I work till 7 the night before the transfer, which is
scheduled to take place on our nine-year wedding anniversary. I don’t plan to
stay that late, but that’s what happens. Philip’s been working late basically
every night, so I still beat him home. He’s just had a stressful conversation
over the phone with his mom. Between that and work confrontations, he is
totally out of emotional gas. But I don’t know any of that, and we do the
nightly progesterone shot.
After, we talk about our plan for the evening, for the next
day. I have two acupuncture appointments scheduled for FET day: one immediately
before and one immediately after the transfer. “Two acupuncture treatments,
huh?” Philip says. “Doesn’t that seem excessive?”
I bristle, answer probably too defensively. “No. I told you
about the studies that have been done, that show acupuncture makes the most
difference when it’s done both before and after—”
“Yeah, you told me,” he interrupts. So that’s when it
starts, roughly speaking.
We walk out to the car to go to Target to buy me some fun
socks for the procedure. This is a genius idea Philip had days ago to mark the
significance of the day and give me a small treat, something to smile about.
Philip heads for the passenger seat, which irks me. I, with
my sore ass, have to drive apparently.
He tells me he’s made an appointment to have my car serviced
the day following the FET, so we have to figure out when to go drop it off. We
could take it over after the transfer, or after our anniversary dinner, or
early the next morning before work. None of these seem like agreeable options
to me.
“Remember I want to plant roses after the transfer?” I say
with strained politeness. This is a genius idea I had several days ago, to
commemorate both our anniversary and the seed that would hopefully begin to
grow in me.
His face hardens. “Yes, I remember. But we’ve already let
the car go too long, and I don’t want to drive it all the way to the beach this
weekend without it being serviced first.”
From there, the conversation gets more and more heated, and
I am becoming manic, convinced he doesn’t care about my meaningful, romantic
rose-planting vision — certain the car and work and everything else is more
important to him than all the things I have been prioritizing: perfect Zen
calmness, emotional intimacy as a couple, and absolute physical health, to make
this body of mine a ready and waiting vessel.
In the parking lot of Target, I whip the car around. “I
don’t want to buy these socks anymore!” I wail.
“Stop driving like a crazy person!” Philip snaps.
“This was supposed to be a special thing, and now it’s
RUINED,” I howl. “We have spent so much money,
and effort, and time, on this, and now here we are — FUCKING it all up with
stress and fighting!”
A beat. My foot is on the brake, but we’re not in a parking
spot. My heart is racing.
“Come on,” Philip says after a moment. “Park. I’ll figure
out the timing of getting the car serviced.”
So I do, and we go inside. But I am still completely raging
in my mind. I cannot believe he has sabotaged the incredible bonding experience
of buying these socks. We stare at the sock selection glumly, and I grab the
first cute pair I see: hedgehogs.
We go to pick up some Advil for him, and I make the mistake
of looking at his face as we walk to the register. It is the face of a victim: sour mouth, dead eyes, defeated by his lunatic wife. And again a surge of fury courses
through my bloodstream. I toss the socks aside, on a display of lotions or
candles or something, in a passive-aggressive move that he totally misses.
When we get to the register, the cashier takes the Advil and
says, “Is that it?”
I say “yes,” and Philip whips around and says to me, “What?!
Where are the socks?”
“I set them down,” I say like a child. “I don’t want
them to trigger this horrible memory.”
Completely exasperated, he forces me back to get the socks.
“Where are they?” he demands. I point and mumble. He grabs them and barks, “Go sit
in the car.”
“Gladly!” I say with Hollywood drama. I go sit in the
passenger seat. I am so miserable I can’t even think straight. All my efforts
to stay calm, all of my lofty sock-buying dreams, dashed.
We go to Tijiana Flats for some dinner. By now it must be
almost 10 at night. We are hangry, and the wait is long. Fucking Taco Tuesday.
We sit in tense silence. Once the food comes, we try to eat, but the site of my
injection is throbbing, and I am still so upset and disappointed. Tears start
to noiselessly stream down my cheeks as I take pitiful bites of my chicken
flautas.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Philip says. “Stop crying.”
“I can’t help it,” I say, which is true. I have lost all
control over my mind and emotions.
He rises from the table in a huff to get some takeout boxes.
We ride home in silence, and somehow, in the comfort of our living room with
some food in our stomachs, the fight fizzles out. We’ve both surrendered.
My mom texts me to say I probably won’t be able to sleep
very well, but not to beat myself up about it. She’s right. I’m wide awake at 5
a.m., but I just accept it. I lay looking up at the ceiling, as excited as a
kid on Christmas morning. It’s our anniversary; it’s FET day, a day we’ve been
working toward since I took my first birth-control pill on March 25 in
preparation for our egg retrieval. The sun starts to come up, and I’m thankful
for the newness of every morning.
