Love You More(52)

“I’m okay,” I say.

“How was your eulogy?”

“I think I did a decent job.”

Lesli nods. “How’s Phoebe?”

“Putting on a brave face. I don’t think it’s fully sunk in yet.” I almost say more, then stop. “I have a lot to catch you up on. A lot.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Uh-oh.”

“We’ll talk tonight,” I say. “But I promise not to be a downer.”

“Pfft.” She rolls her eyes. “You know I don’t care about my birthday.”

“Still,” I say.

Lesli smiles, thanks me again for the flowers, then pauses. “I know you lost your best friend. And nobody can replace her. But I’m here for you.”

The words settle something inside me. “Thank you, Lesli,” I say, blinking back tears.

She offers me a small, steady smile, then turns to go.

I gather myself and get back to work.



* * *



— Later that morning, I walk into the egg retrieval room. Sophie looks up from her phone.

“Good morning,” I say, keeping my tone bright. It’s a hopeful day, even against the backdrop of stage four cancer. “How are you feeling?”

“Weirdly calm,” she says, sliding her phone into her bag. “And even more weirdly excited.” She lets out a short, tight laugh.

“I’m glad to hear that—and it’s not at all weird,” I say. “Now let’s get those eggs!”

I shift into surgeon mode, giving her instructions, handing her a gown and a blanket. “In case you get chilly.”

I think of Joan and Phoebe—how satisfying it felt to tuck them in at night; how sometimes care is as simple as warmth and witness.

I step out of the room and begin my usual prep routine: tying my hair back, putting on a surgical cap and gown, scrubbing in until the world narrows to ritual.

A few minutes later, I am back in the retrieval room, where my PA lines up my instruments, and our anesthesiologist begins the sedation process.

Sophie gives me a foggy smile before her eyes flutter closed.

The room is dim, save for the focused glow of the ultrasound monitor. The anesthesia trace blips in the sterile hush.

It’s time to begin.

I guide the needle with practiced ease, watching the black ovals come into view—tiny follicles, each one a fragile possibility.

I aspirate the first follicle, the fluid filling the tube. My PA hands it off to the embryologist waiting behind the window.

One egg.

We move through them methodically. On number seven, the follicle wall looks thin. I slow my hand, adjust. The catheter stills; the screen clears.

“Seven…eight,” I whisper.

When I’ve gotten them all, I strip off my gloves and step back, my pulse slowing.

A few minutes later, Sophie starts to wake up.

“It’s done,” I tell her, bending to meet her gaze. “We got eight.”

Her lips part, and I see relief settle across her face.

“Eight,” she whispers.

Tears slip down her cheeks, but her smile holds.

I step out of the room and return a few minutes later. Sophie is sitting upright on the edge of the chair. Her hands are neatly folded in her lap, her expression alert.

“You did great,” I say, perching on my exam stool. “Eight eggs. That’s fantastic news.”

She smiles, her eyes filling.

I give her a few seconds for the emotion to settle.

“So…what now?” she asks.

“We wait,” I say. “And pray—if that’s your thing.”

“When will we know more?”

“I’ll call you tomorrow with the maturity report and keep in close touch.”

“Thank you,” she says. “For everything.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, reaching for her hand, breaking my usual protocol. I give it a quick squeeze. “I’ll be thinking of you.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.”

As I leave the room and walk down the hallway, I can’t shake the look on Sophie’s face—grateful, vulnerable, brave.

She trusts me. That’s what this work demands—faith in others. Maybe life does, too.

I return to my office, thinking of how scared Erin was when she brought Phoebe home from the hospital. She told me once—quietly, like it was a confession—that the first night, she kept getting up to check Phoebe’s breathing. I pictured her barefoot in her robe, her hair wet from a rushed shower, Phoebe’s bottle tucked under her arm, the floor scattered with burp cloths—exhausted but always trying. It occurred to me that parenting, like medicine, is mostly about showing up and doing your best, even when there are no guarantees.



* * *



— Just after six p.m., once we’ve wrapped up our charts and changed clothes in the restroom, Lesli, Greer, and I shut down the clinic and head outside into the cool, clear evening. Before we can call an Uber, Lesli hails a taxi, giving our cabbie an address. A few minutes later, we pull up to a random bistro on a nondescript block.

As I pay the driver and we all pile out of the car, Greer eyes the entrance with quiet judgment.

“How did you pick this place?” she asks Lesli. “Have you been here before?”