Mother's Day by Lynne Constantine

Miranda hadn’t always been unhappy. In fact, she used to consider herself quite an optimistic person. Perky even. She groaned and rolled over, pulling the rumpled sheet over her head. She couldn’t face them – not today when they would display their misshapen jewelry and handmade cards full of love and bad spelling like gold medals of motherhood. Then there would be the sympathetic looks and arched eyebrows – the ever-present question on everyone’s minds. Any news yet?
    “Hey, sleepyhead. You ever getting up?” Daniel pulled the sheet off of her and kissed the top of her head.
    She rolled over again.
    Opening her eyes, she studied him as he walked away and into the hallway. He’d been up and dressed hours ago. Already taken his five-mile run, showered, eaten his egg white omelet and was now, no doubt, scouring the house for some chore that needed doing. His efficiency exhausted her. She sighed and swung her legs to the side of the bed. She scratched a mosquito bite and felt the stubble on her leg. Better shave.
    She pulled up the shades while waiting for the shower to warm up. A beautiful sunny day. And why wouldn’t it be? Even the weather was paying homage to those deserving mothers being showered with adoration today. Stop being a bitch. It wasn’t their fault that she was still childless and on a collision course with forty. She took her nightgown off and ran a light hand over the bruises from her last I.V.F. cycle. She pursed her lips. Her belly was as empty as their bank account. Or was it? Stop it! I can’t do this again . It is what it is - whatever the hell that stupid cliché was supposed to mean. She wouldn’t know for another two weeks. The routine was automatic now - she’d been through it five times. In the beginning she was optimistic. She had the best fertility doctor in town – he was amazing, and his nurses, well, they were angels. She felt at ease with him as soon as she met him. For the first time in months, she could take a breath. He came as close to understanding what she was going through as any man could. Leaving his office the first day, she was confident that if anyone could help her, he could, and she was ready to do whatever he instructed. After a comprehensive workup he had concluded that her endometriosis was a contributing factor to the infertility. Her husband’s sperm count was fine but not penetrating her eggs. They needed to inject the sperm directly into her eggs rather than wait for them to get there on their own. He recommended a procedure called Intracytoplasmic Sperm Injection (how was that for space-age sounding) or ICSI for short. Just like ICKY which was what the whole process was. Demeaning, painful, and all-consuming. When he first explained the daunting in vitro fertilization process she thought she had heard him wrong.
    “I have to inject my stomach every day with three needles?”
    “Yes, my dear.”
    “And blood tests how often?”
    She didn’t realize she was signing up to be a pincushion.
    “No alcohol, no smoking, no heavy exercise or over-exertion,” he reminded her. “The drugs will make you moody. Your hormones will be all over the place. Take care of yourself. Don’t take on too much. Try to relax.” He handed her a sheet with the detailed instructions.
    Relax? No alcohol? No running? This must be a joke.
    “But my job requires some traveling,” she said.
    He shook his head. “Sorry, Miranda. You need to put your traveling on hold for now.”
    As it turned out, she had to put everything on hold. For the next five years, her life became a merry-go-round of doctor’s appointments, ultrasounds, blood tests, egg retrievals, embryo transfers, and the worst part – waiting for the phone call that would announce if it had been worth it or not. Daniel had soon learned to leave her alone on those days. The first negative result was bearable. After all, it rarely worked on the first try. They had curled up on the sofa, eaten Chinese take-out, and