One left in the Chamber

I open the mail. A letter with a due date and a requested amount of 100 dollars is due to Boston IVF. Every month, I pay $ 100 for one frozen embryo.

My son puts his feet out in front of him while he hangs off the couch. I slide on his socks.

It feels both extreme and silly for something so important. I keep telling myself we’ll stop paying once we decide. Whenever the thought comes up, I choke. I know our family is set, but I would love a third. It feels balanced even though it's odd. A beginning, middle, and end like a storybook. A darkness also sits in my mind: we could move forward, and it could not work out, and then it would be final, and I would no longer have the choice to wonder.

My daughter babbles with Cheerios hanging from her mouth. I laugh in exhaustion as both my husband and I try to get the kids ready for school.

We have two beautiful kids. A third would be too much. But something about it being the last embryo makes me wonder what will happen to it. The choices spin in my head: keeping it frozen and paying each month, donating it to another family, donating for research, or letting it go. None of the options feel simple. I think about what each option would mean, and sometimes I wish someone else could decide for me.

“I don’t want to go to school!” He protests as I wrangle a sneaker onto a flailing foot. 

It took us three years of trying with no baby to accept we needed to try something different. Four failed IUIs before we concluded IVF was the only way. The procedure yielded four good embryos. I wasn’t sure if I should be happy or sad at the number. After two years, I expected to feel relieved, but anxiety gnawed at me like a rabid dog.

I pick up the baby. Her clothes feel wet. I hope it's water; I pray it isn’t a blowout I’m woefully unprepared for. I pull a diaper from the drawer and search, panicked, for wipes.

Only one try to get our first. A beautiful boy with curling black hair, smiling eyes, and a firm grasp of my finger when I held him in the hospital for the first time. I was terrified then. The delivery was a disaster that ended in a C-section, and I swore I’d never do it again. I built an entire life in my mind for my single child. Then I looked at him. He didn’t look alien as I had prepared for. He looked ready to walk out the door with his big brown eyes and tight, chubby body. I gazed at him, half delirious, half in awe at this small human I was responsible for. One felt perfect and the right number of children for me, especially as we signed the discharge papers and said it was time to leave. 

“We’re going to be late!” My husband calls out to me as I try to change my daughter. My face is hot with frustration.

We didn’t try again for two years. But time felt like a scolding nun as we waited for that first appointment. The second time wasn’t as fluid. I didn’t feel as ready for some reason, even though I knew the process. The chair felt more uncomfortable, the devices colder, the insertion painful. I left hand in hand with my husband smiling, but tears pricked my eyes. Happy tears, I told him. But I wasn’t happy. I wanted it to work more because I didn’t want to do that again.

“Why can’t I stay home!” my son shouts as I try to buckle his car seat. “I need to go to work!” I try to explain in a sing-songy voice. My brain hums; I need quiet and coffee.

It didn’t, and we started over.

My baby girl cries, upset to be constrained in her car seat across from her brother. My head pounds at the sound of both of them in tears.

The third time worked, and nine months later, a beautiful girl. As I curled next to her, I thought I should feel done. I had two beautiful children; the process worked. But with every passing month, I felt I was pulling a string that was only unraveling. Their baby faces were fleeting as they walked and talked, babbled, and tried new things every day. I wasn’t sure if I yearned for another, or for them to be small again. All I knew was I didn’t feel ready to close that door completely.

Back home from school, my son pulls me in for a hug. His cheeks are sticky. I kiss his nose. He giggles and snuggles into my lap.

The love I have for them is so fragile, like catching the sea breeze in a bottle and spending the rest of my life keeping it plugged, knowing it's in there but too afraid to do anything drastic like open it up for fear I’ll lose it. I hold them close with admiration and anxiety, making every minute one I feel I must enjoy.

My daughter’s toes wiggle in my hand as I hold her to my hip. She watches intently as I stir soup. Little dimples dent into her cheeks as she smiles a toothless grin.

We talked about a third. My husband explained that it would be too much financially; we’d need a new car, everything would get more expensive, and we don’t have a fourth bedroom, so one kid would have to double up. We wouldn’t fit comfortably on planes, and we may not be able to travel as often. The reasons were endless. I agreed vigorously, kissed him good night, and silently wept into my pillow. He rubbed my back and offered a remedy: what about a puppy?

My son pulls himself up on the stool. “I got in, mama, I don’t need help.” I pull my fingers back from the toothbrush, not wanting to steal his thunder.

I can’t have a third.

My daughter coos in her sleep sack, her head rests on my chest, and I breathe in her hair.

I want one more.

My son crawls into bed. “The dragon one!” I turn on the side lamp.

We logically can’t do it.

My daughter stirs in her sleep as I gently lay her in the crib.

I miss infancy.

They are asleep, and for a moment the house is completely quiet. I hear the TV click below and muffled voices from a show we’ve been crawling through. I miss him as well. I creep down the stairs to curl into my husband’s arms. Some days our relationship is reduced to a goodnight kiss. It's nice when we have more than an hour together, just the two of us.

We won’t move forward with a third. A hole shrinks within me but doesn’t disappear. I don’t know when it will, but I know this is it. Our family is complete even if I don’t feel it yet. I tuck the bill back into the stack.

I’ll pay the bill tomorrow.