Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 42745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 214(@200wpm)___ 171(@250wpm)___ 142(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 214(@200wpm)___ 171(@250wpm)___ 142(@300wpm)
My eyes move over the page, but at first, none of the words make sense.
Penn Brody.
Fertility evaluation.
History of prior trauma.
I blink and grip the paper tighter. No. That can’t be right. I keep reading, my eyes catching on words. Azoospermia. No viable sperm observed. Low likelihood of natural conception.
The room tilts a little, and I press one hand against the edge of the table. I read the words again because maybe I misunderstood them. Maybe my brain is making this worse than it is.
But the next line steals my breath.
Patient advised to discuss alternative family-building options, including IVF with donor sperm, surgical sperm retrieval if appropriate, or adoption.
I lean back on the couch, the papers still gripped in my hand. This is what he’s been hiding. This is why he froze when I told him I was ovulating and why every conversation about babies made him pull away from me. He didn’t stop wanting a family with me. He thinks he can’t give me one.
I stare at the papers as my mind goes crazy, thinking of everything from the last year. Every day has been a conversation about how I wanted to have kids and start a family. I’ve dragged him into baby stores, oohed and aahed over playpens, stuffed animals, and little baby clothes. I’ve dreamed of being a mother for so long, and I’ve been so ready. But I had no idea that every dream I talked about was like torture for him. This is what he meant when he said that he wasn’t good for me anymore.
I clench my eyes and shake my head. I’m both sad and mad. He just decided that he couldn’t give me a baby and that I would be happier without him. Who does he think he is to make that kind of decision for me?
I press my hands to my face and try to breathe, but it’s hard. Everything feels different now. Every time he pulled away and I thought he didn’t want me, he did.
Oh my God, he loves me so much that he thought giving me up was the only way I would get the family I’ve always wanted.
I start to sob, and it hits me quickly. There’s no holding it back. My body jerks and shudders as I cry. It’s like I’m letting it all out.
I bend forward, the papers still clutched in one hand, and cry for both my husband and for me. Hell, I cry for the last year and a half that I’ve felt like I was going insane and my husband felt I couldn’t love him because he couldn’t give me a child. I think that is what hurts the most. Yeah, I hate the diagnosis, but I hate that my husband has carried this all on his own.
I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand and look down at the papers again.
Low likelihood of natural conception.
The words should scare me, but in a way, it’s a relief. I’ve let my mind imagine a lot of different things he could be hiding, and so many of them are way worse than this. This we can work through.
I set the papers down and wrap my arms around myself. I want to go to Penn. I wish he was here right now and I could wrap my arms around him and tell him that everything is going to be okay. Well, I’d probably call him an idiot first, but yeah, we can work through this.
I think back to all the times I’ve begged him to talk to me and he refused. I lean back on the couch and look at the ceiling. No matter how much I want to, I can’t fix this for him. I can’t force him to tell me the truth. He has to trust me enough to tell me. He has to believe in us enough to come clean.
I stack up the papers and carefully slide them back into the folder, making sure everything is exactly as it should be. Then I gather the rest of the files and put them back inside his briefcase.
I stand up and carry the briefcase to where it was sitting in the hallway, and then I gently set it down, positioning it how I found it.
I reach for my purse on the table and dig through it. With my phone in hand, I go upstairs to our bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed.
I open the messaging app on my phone, enter his name, and stare at the blank screen. There are so many things I want to say to him. I type a few words and then instantly delete them. It takes a few minutes, but I finally think I get it right.
Hey. Remember how you said I should move back home. I’m going to take you up on that.