Free Bringing in Finn by Sara Connell

in a cooler, just like an organ for transplant. The lab would run tests the same day and provide a report for volume, motility (how many were swimming), and morphology (how many were a normal shape).
    The morning of our joint tests involved a lot of shuttling back and forth between the lab, examination rooms, bathroom, and main waiting room. When we were finally done, we met in the waiting room and walked to the car together.
    â€œIt was a bad cliché,” Bill said when we reached the lobby. “I don’t know what the women’s test rooms look like, but mine was a seven-by-nine-foot room with a black La-Z-Boy chair and a table. The nurse hands me a cup and leaves. There’s instructions on the table telling me to collect as much of my ejaculate as possible and then fill out my name and social security number and avoid any spillage on the label. Really arousing. And you should see the material they have in there: two magazines, Playboy and Maxim, as if
we’re fifteen. Some more variety and better ambience would have been nice,” Bill finished.
    â€œThey’re not running a gentlemen’s club,” I said.
    â€œWell, then, they should let partners come in. I could have been done in three minutes if you were in there with me.”
    â€œThat’s sweet,” I said. “Don’t think they’d go for it, though.”
    â€œYeah, well, I got it done,” he said. “I really don’t like pressured donations, though,” Bill said. “Did you know that’s what they call it?” he said, revving up again. “My donation,” he repeated as he got into the car.
    I couldn’t help laughing.
    â€œYeah, hilarious,” he said. “You didn’t just have to masturbate in a doctor’s office.”
    â€œI’d take masturbation over the uterine crunch,” I said, the memory of the previous week’s test lingering.
    â€œI don’t know,” Bill said. “I feel dirty.” But he was grinning.
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    Rachel called us to schedule a review appointment with Dr. Colaum once our results came back. Bill and I shuffled meetings and client sessions to make room for the consultation. We’d made the trip enough times to know it would be a minimum of three hours door-to-door.
    â€œThe good news is that you have all the necessary parts to have a child,” Dr. Colaum told us as we sat facing her desk once again. “Sara, you have great eggs, follicles, uterus, and open tubes. Bill, your sperm rate is high in both mobility and motility.”
    Bill had announced on the drive that his “boys” were going to be pronounced stellar. He flashed a proud smile.
    â€œWe have a number of options,” Dr. Colaum continued, “in terms of assisted fertility.” In the past few weeks, Bill and I had talked to a handful of people who had seen fertility specialists.
The majority of them had been prescribed Clomid, which we knew wouldn’t work for us because I had empty sella. One couple had done artificial insemination, and they knew a few others who had gone through IVF. All I really knew of IVF was that it was emotionally intense and carried a shocking price tag. I hoped Dr. Colaum would recommend something more moderate.
    â€œWhat I suggest we try first,” Dr. Colaum said, “is what we call follicle stimulation, or stim.”
    No IVF. I leaned back into the chair, shifting my back on the cool leather, and allowed myself to relax a little bit.
    â€œIs there any way we could get pregnant on our own?” Bill interrupted.
    â€œYou could—possibly. But you could also try for years before becoming pregnant, or not become pregnant at all.” Dr. Colaum paused. “I don’t recommend it for you.”
    A puff of air escaped my lips. I wasn’t surprised, but it was hard to hear officially that we had little chance of natural conception.
    The evening of our joint tests, Bill and I had talked about