HEARTBEAT - Cole Askevold
Dates were marked, color coded, and tracked. Multiple alarms were set, appointments scheduled. Images recorded the inside of my uterine lining. The X’s drawn through the squares on my calendar mirrored the X drawn on my ass in permanent marker showing me where to park the 18-gauge needle. The ink bled through the paper calendars, in colors that matched the bruises on my abdomen and the pin prick blood stains on my sheets.
My body has known trauma. I was born into this world three months ahead of schedule, something I’m reminded of every day by the scar from the scalpel that repaired my heart valve. Before the age of ten, I had four eye surgeries, to repair weak eye muscles so that I can see clearly. At age twelve, I walked into a courtroom to testify to his hands below my belt, penetrating with such pain I couldn’t breathe. I’ve hidden behind this trauma, until now.
The curtain has been pulled back, and I wonder, is there really any point anymore, to wearing the hospital gown? At age 35, I signed the consent forms – my hands gripping the pen – accepting fertility treatments. I had no way of knowing I would face faced 1,461 days spent immersed in the process of trying to conceive a human through assisted reproductive technology, consuming medications through injections and oral prescriptions. Schedules were cleared for appointments: blood draws, urine samples, egg retrievals, ultrasounds, psychological evaluations, acupuncture, massages, and an invasive procedure involving blue dye illuminating my fallopian tubes. The results were recorded and read aloud on the way to our next appointment.
The slow motion drive down the curving two-lane Dam Road to the Reproductive Science Center meant the yellow double lines would blur on the way home, as more tears fell after yet another negative pregnancy test. Shifting gears, two lanes became four – the San Ramon Medical center coming into view. We were done fucking around. Seeking the “Egg Whisperer,” we were introduced to Dr. Aimee Eyvazzadeh. The first thing she said to us was, “I’m not an asshole, I read your chart…” In this chart, she saw dates and descriptions amounting to six failed inseminations. Together, we mapped out a new treatment plan. The egg retrieval surgeries would be scheduled before dawn.
The speed limit could not be found in the dark, switching back and forth between high and low beams, winding through the backroads with a lead foot. I was nauseous and it didn’t matter that I was in the driver’s seat. A daily cocktail of fourteen medications, thirteen supplements and three hormone injections all taken within a non-negotiable timeframe demanded that I keep my hands on the wheel and stay within the lines. The roadmap was coded with warning labels, hazardous materials, and if fortunate enough, a North Star to light the way.
Our calculated ninth attempt at becoming pregnant meant another round of in-vitro insemination. A fetal-embryo transfer occurred on 7/14/17. The mantra repeated, again, quietly in our heads, “stick and grow, stick and grow.” The blood test revealed we were pregnant! Counting the calendar days were different this time, with hope for the nine months ahead. I didn’t have a birth plan carefully drawn, only to hope we would come out of this alive.
Towels were being tossed onto the kitchen floor, just before midnight, mopping up the fluid that had just gushed from between my legs and continued to trickle down to my ankles. At 37, I was considered a “high-risk pregnancy” and as my wife drove us to the hospital, I sat in a puddle in the seat beside her, watching the white lights suspended from the Bay Bridge. I tried to keep all lanes open, but soon realized they would be blocked. I took the exit for the epidural willingly. Twenty-three hours into labor and suddenly, within seconds, doctors and nurses formed a team around me in a race against time. Flat on my back, the ceiling lights flashed above me, as I was rushed to the operating room, on what felt like a conveyor belt with alarms announcing, “Emergency Cesarean!” Her heartbeat continued to drop, and the umbilical cord was wrapped tight around her neck. “You will feel pressure…” the nurse said, as the delivery team made the incision. When they pulled my baby from my body, I couldn’t breathe, not until the sound of her scream broke the silence.
In a parking lot, my screams broke the silence on a sunny day in September. Seventeen months after the birth of our daughter, was the miscarriage of her brother. This time, the hospital gown – tied loosely around my body and soaked with tears – wasn’t enough to keep me from shivering as another needle pierced the vein in my left hand. This time was different. At 38, this surgery wasn’t to retrieve more eggs. What was dead inside of me would soon be scraped out of my body. Had it been hours or days prior to the scheduled abortion, 9/3/19, that Dr. Aimee, looked at me and said, “I’m so sorry, there is no heartbeat.” My choice was to endure one last surgical procedure, painful in all its complexities, knowing, after seven weeks, and no heartbeat, I could wait for my body to expel the embryo, or I could have it collected and discarded in a pool of blood I didn’t have to witness on the operating floor.
Blood-stained underwear. This cycle, this period, the one that is about to start from all my calculations and the cramping that’s come on suddenly, is going to be excruciating. An obvious reminder that I am shedding my eggs, again. I’ve written “Cycle Day 1” on the calendar for the last four years. I’ve had four egg retrieval surgeries (trans vaginal aspirations) with 33 eggs harvested and observed beneath a microscope. From these retrievals, only 3 of 33 eggs grew into viable embryos. I am an optimist, but, when Dr. Aimee said, there was “less than 10% chance” to conceive using my own eggs, the end of the road came into focus.
Eight hundred miles away, at the Seattle Sperm Bank, two vials of our donor’s sperm remained. One vial was eligible to be bought back and purchased by clients who have had a “live birth” by the same donor. There would be a client who had a significantly higher chance of success for building their family; I didn’t want that chance to evaporate. In time, we learned, the vial was purchased, and another baby was welcomed into this world, sharing half of the DNA as our daughter. The remaining vial was not eligible for return. It arrived at our doorstep in a blue corrugated box, decorated with red labels. A liquid nitrogen tank, containing the donor’s final contribution. I watched as the gasses evaporated, alongside our hope for another baby.
Knowing it was time to begin to tell our daughter her story, we slowly unpacked the corrugated box. Removed from the canister, the final vial is now resting in resin. Cast from the single liquid nitrogen tank, are twelve hydrocal-cement sculptures mounted to the wall. She points to Vessel No. 9 and is beginning to understand that it represents her journey into this world. The colorful one-inch squares arranged in a grid on a canvas taller than she stands, map the hundreds of appointments. Her yellow square Lego, pressed multiple times into plaster, was used to portray the 1,200 pills I consumed. 241 needles that injected hormone stimulating medications into my body every night between 7-9 p.m. are suspended on the wall above our bed.
These days, my diary has become a sketchbook, with notes written and sometimes read aloud. The ocean within me fluctuates like the storm being whipped up by the clouds. How do I stand up strong when my feet start to sink into the sand? When I am in pieces, and the stones are being tossed around, can the rough edges ever be rounded? I want her to know, even when the weather changes, I will never leave her behind. Instead, I will wrap her up, beneath the blankets and hold on tight, and listen to our hearts beat.