“Now, there’ll be a little pressure as I move around to get a good look-see.”
Oh. My. Gosh.
The saline ultrasound apparently involves inserting a good old-fashioned speculum like during a pap smear, then sending in a catheter, pulling out the speculum, sending in the ultrasound probe and flushing saline solution into my uterus.
Yeah.
But, like Ian says, if you want something bad enough, you’ll do whatever it takes to get it.
Dr. Ingraham grabs a tube of goopy-looking lube and squirts about a cup and a half up and down the ultrasound probe. Which, I kid you not, is wrapped in a condom. He rubs the goop up and down its length.
I look at Josh to see how he’s taking it.
And you know what, for the first time ever, Josh Lewenthal does not look amused. He looks like he has absolutely no idea what to do with himself, where to look, or how to act.
“How you doing over there?” I whisper.
Josh leans toward me and then shrugs. “Not so great.”
“Why?”
“I’m feeling really insecure in my manhood. Have you seen the size of that thing?” He nods at the ginormous strangely penile probe in Dr. Ingraham’s hand. “That’s gotta be an XXL Trojan at the very least.”
I can’t help it, I laugh, and then cover my mouth with my hand and try to hold it in. Josh smiles at me, and suddenly, this moment isn’t nearly half as awkward as it could be.
Dr. Ingraham starts the ultrasound and describes everything he sees in detail.
“This is your uterus, it tips forward. See that? Some uteruses tip backward. Hmm. Your lining looks appropriate for where you are in your menstrual cycle. That’s good. I don’t see any fibroids or problems with the uterus muscle.”
I look at the screen and then back at Josh. He’s watching me, avoiding looking down at the ultrasound end of the room. When he sees me turned toward him he smiles and winks.
Dr. Ingraham continues. “Over here is your ovary. These little black circles are follicles, the special cysts that contain eggs. I can count them…let’s see, twelve. Good. That’s in the range I’d expect. This area here is a cyst which looks like endometriosis…”
He keeps talking as he probes around, describing everything. There’s my ovaries. My uterus. Some follicles. Evidence of endometriosis.
Every now and then I sneak a glance at Josh. For the whole ultrasound he keeps his face turned toward mine. Which, you know, for Josh, really is kind of sweet.
Finally, Dr. Ingraham, pulls the ultrasound probe and the catheter out.
“That’s that. Everything looks good. Your swimming pool is ready for a swimmer. We can start IVF at the beginning of your next cycle. That’s depending on the quality of sperm, of course.” He turns to Josh. “It all depends on you, champ.”
It’s my turn to look at Josh and give him a reassuring smile.
I sit in the lobby while I wait for Josh to finish up in “The Production Room.”
I cross and uncross my legs, shifting impatiently as I glance at the clock. What’s taking so long? He’s been back there at least fifteen minutes.
After the ultrasound, Dr. Ingraham ran over my bloodwork and urine. Everything looked good, my AMH, my thyroid, my STD tests, everything was normal. Josh had his blood taken for STDs and then a nurse with a pixie cut and sequined glasses led him away to produce a sample.
I glance at the clock. That was seventeen minutes ago.
Two couples have been called to the back.
There are only three other couples left in the room and a woman sitting by herself in the corner. She has a magazine held in front of her, and she’s wearing a wig, a baseball hat and huge sunglasses. In New York City, the only thing that can mean is she’s either a fugitive from justice, or she’s anywhere from mildly to wildly famous and doesn’t want to be spotted by the autograph-seeking masses around her.
I try to ignore everyone. I tap my foot and stare at the big Georgia O’Keeffe painting on the far wall.
When I’ve nearly decided that the painting is one hundred percent definitely a flower, not part of the female anatomy like I thought last time, my phone buzzes.
I open my purse and look at the screen.
It’s a text from Josh.
Josh: I’m in the production room.
I stare at the phone, mystified as to what I’m supposed to say to that.
Gemma: Okay?
Josh texts a picture. It’s of a room. I’m guessing it’s “The Production Room.” Unfortunately, it’s also the saddest, most depressing-looking room I’ve ever seen. It’s about six foot by four foot. The walls are stark white and the floor is old gray tile. There’s one of those wall collection metal shelves for the sample jar, a tissue dispenser in the wall, a garbage can, and printed instructions taped to the wall. That’s it. No color, no decoration, no dirty magazines, no flat screen TV playing porn to get a guy in the mood. Nothing.