Instant Mom by Nia Vardalos Page A

his face to go soft and then grin so I can know he is playing a joke on me. But he is not.
    Something terrible has happened and I am trying to comprehend it. The embryo specialist, next to the fertility doctor, is standing in the doorway. The specialist now closes the door with one hand; his face is filled with anguish. I am terrified, and yet I can feel the palpable sorrow coming from his eyes. It’s difficult to tell anyone something they don’t want to hear. But he’s not just telling us bad news. He is telling us he has made a mistake.
    I am woozy and afraid I will faint. I feel Ian’s arm behind me, keeping me upright. I have just completed yet another round of treatment. It was an especially difficult one. I am so bruised from needles I can’t be touched. I’m bloated from the drugs and I feel sick all the time. Five days ago, Ian confessed he wants me to stop. He said it’s just too much for him to watch me suffer anymore; he doesn’t want me to continue. But I cannot stop. I have to beat this thing. I just have to. So I completed the round of needles, and the eggs were the healthiest the doctors had ever seen. The embryos divided more than they ever had and were very strong. So we came to this room and got ready for the next step. The kind surrogate was prepared, lying down and waiting to have the embryos implanted.
    And a moment ago, the embryo specialist came in and said he’d made a mistake in the lab and my embryos had accidentally fallen into the incubator and been destroyed.
    There is just no way to describe this black pit of silence. The absence of sound feels hollow and unreal. Everyone is still. No one yells, no one cries. We are numb as we try to absorb the news. This has never happened before. Ever. The embryo specialist hangs his head, and the fertility doctor comforts us. The embryo specialist now takes me into his lab and lets me look through the incubator with a microscope—there isn’t any sign of my embryos. They’re gone.
    We silently leave the clinic.
    Later, I get very upset. What else can happen? Why is this not happening for me? But this is not a story about anger.
    Days later, I receive a handwritten letter from the embryo specialist. It chronicles exactly what happened. The letter surprises me because he has put the incident in writing and I am holding a beautiful and heartfelt apology. I keep reading it, profoundly sentient of the courage it took to write it. And I am fully and painfully aware that in this litigious society I am holding something that can be used in court. I could wreak havoc on that clinic; I could make them all pay for my years of anguish. But this is not a story about revenge.
    Soon after, I am summoned to the clinic for a meeting with its panel of doctors. When I enter the clinic, it’s quiet. The sterile fluorescent lights hurt my eyes because my entire body feels exposed and susceptible. I don’t want to be here.
    I round a corner and there he is—the embryo specialist. Without hesitating, we collapse into each other and just hold on. I tell him I accept his apology and more importantly I forgive him for what it was—an accident. This man has brought babies to so many people; he has given happiness to so many. He is a good soul and a kind person and I want to release him from any guilt for his one mistake. Standing here in this hallway, I feel intensely relieved that I can let go of the anger. I feel light. But this is not about mistakes and forgiveness.
    It is a story about knowing when it’s time to move on.

• 6 •
    The Road to Adoption
    It’s 2:00 A.M. and I am on an adoption site, scrolling through the pictures . . . of Petfinder.com. I am taking that fertility doctor’s advice and looking for a dog. I click on one picture of a magnificent yellow Lab. Brown eyes smile back, as if to say, “Pick me.” To be honest, I can’t say I feel anything. My heart feels dead.
    It’s been more than a year of trying to adopt.
    At first, I did a lot of