloyd Wright, apparently; framed works of his art and architecture hung on the cream-colored walls.

We were the only people in the waiting room when we arrived. I signed in with a receptionist, a heavier-set woman who introduced herself as Lorelai. Bill picked up a brochure from the table. “Did you know this?” he whispered, pointing at the bio page for Dr. Colaum.

Dr. Colaum's brochure photo revealed a grandmotherly woman, perhaps in her early seventies, with gray-blond hair wrapped into a bun. Bill was pointing at the copy under the photo. “Dr. Carolyn Colaum, MD, is the mother of ten children.” The brochure went on to detail an impressive career as a researcher and clinician of reproductive endocrinology.

“Do you think they're all hers, biologically?” Bill said, our heads leaning over the brochure.

“They are,” Lorelai interjected from across the room. “She conceived and delivered each one naturally, too. It was before the days of IVF.”

“That's pretty amazing,” Bill said.

“I like the idea of a fertility doctor that's so fertile,” I said.

“I agree,” Bill said. “Seems like a good sign.”

 

At ten after
ten, a somber nurse named Rachel escorted us into a spacious office also decorated with federalist-period American furniture. Dr. Colaum was sitting at a large oak desk, in front of a wall
that showcased more framed works by Frank Lloyd Wright. A large portion of the desk was covered with framed photographs of children and newborn babies.

“My grandchildren,” Dr. Colaum said proudly. “I have fourteen now.” I took in the bright smiles and cherubic faces of her brood and turned away. On the way into her office, we'd passed a wall filled floor to ceiling with baby announcements and holiday cards featuring what I guessed were the clinic's assisted progeny. I felt anxious as I wondered whether we would ever have a card with our own child on it to add to the collection.

Dr. Colaum's hair was pulled up in the same bun she'd worn in her head shot. She wore a large cut-glass necklace over a loose-fitting shift dress that hung to her shoes.

“It's nice to meet you,” she said, extending her hand, first to Bill, then to me.

“Dr. Bizan referred you?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I believe her office faxed you my file.”

“We didn't receive anything from their office,” she replied. I grimaced.

“That happens,” she said. I'll ask you whatever questions I need to know. What I want to do today is go over your history and then ask some specific questions relating to your reproductive cycle. Then I can make some recommendations.”

I shifted in the chair. I was annoyed that Dr. Bizan's office had neglected to send the file. I didn't want to go over my whole medical history again, but Dr. Colaum seemed like the kind of doctor who would want to hear everything for herself anyway. She asked about my menstrual cycle pre-Pill, how many years I'd been on it, and how long I had not menstruated. I told her about the MRI and the diagnosis of secondary empty sella.

As I answered her questions, Dr. Colaum took notes with a
tortoiseshell pen, writing meticulously on a clean piece of unlined paper fastened to the inside of a folder. Peering down through crescent-shaped reading glasses on a chain, a black shawl draped over the chair behind her, she looked like a professor from Hogwarts. She gave no sign of her thoughts as she wrote.

At a certain point she stopped, leaned back in her chair, and stared past us at the back wall, or possibly the window. I dropped my eyes to her desk, not wanting to disturb her concentration. I could feel Bill's foot bouncing against the side of my chair.

“Okay,” Dr. Colaum said, “here's what I think.”

Bill grabbed my hand. I sat up straighter in my chair.

“First, though, do you know if you ovulate?” Dr. Colaum asked.

“Could I be, if I don't have a period?” I asked.

“It's unlikely, but possible. Have you ever used an ovulation kit, or checked your temperature and mucous membrane each month?”

My cousin had given me the name of the ovulation kit she'd used to become pregnant with each of her three boys. It worked like a pregnancy test: By urinating on a strip, the woman could figure out when she would ovulate. I'd bought one when I started acupuncture, thinking we could use it when my period started. I'd never opened it, actually had forgotten I'd bought it. I pictured where it would be now, gathering dust on a shelf in our bathroom next to a box of tampons that was also almost three years old.

I told Dr. Colaum I had not monitored my ovulation.

“Don't worry. The next step I recommend for you both is to have the full panel of fertility tests. If we're going to support you here, we test every aspect of fertility. You too, Bill. We wouldn't want Sara to have all the fun.”

“Great,” Bill said, looking uneasy.

“From there we'll have a clear idea of where we stand and what we might be able to do to help you.”

“There's one more important question I need to ask before we go further,” she said, looking up at us from the folder. “It may be obvious because you are here, but I don't want to make any assumptions.”

Bill looked at me and I shrugged. I guessed it would be something about our insurance information or financial resources.

“Do you want to be parents?” Dr. Colaum asked. “Specifically, is pregnancy and having children your ultimate goal?”

I squeezed Bill's hand. “Definitely, yes,” we replied simultaneously.

Once we agreed to the tests, Dr. Colaum sent us over to see Rachel, the serious nurse, who took us to a smaller consultation room down the hall. She printed out a list of the tests Dr. Colaum had ordered and a calendar to schedule our dates. She handed me a large stack of papers with a description of each of the tests, instructions for how to prepare, and what to expect afterward.

Among the list was a hysterosalpingogram, a word I had difficulty pronouncing at first glance, designed to see if my fallopian tubes were open.

“We just call it an HSG,” Rachel said, sparing me. “I recommend you take some Tylenol or Advil before you come in. Some people feel uncomfortable afterward.”

Over the next two weeks, Rachel scheduled us for several appointments. I was to take the female fertility panel, which included the uterine ultrasound and evaluation and blood work to test my levels of the hormones estrogen, progesterone, and prolactin. Rachel scheduled Bill for a semen analysis to determine the quality and quantity of his sperm. We signed paperwork that stated we would pay for any lab tests insurance didn't cover.

It was close to noon by the time we finished our appointment and left the office. My mind felt overloaded by the time we got back to the car. As we turned back onto Ridge Road, Bill said, “I think we should go out to lunch. I'm getting a headache.”

“That was intense,” I said.

We decided to drive back to the city and go out somewhere near our house.

If we go to Que Rico, we can listen to mariachi music and pretend we're on vacation in Mexico,” Bill said.

“Que Rico it is,” I said.

 

I drove to
Dr. Colaum's for the HSG at noon the following Friday. I hadn't remembered to take the Tylenol that Rachel had recommended before the appointment, but I thought it was probably unnecessary. I'd been told I had a high pain threshold and believed this to be true. After my cyst had ruptured, I'd asked one of the nurses if that pain I'd been in was equivalent to what women experienced in childbirth.

“Good lord—no, sweetie. What you had was many times worse.” After watching a film on natural childbirth years later, I didn't know if that was true, but I appreciated what the nurse had said at the time. It was empowering to think I'd already survived pain worse than labor.

The hysterosalpingogram worked via internal ultrasound. A bubbly nurse named Tracey escorted me into an examination room that held a hospital bed and several large machines. As I changed behind a screen, Tracey and I chatted about her work at RMI. She told me that she and her fiancé had just adopted a puppy. Dr. Colaum entered and directed Tracey to the ultrasound machine. She took what looked like a large condom from a box and pulled it onto a plastic tube attached to the machine next to the bed.

“This is a vaginal wand,” Tracey explained, squirting some blue gel onto the tip. “It uses ultrasound to let us see your reproductive organs from the inside.” Dr. Colaum inserted the wand and began to
move it around from side to side. The gel was cool, and I could feel pressure but no discomfort.

“All looks good so far,” Dr. Colaum said to Tracey, who was taking notes. “I'm coming around to the right ovary now. All looks good here.” Dr Colaum moved the wand across to the other side of my vaginal wall. “Where is . . . ?”

“Sara doesn't have her left ovary—remember?” Tracey said, smiling and throwing me an apologetic look.

“Of course,” Dr. Colaum said. Winking at me, she said, “I was just checking.”

“Why not?” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “Do they ever grow back?” I laughed.

“You could be the first,” Dr. Colaum said, continuing the joke.

“We'll do the hysterosalpingogram now,” she said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. “You'll feel a cramp as I inflate a balloon into your uterus and inject the dye. We'll pump the dye a couple of times to determine that your fallopian tubes are open and functioning. I'll do a closer examination of your uterus afterward. Then we'll be done. You can watch along with us here,” she said, angling a flat computer screen toward where I lay on the table.

“Ready?” she asked. I guessed I was and nodded.

Dr. Colaum inserted the speculum and fed the tube through.

“I'm going to inflate the balloon now,” she said.

Tracey moved around the table next to me, as if standing guard. Suddenly, I felt a pressure inside my low abdomen, a pause, and then a long, flat pinch. I felt like my low abdomen had folded in on itself and bitten down. Hard.

The clamping feeling continued for a moment, like a musical note being sustained.

“Fuck!”

A yell had come out of my mouth, but I prayed I had used the
profanity only in my head. I could not believe I might have just said the f-word in front of Dr. Colaum, seventy-year-old grandmother of fourteen, as if struck by some momentary bout of Tourette's.

“I know,” Dr. Colaum said, without apparent offense. “It can hurt.”

I gripped the side of the table, bracing myself.

“That should be the worst of it,” she said. “I'm going to do a few more pumps of the dye, and then we'll be done.”

Tracey offered me her hand, but I declined, preferring to continue holding the table.

“It's not the first time someone's yelled in here,” she said, and I gave her a weak smile.
I'll bet,
I thought.

“The good news is that your tubes are clear and open,” Dr. Colaum told me, removing the catheter and speculum. “Everything looks good in your ovary. Your follicles look healthy and good, which bodes well for good eggs. You have such a nice uterus, too.” Tracey nodded in agreement. I looked at the fuzzy black-and-white screen, unable to make out the shape of my uterus amid the pixilation.

“Do they vary much from person to person?” I asked.

“There's a wide variety,” Dr. Colaum said. “Shape, size, position in the pelvis.” Tracey nodded.

“You're done for today,” Tracey said. “Take your time getting dressed, and take it easy this afternoon.”

I felt relieved. Now that I was no longer in pain, I was grateful for the test, appreciative more than I had anticipated for the confirmation that all my reproductive organs were healthy, functioning, and clear. I felt embarrassed for yelling in front of Dr. Colaum, though, and hoped I would not see her on my way to reception.

If I saw Rachel on my way out, however, I was going to give her a friendly piece of patient feedback. Specifically, about her recommendation to take Tylenol before the hysterosalpingogram.

Two Tylenol, my ass. Tylenol with codeine, maybe, or Demerol.