Chapter 3 - Margaret Turned Our Private Fertility Problem Into a Family Emergency
We had been trying for seven months when my menstrual cycles became irregular.
Stress.
Travel.
Maybe age, though I was only twenty-nine.
My OB suggested basic bloodwork.
One test showed lower-than-expected anti-Müllerian hormone—AMH.
I did what people with medical knowledge always tell patients not to do.
I Googled.
Low ovarian reserve.
IVF.
Egg quality.
Early menopause.
Infertility.
By the time Darwin came home, I had terrified myself.
He sat beside me on the bathroom floor.
“Hey.”
“What if I can’t?”
“We don’t know that.”
“What if I can’t?”
“Then we figure out what comes next.”
That was the Darwin I loved.
Not:
I need a biological child.
Not:
my family expects.
We.
The fertility specialist, Dr. Elena Morris, explained the result properly.
My AMH suggested:
diminished ovarian reserve.
It did not mean:
no eggs.
It did not mean:
no ovulation.
It did not mean:
sterile.
My ultrasound showed a lower-than-average antral follicle count but nothing catastrophic.
My fallopian tubes were open.
Other hormone results were reassuring.
Dr. Morris recommended:
continue trying,
repeat testing if necessary,
consider treatment sooner rather than later,
and complete Darwin’s semen analysis before labeling the cause.
Darwin hated that last part.
Not because he believed fertility was only:
women.
At least he said he didn’t.
But he was deeply uncomfortable with the test.
“I’ll do it.”
Then postponed.
Once.
Twice.
Work.
Travel.
Embarrassment.
Dr. Morris reminded us:
“This is a couple evaluation.”
Margaret knew only that:
something came back low.
That was my mistake too.
I told her.
Not every detail.
Enough.
During Sunday dinner, she asked:
“How did the appointment go?”
I said:
“My ovarian reserve is lower than expected, but the doctor said pregnancy is still possible.”
Margaret’s face fell.
“Oh.”
Darwin immediately said:
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Don’t do that.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
She looked at me.
“I’m just worried.”
Within forty-eight hours, she had called:
a friend whose daughter had done IVF,
a retired nurse she knew from church,
someone she described as “connected to Stanford.”
None of these people were my doctors.
Margaret became an information machine.
Links.
Articles.
Suggestions.
Donor eggs.
IVF clinics.
A cousin in Oregon who had adopted.
I told Darwin:
“Make her stop.”
He said:
“She’s scared for us.”
“I’m scared for us.”
“I know.”
“Then manage your mother.”
He promised.
Margaret quieted.
For perhaps:
ten days.
Then she asked me privately:
“Have you thought about what you’ll do if you can’t give Darwin children?”
The phrasing mattered.
Not:
if you two cannot conceive.
If you cannot give:
Darwin.
I said:
“We don’t know that there’s a problem serious enough to prevent children.”
Margaret touched my hand.
“Sydney, hope is important.”
Then:
“So is realism.”
I remember looking at her and feeling something cold move through me.
She had already decided.
My reproductive future had become:
a prognosis
May you like
made at her dining table.
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