Jessa James - The Baby Mission

I am crying because I just came from seeing Dr. Altman, who is my reproductive endocrinologist AKA my fertility guru. Unfortunately, no matter how nice she is, there isn’t a good way to phrase my situation. I saw Dr. Altman’s mouth moving, but all I heard was, “YOU ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME, CADY!!!”

So the basics of my situation are that my egg-producing follicles have really thinned out with age. Based on some pictures of my ovaries and specifically those follicles, Dr. Altman predicts that I have three good years of fertility left.

Sitting there in the hard plastic chair of her Swedish-influenced office, I did the math. Even if I was to get pregnant today somehow, that would put me a year out from even thinking about getting pregnant again. In my head, I had this perfect family planned out, with three kids that were each two years apart.

I even have their names: for girls, for boys.

I nod my head as the doctor tries to reassure me, but I know what she’s really saying.

I’ve run out of time.

All the years of college and law school. All the late nights trying to prove myself as a first (or second, or third) year associate. All the times I doubled up on birth control because getting pregnant would’ve been a disaster…

All those times come flooding back as I walk out of Dr. Altmans office. She squeezes my elbow and says for the final time that it’s going to be okay. I find myself wondering how often she says that to patients as I make my way through her foyer.

I get in my white Mercedes, shading my eyes against the glare of the sun, wincing a bit at how hot the seats are. I know I’m in shock. It just takes a while before it catches up to me. Twenty minutes, in fact.

So now here I am, searching my glovebox for the packet of tissues I keep there. I find them and pull one out, wiping snot and tears all over the thin piece of tissue.

What am I supposed to do with that information, exactly?

It’s not like I can go back a few years, sort of unwind the clock. That isn’t an option.

The only thing I can really do with the news is hurry and get pregnant. Scratch that, hurry and find a stable guy with great genes who wants to get married and have kids and then get pregnant.

I sink back in my seat, really bawling now. The kind of crying where I’m hiccuping and trying to breathe and cry at once, and failing at it.

Someone knocks on the window, a light clunk-clunk sound. I swear, I jump so hard I’m halfway out of my seat, heart racing. I furiously wipe at my face for a second before I hear a voice, distorted a little by the window.

“It’s Olive,” she says. “Are you alright?”

I release my breath in a gust, and squint at her. She looks back at me, concerned.

“What are you doing out here?” she says, gesturing to the darkened parking deck.

I reach over and press the button to unlock the doors, and gesture for her to get in. She runs around to the other side of the car, her Manolo Blahniks click clacking on the pavement. She gets in, her long red hair lying perfectly over a skin-tight floral sheath dress.

I feel like a sodden mess next to her, which drives me to tears again.

“Oh, omigod!” Olive exclaims, moving to embrace me. “Come here.”

I let her, bending awkwardly over my center console. I make it a point not to get any of my tears on her surprisingly soft dress, holding my face a little away from her as she hugs me. I don’t let it get out of hand, though. No sobbing and hiccuping.

As soon as my tears dry, I push away, ready to regain whatever is left of my dignity. Olive finds the tissues and hands me one, and I do my best to mop up my face. I hadn’t considered my makeup until this moment, but I’m sure my mascara and eyeliner look horrendous.

“Are you okay?” Olive asks, putting her hand on the back of my shoulder. She squeezes a little, reminding me of Dr. Altman. Is that the universal response to a woman’s tears or something?

I clear my throat. “I’m fine. It’s just… I just got back from the fertility doctor.”

“Omigod. You’re… infertile??” Olive’s expression is worried, and she whispers the word infertile.

“No, not exactly,” I say, shaking my head. “She just put a very definitive time clock on things. If I want a baby, I have to start now .”

“Well… isn’t that the point of going to a fertility expert?” Olive’s face scrunches. “I thought you were ready to start!”

“I just… I think I was ready to start like… looking at paint swatches for the nursery, or buying a baby name book. Not getting knocked up, not quite yet. But now, I don’t have much choice. My stupid egg-producing follicles aren’t really interested in hearing anything else.”

I sniff, and gesture for the pack of tissues. She hands them to me with a frown.

“Jeez, I’m a year older than you. Maybe I should go get my follicles checked,” she says. “I’ve really never considered not being able to have kids before.”

I blink at her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get you wrapped up in my baby fever.”

She smiles, waving my concern off.

“It’s no big deal. We are talking about you, aren’t we?”

I let out a shaky breath and sit back in my seat.

“Yeah. I guess… I don’t know. I guess I have to go through with being artificially inseminated now.”

“Or you could just have a one night stand and hope for the best,” Olive speculates. “Oooohhh, or! You can ask someone to be your baby daddy. You know, draw up a bunch of legal papers that make him not accountable.”

“Yeah, but then I would have to find someone and actually ask them. I’m not really in the business of meeting tons of guys,” I say.

“Umm, you have a date with a super handsome guy tomorrow night, duh. You don’t get a lot more easy than that. Just ask him!”

I give Olive the most disgusted look I can manage. “Yeah, right. I’ll just ask Jett to be my sperm donor. I’m sure he will love that.”

“Why not? What have you got to lose?”

“Ummm my dignity, for starters.”

She makes a pppppfffttttt noise that sounds like a straight up fart. “Do it. Your egg follicles say you should. Look, stop making that face, stop reacting, and just think about it for a second. Weren’t you the one who said that he probably wasn’t looking for a commitment?”

I pause, twisting my fingers in my lap. She is right, I did say that. “Well, yeah.”

“So… just ask him! See what he says. If nothing else, it’s good practice for when you ask the man who eventually becomes your baby’s biological father.”

I exhale. “I don’t know.”

Olive glances at her slim gold watch. “Alright. I have to get to court, and you no doubt have a ton of work to do. Just think about it, okay?”

“Alright. Hey, thanks for knowing that I was panicking in here.”

She laughs, the sound a bit like a braying donkey. I smile at her.

“I didn’t know you were panicking, I just thought you might have a tampon in your car.”

I grin. “I do! Check the glovebox.”

She opens the glovebox and fishes around, to some success. She waves several shiny blue wrappers at me.

“Got them! Thanks.”

“I really have to go,” she says, opening the door. “Think about what I said, though! Jett James would make an excellent baby daddy.”

I try to retort, but she closes the door on me, click-clacking away. I stay in my car for a little while longer, considering it.

I shift on the worn oak bench I’m sitting on, glancing out at the street through the window. I move the heavy drape aside, giving me a better view, but it doesn’t help. An older woman approaches the bar and pulls open the door.