Sometimes We Laugh

​August 20, 2019

As my Mom and I sit across the expansive desk from the fertility Dr. we go over my medical history while also waiting for the test results of the ultra sound – internal wand covered in goop, not over the belly.

It is August 20th, the late afternoon sun is shining brightly through the gold tinted, floor to ceiling windows of Dr. Kutteh’s office. It’s hot next to the window. Three stories below is a pond surround by trees. There are some ducks lazily floating. Across the street is the backside of Baptist Memorial Hospital, or better known as Baptist East on Walnut Grove.

My number one goal after being diagnosed with endometrial/uterine cancer is to save my fertility. My husband and family want to save my life.

Dr. Kutteh opens up his laptop. The results of the ultrasound show that I have four remaining follicles on my right ovary. Follicles are little hairs that signify there are eggs left inside the ovary. Dr. Kutteh explains that could mean I have, at the most approximately 14 eggs left. Of which the possibility of viability is not known. His initial diagnosis is to treat the cancer.

I try to keep control. Every breath since my diagnosis has been a struggle to remain in an emotional state of calm, just trying to keep it together. Inhale now, without crying. Exhale, keeping the tears in. Repeat for the next 16 hours until I can lay in bed with insomnia staring at the circulating ceiling fan illuminated by the television, which is on as a distraction.

I look sad. I’m supposed to stay stress-free. I am not. My miserable nosey coworker has been fabricating and spreading rumors that my marriage is in trouble because we got married too soon.

All I want to do is sit in our living room with the curtains drawn and be numb by myself.

Now, one less person, an expert at that, thinks I should give up on motherhood.

My emotions come out in the form ugly face contortions and tears.

I glance down at the water, again. I don’t want to be here. I want to be one of those ducks in the pond. The shade seems inviting. The water looks cool, much calmer than what is being discussed in this doctor’s office.

Foregoing all of the medical lingo, basically my eggs could be scrambled and worthless. Combined with my age and my cancer the likelihood of having a heathy baby, without a mental or physical handicapped is not a high probability. The idea of us getting pregnant on our own is projected at a low single digit percentage.

We should look into in-vitro. We should look into egg harvesting and a uterine transplant. We should look into egg harvesting and surrogacy. I should start asking my friends and family to be a surrogate. We should look into egg donation so that at least one of us can be a biological parent. We should look into LiveStrong fertility services. We should look into adoption.

All of which I’ve already researched. As a couple, we have already decided that adoption is not for us. Please stop suggesting it like it’s the first time we’ve thought of it. It’s a broken record.

The monetary price of surrogacy might as well be equivalent to my Mom asking “do you have McDonald’s money?” when I was a child. If I wanted that as a feasible option, I should have been hoarding every penny my entire life.

And, to us, it is absolutely absurd to make a GoFundMe request for our friends and family to foot this medical procedure.

I have always wanted to have a baby. At this point it’s a race against my biological clock combined with cancer. I have to see this through.

Dr. Kutteh proceeds with ordering a blood test.

He goes on to explain that all of these tests would be futile if Jamie, my husband, has a fertility issue. Dr. Kutteh also writes an order for Jamie to submit a sample to the local fertility doctor in our small town.

Yes, a sperm sample. A splooge in a cup, or..

My Mom whispers under her breath, “Maybe you can bring in his sample to get tested.”

I slowly turn my face left towards her. I puff my cheeks out like my mouth is full and I cross my eyes in exasperation.

“Averill Rosalyn!” she loudly reprimands as she swats my left leg.

It’s exactly what she was thinking and we both burst out laughing. It’s a well-needed reprieve from all of the tears.

Dr. Kutteh does not look up from his laptop. He does not acknowledge our conversation. He hands over Jamie’s hand-written order and ushers us out to the waiting area of the phlebotomist’s cubby.