THE NIGHT BEFORE

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.