That number represents our chances of getting pregnant each month, according to the doctor we saw this morning (when we conceived Ava, our odds were more like 18% to 20%). If we undertake IUI, that goes up another 2%. If we do IUI with a drug like clomid or letrozol, we get another 2%. So we’re looking at 6%, solely because we’re old. It’s a bitter pill to swallow. But like all bitter pills, the taste fades, particularly in the bright light of a fond memory.
We were all hustling to get ready this morning so we could drop off Ava and still make it to our appointment at the infertility clinic at 8. I fed Ava and got her dressed while Leah showered and did her hair, then I sent her upstairs to get her teeth brushed. After I cleared the breakfast dishes, I went up to see how things were coming along. Ava was just finishing up. I ambushed her as she was coming out of the bathroom and knelt to give her a big hug. She was so warm and cuddly in her brown sweater, and she gave me an earnest squeeze. When we parted, I looked at her. In the instant before she ran off down the hallway, I caught a look on Ava’s face that I couldn’t interpret. There was a smile, and her eyes almost spoke to me, “You’re my daddy. I’m happy. I’m content.” And then she was gone.
I’m projecting, of course. Ava was more likely simply excited about getting downstairs or finding a favorite book or just running down the hall. My love for this little girl is such a silly, capricious love. It’s fanciful. It’s a glass of champagne caught in flickering candlelight, all golden and bubbly and delicately fizzy. When she hugs me like this — for these couple seconds — there is nothing incomplete in the world. Everything is total. Whole. One hundred percent. It’s a difficult sensation to describe. It’s not that time stops, more that it extends out to infinity in every direction for just a little bit, and in every direction there’s only this crazy, exhilarating emotion flowing from this little girl in the brown sweater.