Free Bringing in Finn by Sara Connell Page B

stay positive and connected to each other throughout the process. When Bill arrived home with flowers and a bag of groceries to make dinner, I told him I’d be giving myself the shot.
    He didn’t argue.
    Bill cooked dinner and I laid out the supplies. When I had everything assembled, he filled two small flutes with champagne a friend had given him the day he left the ad agency where we’d met to start his own firm, almost exactly one year after we’d moved back from England. Over two nail-biting years, he’d build the business from nothing into a legitimate creative group that now supported the full-time salaries of himself and his best friend and creative partner.
    Starting our fertility journey with a gift from another successful
venture seemed auspicious, like breaking a champagne bottle over the bow of a boat. “You won’t be able to drink this once we’re pregnant,” Bill said.
    â€œWoohoo,” I replied, taking a glass. We clinked the rims, and I took a small sip before quickly replacing the glass on the countertop. I had a task to attend to, and my hand was already shaking. Summoning courage, I pulled up my shirt and swabbed a patch of skin with alcohol. Bill filled the Follistim pen to the 150-millimeter mark and handed it to me, needle side facing him, the way you would pass scissors. I held the needle, poised an inch from my body, and then stopped. I couldn’t bring myself to inject. It suddenly seemed crazy to stick myself voluntarily, and equally silly to be afraid. I’d been stung by bees, by a wasp, and even once by a jellyfish. I doubted if it would hurt more than stubbing a toe, but I was paralyzed.
    I held my hand there for another couple of seconds, looking at Bill, frozen in that preshot position. I wondered if diabetics felt this way before they administered their first insulin injection. It would take some getting used to. Finally, I plunged the needle into my skin and pressed the top of the pen firmly until all the medication had drained from it. Then I counted to three, as the pamphlet suggested, to ensure the medication was absorbed.
    â€œThree!” Bill said, finishing the count with me.
    I left the needle in for another few seconds—just to be sure—and then pulled out the pen and rubbed my skin with another alcohol swab. Bill peered at me, waiting. I shrugged and then began laughing. I’d hardly felt the needle, just the tiniest sting, less painful than the scratch of a fingernail. “That was easy,” I said, wiping my eyes on a napkin, feeling relieved and empowered.
    â€œOne down, twelve to go,” Bill said.

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    The nightly injections marked the countdown to our medically scheduled sex. As we approached our three-day window, Bill started dropping things and swearing a lot more in the kitchen. The day of our first scheduled “session,” I was lying on our bed naked, inviting the awe that accompanied the fact that this might be the moment our first child was conceived. Bill, meanwhile, was doing his kind of animal pacing back and forth across the room, still fully clothed. I asked him what was wrong.
    â€œI’m the one who has to perform here,” Bill said.
    â€œAt least we get to have sex, right?” I said, trying to break through his anxiety. Normally, Bill would have pounced on the bed. In the entire time I’d known him, I’d never experienced him be anything but wildly enthusiastic about sex. His only complaint had ever been “not enough.”
    Also, in the entire time we’d been together he had never had difficulty achieving or maintaining an erection, nor had he failed to climax. He was a virile guy. Despite this, he was disturbed. “It’s fine for you,” he said, pulling off his shirt and boxers and throwing them into a pile on the floor. “You can just lie there and do nothing, and it could still work.”
    I decided not to respond to his interpretation of my