When the Bough Breaks by Ron Wetherington

I had undergone the procedure three times before we gave up: hormone injections, egg extraction, incubation. Those were tense times. I wanted so much for it to succeed, for them to find healthy, mature eggs eager to receive the sperm my (less than eager) husband was prepared to provide.

The first time they were able to incubate only six eggs; eight, the second time. Only five came through in the final effort. None made it to implantation. “It’s always marginal for someone over thirty-five, Kate,” Janet, my doctor, had told me at the beginning. She was soft-spoken and sympathetic, but I was devastated after the third failure. My husband, Larry, remained reluctant to begin a family at midlife but tried to be supportive. I was convinced that he would warm to the idea once we began to decorate the spare bedroom.

“Let’s use an egg donor, Kate,” Janet said toward the end of our session. I shook my head. “Just think about it. Talk with your husband.”

First, though, I called my sister, Natalie. Two years older, never married, an artist and gallery owner, Nat and I had always been close. We were nearly opposites, and so this is confusing to those who don’t know us deeply. She was always the contemplative sister; I was always more carefree. She’s always been tentative, never quick to make friends. I think I was the only one she trusted enough to share feelings with, and I always held her in awe for her quiet intellect. She was possessive about our bond. She had been with me for each procedure. She once confided to me that she had longed to have a child herself—just not a husband. When she started college, she had donated eggs to help with expenses. “Oh, do it, Kat,” she urged, grasping my hands with hers. “You can’t let your dream of motherhood fail on this setback!” She was wistful, a bit teary, and I ached for her.

Larry, though, was not convinced. “Your genes aren’t even involved,” he frowned. “Just mine and—whoever provides the egg!”

“It’s partly me, too,” I protested. “The embryo has my genetic influence from the beginning. It’s my body’s environment—my hormones, my nutrition….” Maybe I was trying too hard to convince him. “My body will decide which of the baby’s genes are turned on and which are turned off.” But Larry is ten years older than me—already in his mid-40s—and consumed by a promising career in software engineering. He should want it as much as I did. We had long conversations. A week later, he agreed that we should move ahead with a donor egg.

~~~

The first trimester was easy. I had no morning sickness and no obsessive food cravings. The OB was pleased with my weight gain. I bought a cradle to celebrate. I put a musical mobile on it that played a nursery rhyme.

Rock-a-bye baby in the tree top;

when the wind blows, the cradle will rock.

I went back to the clinic to visit Janet for additional blood tests. She could see how upbeat I was. “You made a good choice, Kate,” she checked the ultrasound image. “Another couple of weeks and we can tell if it’s a girl or boy!”

“What about the donor?” I wanted to know. “Is she informed how it’s going?”

“Heavens, no!” Janet shook her head. “She never even knows when one of her eggs is used, or if any are used at all.”

I remembered Nat telling me that. “I’d get too emotional if I knew

anything,” she insisted. “I did it myself once when I needed some money, but it was just business—and it was years ago, at Haverford.” I think she was compensating. But she seemed genuinely happy for me!

~~~

A month later Larry, Nat, and I gathered at the clinic, where the OB prepared for the sonogram. Janet was going through my records on-screen as the nurse prepped me on the examining table. She moved the lubricated transducer across my abdomen, slowly back and forth, as they looked at it closely. “There!” the nurse said, finally. “It’s a girl!” They proclaimed it in unison. I couldn’t tell a thing, but of course we were all thrilled.

“Now we know what color to paint the nursery walls.” Larry smiled weakly, and I could tell he was struggling with his misgivings.

“And Aunt Natalie knows just the baby clothes to buy!” my sister proclaimed.

When we rose to leave, Nat held back. “I need to trade some stories with Janet,” she told us. “You guys go ahead.”

~~~

It was late afternoon when Nat came to the house. Larry and I were sitting in the nursery going over paint chips. “Guys,” she said in a somber voice, “I need to tell you something you may not want to hear.” She sat on the edge of a rocker, fidgeting with her hands just as my cell phone chimed—a call from Janet. “Please ignore it!” Nat urged. “Hear me first.”

I looked at her, frightened. “At the clinic, I noticed on Janet’s computer screen a note about Haverford and a mention of Penn Hospital,” she said. “Remember, back when I was at Haverford College, I donated my eggs.” Her voice was tense. “They were extracted at the fertility clinic at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital.” She had stayed behind to have Janet confirm the startling news. She looked at us with a weak smile. “It looks like we’re both going to become mothers, sis,” she said. She sat there, leaning forward, hands folded in her lap. “Is…is that okay with you guys?”

I looked at Nat, dazed beyond words, trying to comprehend. Then Larry and I looked at each other in disbelief. “How could this happen?” I was dumbfounded. Larry reached for my hand, a troubled look spreading across his face. We were all too stunned to say more. Aren’t there any guardrails against this?

I needed to think. But my thoughts were suddenly whirling, as if I were on a grim merry-go-round, circling past Larry, then Janet, then Larry, one after the other…and there was no brass ring. I looked at both of them, “Please, can I be alone for a minute?”

Unsteadily I rose, walked through the kitchen, and out the back door. My April garden was full of early blooms. A floral fragrance I hardly noticed swept toward me on a slight breeze, and I sat on the wooden glider we had placed under a canopy the year before. It was partly hidden, and it usually brought me a feeling of protection and warmth. Not this time.

My mind returned to the conversation Larry and I had months ago; the baby—she—would have my hormonal contribution in the womb, just not my genes. But still just as much a part of me. So convincing those words had been then, but they tasted sour now.

How will Larry, the reluctant father, respond to two partnerships, one in love and one in reproduction? I love my sister dearly but as the biological mother to my biological child, what are her rights? Her desires? How do we manage raising a child whose genes come from three parents? Will we all need to negotiate?

I dabbed my eyes with a tissue from my sleeve. I suddenly needed both of them close, and rose from my seat. They were standing at the kitchen door as I reached it and the three of us hugged. “How do you feel, Kate?” Larry asked softly, tentatively.

“Numb,” I whispered.

“So was I, Sis, when Janet confirmed it,” Nat said. “But it happened.”

Larry gave us a weak smile. “I guess you can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube. But it’s still our baby, Kate.”

“Nothing changes that!” Nat took my hand. “Being her aunt is good enough for me!”

I think these were the words I needed to hear at this point. Our baby! It sounded so family. Being her aunt: a pleasantly comforting phrase. I was not quite so anxious.

Still…I would ask myself in vulnerable moments, I knew, whether Larry would ever feel conflicted as he looked at Nat and me. I would pry into my imagination for signs of seeing any jealousy in my sister’s expression. I was emotionally washed.

We moved back into the nursery and sat. I glanced over at each of them, pressing myself to see the loving husband and supportive sister I knew them each to be. Neither was to blame for any of this and we would all move forward together. This would not be easy, but I knew they were both looking for me to set a positive tone. A healing thought flashed in my head. “Should we pick a name together?” I asked, absently rocking the cradle and setting off the rhyme:

When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall;

and down will come baby, cradle, and all.