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I refuse to disagree with her. “Mhm.” Learning toward her, I kiss her. “We need to go.”
“You need to change.”
“Humor me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”
When we walk into the clinic, people look. It’s a natural reaction. The door opens, you look to see who’s coming through. Thankfully, today isn’t as packed as it was when we first came. There are fewer men, which I sort of understand. They’re probably working or aren’t needed for whatever their wife is having done today. One woman is crying in the corner, and I try not to stare, but end up looking in her direction more than once, wondering why.
We aren’t sitting but a few minutes when Peyton’s name is called. With my hand on the small of her back, I follow one step behind. The nurse, who didn’t introduce herself, takes us into a procedure room. She tells Peyton to have a seat in the chair. I sit next to her and clasp my hands in my lap, and then unclasp them and reach for Peyton’s. Even though we are here to learn how to administer her shots, I’m nervous. There’s no way Peyton can give herself shots, even if she tells the nurse otherwise. I know her. She hates needles, and the sight sometimes results in her hyperventilating.
“You’re going to administer two shots a day for one week, and then you’ll come in everyday for your last week of shots,” the nurse says. “Over the course of your daily in-person monitoring visits, we’ll do bloodwork, pelvic ultrasounds, and we’ll track your cycle. This is the time where we’ll make any necessary adjustments to your medication. If everything is where we want things to be, we’ll do the trigger shot. You’ll go home and the anesthesiologist will call you, walk you through what to expect at your appointment. You’ll come in, and we’ll retrieve your eggs.”
“When will Peyton come in for the retrieval?”
“Within thirty-six hours after the trigger shot.”
I glance at my wife and smile. “Then our baby is made in a dish?” I say this mostly to her, but the nurse answers.
“Yes. In less clinical terms, we take the eggs and let the sperm have their fun.”
Peyton snorts. “I definitely like your version better.”
The nurse, who still hasn’t told us her name, laughs. “Sperm know what they’re supposed to do, so we let them have some fun. Now, for the shots.”
“Uh, if you can show me, that’d be great,” I tell her. “Peyton’s squeamish around needles.”
“No problem. Can you lift your shirt?”
I stand and give Peyton my best how you doin’ smirk as I lift my shirt. The nurse looks at my torso, then me, and huffs. “Yeah, this won’t work. Hold on. You can put your shirt down.” She stands, goes to the door, and hollers for someone named Ethel to come into the room.
Ethel does. She says hi and listens to our nurse.
“I’m going to demonstrate on Ethel,” she says.
“Turn away,” I tell Peyton as I lean forward and watch our nurse grab poor Ethel’s stomach. If it hurts, Ethel says nothing. Maybe she’s used to it.
“You try,” the nurse says. “You’re going to grab a chunk of skin here and slide this in.” I appreciate that she didn’t say needle.
“How far?”
She shows me on the needle where to stop.
“Okay. So, I’m going to rub the spot with an alcohol wipe and then . . .” I show her what I remember. “Will Peyton need a bandage?”
“Nah,” says Ethel. “You can dab the spot for a couple of seconds.”
I nod. “Got it. Her uncle is a physical trainer. If I don’t feel confident doing it, I’ll have him come over.”
“Or she can come back here.”
“Right, yes.”
The nurse has me practice a few more times on an orange and then tells Peyton she’s going to administer her first shot. She has Peyton stand, which I know isn’t going to go very well, so I stand with her.
“Put your hands on my shoulders and your face in my chest.”
My fingers grip the edge of her shirt and pull it up, watching the nurse’s every move. She catches my gaze and smiles.
