Harrison eyes me, no doubt noticing the gravity of my voice. “OK,” he says.
I open my mouth—even though I still have no idea where to begin—but then the door opens and Dr. Keenan Hobbes breezes into the room, greeting us without so much as an apology for the wait. Deep lines carve his face, making him look more grave than necessary. Or maybe it’s that I hope he looks more grave than necessary.
When he’s finally settled at his desk, he leans forward, the light reflecting off his shiny dome, unconcealed by the few white hairs combed over it. He clasps his hands together, fingers interlocked. Looks at me. “Well, the good news is your eggs are fine,” he says. “Healthy, and you’ve got a lot of them left. We like to see that.”
I try to exhale, but the tightness in my lungs remains. I eye him warily. “And the bad news?”
He waits a beat, glances down at the notes beneath his hands as if he needs to confirm the news he’s about to deliver. “The genetic testing found an issue with the sperm.” He looks at Harrison.
“Really,” Harrison says, genuinely surprised. I am, too, considering Dr. Hobbes seemed pretty sure at my first visit that Harrison’s “swimmers” weren’t the problem.
“You have what’s called balanced translocation.”
Eyes wide, I sit back, having never heard that term before. I turn to Harrison, like I do every time I need something medical explained, but he looks as flummoxed as I am.
Dr. Hobbes shifts in his chair, causing the leather to squeak unpleasantly. “If you remember from your science lessons in school, we all have twenty-three pairs of chromosomes. When he was conceived, a couple of Harrison’s chromosomes got mixed up, attaching in the wrong places. That happens to about one in five hundred of us, and most people don’t even know. He’s got all the genetic material he requires, so he developed normally. Problem occurs when people with balanced translocation go to reproduce.”
“Wait . . . you’re saying I have a chromosome disorder?” Harrison says, cutting him off.
“Yeah,” Dr. Hobbes says. “Essentially.”
“Huh.”
I look from Dr. Hobbes to Harrison and back again. “So what does all of this mean?”
“In the most basic terms, you guys are experiencing a mismatch. The sperm carries the dad’s half of the DNA for the baby, right? But if that particular sperm that makes it to the egg happens to have the mix-up, the DNA won’t line up correctly with the chromosomes of the egg, causing either extra genetic material or not enough, which often leads to a miscarriage or, if carried to term, can cause pretty severe birth defects.”
I pause, trying to comprehend it all, but I’m stuck on the first thing he said. “Harrison and I are a . . . mismatch?”
“Well, your egg and sperm, anyway,” Dr. Hobbes clarifies.
I swallow past the wet cotton ball now lodged in my throat and blink. “So that’s it—we can’t have a baby?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. A lot of couples that are balanced translocation carriers do go on to conceive and have perfectly healthy babies, in time. But your chance of having a miscarriage is greater than normal—as you’ve experienced—which can obviously be emotionally taxing.”
“Mm,” I say, glancing at Harrison. That’s an understatement. I hear his phone vibrate and he digs it out of his pocket.
“Some couples prefer to go the IVF route, combined with PGD—preimplantation genetic diagnosis—which can spot an abnormality in the embryo before it’s implanted, thereby only implanting healthy embryos.”
“So—we have options,” I say, the vise grip on my chest finally loosening.
“You have options,” Dr. Hobbes agrees.
I reach for Harrison’s hand and squeeze, but he doesn’t squeeze back. He’s looking at his phone. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to run,” he says, dropping my hand and standing up. “I’m on call today.”
“Of course,” Dr. Hobbes says. He turns to me. “Mia, why don’t we go through any questions you may have and then you and Harrison can talk things over later and come up with a plan for what you might want to do.”
“OK.” But when I look to Harrison for agreement, his eyes don’t meet mine. He’s turned toward the door, his thoughts already on whatever emergency is calling him to the hospital. He puts his hand on my shoulder, but before I can even cover it with mine, it’s gone. And then so is my husband.
* * *
Later that evening, Harrison comes home to eat and change before he has to go back to the hospital. He’s on call through the night and sometimes it’s easier for him to stay there, rather than drive back and forth every time he gets summoned.
I spent the afternoon researching all of the terms and options Dr. Hobbes and I briefly went through that afternoon, and now I’m near bursting with thoughts about it all. While Harrison was heating up leftover chili and then eating it, I started running down all the pros and cons of IVF and genetic testing.
“I know it’s expensive,” I say, following him into our bathroom, where he starts brushing his teeth at the sink. “But I did get an interview today—for that job you mentioned at the community college. If I get it, maybe it could help offset the cost.” I don’t actually think I’ll get it—I was pretty floored to have even gotten a response, considering I have no teaching experience—but it doesn’t feel prudent to mention that now.
Harrison spits and hangs his toothbrush back up in its wall holder. Then he puts both hands on the counter and stares into the mirror.
“What are you thinking?” I ask. “You haven’t said much.”
“It’s a lot to take in,” he says, running some water into his hand. He swishes it around in his mouth and spits again.
“I know. It really is a lot of money.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not worried about the cost.”
Suddenly I feel foolish. “God, are you upset about the chromosome disorder? I mean, of course you are. That was a shock to me—I can’t imagine how you must be feeling.”
“Yeah,” he says. “That was . . . unexpected. And I do feel bad—awful, really—that it’s my fault this keeps happening.”
“It’s not your fault, though. How could we have known? But now that we do know . . .”
He shakes his head and then squeezes past me in the doorway and starts unbuttoning his shirt. I go sit on the bed, pulling my knees up to my chest. I scrutinize him. Sometimes talking with Harrison is like one big guessing game, analyzing every head tilt and grunt and then asking follow-up questions until I get to the heart of what’s bugging him. This is one of those times. “Harrison, talk to me.”