Dr. D

The first day I met Dr. D he sat at his desk, facing us, drew an upside down diagram of a vagina and used the point of his pen to make spermy little dots. I pointed to it and turned to Mr. J, "In case you need a map."

"I know what I'm doing."

Dr. D laughed, "Of course you do. I haven't drawn the tubes yet."

"You're quite talented at drawing upside down vaginas."

"I've drawn thousands." He smiled as he skillfully finished his upside down reproductive system.

The first time Dr. D said the words, "You're ready," after viewing my mature egg follicles, what I'd dubbed my "egg condos," I gave him a huge hug, the paper still draped over my legs.

The first time he transferred an embryo I thanked him, tears in my eyes. I hugged him because he was the third person in our quest to have a baby. He was the one with the answers, the one with the blinking machines, anesthesiologist and unfortunately, the speculum to boot.

I was used to the tone of his voice, the voice that sang, "Hiiii, Jeanette. This is Dr. Deeeeee," when something was right. His voice changed after all those firsts. Soon it was a very clipped, "Hi, Jeanette. This is Dr. D," no hard D, no sing songiness to allay my fears. He made more of those phone calls than either of us wanted and before long I just shook his hand, mad at him for no good reason.

He called me the day after I miscarried, "I know this is hard. Please come see me." I said I would and when I did, he cleared out the office, no bright-eyed, hopeful women in the waiting room. There were only the pictures of babies with pudgy butts and mommy's hands, pictures I'd stared at wistfully when we first started the process. Pictures that suddenly made me angry when I knew my body was trying to expel the one thing I wanted most. Mr. J and I sat in his office for over an hour while we talked through our cycles, our fears and my tears. He tailored his message with facts, stats and charts for my analytical husband and handed me Kleenex and stories as I cried.

We would keep trying. He knew we could have our own baby.

So we did.

On our fifth cycle I got a call, a sing-songy Dr. D, sounding almost breathless, "We have a perfect embryo. We've never had a perfect embryo. This is good, Jeanette. We'll keep watching. I'll call you tomorrow."

By the time it made it to blastocyst his name was clipped again, "It looks good, no fragmentation, but there aren't as many cells as I would like to support the sac. We can transfer it today, but your chance of pregnancy is 10%."

I told him we'd call him back, hit End, stared at my husband and started sobbing, knowing that another miscarriage was in the immediate future.

We went through with it, 10% better than nothing.

Dr. D called me ten days later, the D rolling off his tongue as a huge smile lit my face, "Your pregnancy test came back positive! I'm so happy for you guys!"

I think I may have danced. Maybe even skipped. Mr. J picked up the phone during a meeting when I called to tell him. I already knew. I'd felt the bubbles as the embryo tried to root around, willing itself possible, burrowing into my blood supply, becoming real.

Dr. D was there when we saw the heartbeat, the flash of light and energy. He was there when we saw the baby move. He'll be there for our baby shower and pictures of our daughter will grace his inbox.

I waited until our little girl was sticky, until we knew she wasn't going anywhere before I said thank you properly. A long, winding card about our journey was not me. A fruit basket felt too contrived. What do you get a man who has given you a child? Cologne? I think not.

I walked into his office last week and caught his eye through the check in window. He was filling out charts, his scrubs on, meaning one thing. He was either harvesting eggs or implanting them, little lives in his capable hands. I let myself in, away from the lobby where families were crossing their fingers and hoping. I didn't want them to see my celebration. It might hurt too much.

Dr. D gave me a big hug and stared at my belly, "Tell me. How are you?" He wanted me to check in, emailing him with updates throughout my pregnancy, giving him glimpses.

"I'm great. It's a girl! I'm twenty weeks." I cradled my belly in my hands.

"That's so wonderful! I'm so happy for you guys!"

I showed him the one gift that I knew he'd appreciate, a cookie cake frosted in pink, "Thanks For Knocking Me Up."

He started laughing, "This has made my day. You know I love cookies." He gestured for the support nurses to grab a camera.

"I couldn't write something sappy, you know that."

"Of course not!"

We laughed, took pictures, hugged again and I promised to keep him posted as Olivia grows. He sent me an email later that evening, copies of the pictures, "Your gift was a hit in the office. Thank you so much. It made my day."

I wondered how I could make his day, a cookie cake could make his day, when he was walking from room to room, shooting miracles and hope from his fingers. Then I realized that behind each door were expectant eyes, anxious fears and hopefulness that could take a toll on a man who wanted science to err in his favor.

I realized that all the pictures of babies in his arms lining the halls were his reward. The evidence of hand holding, tearful conversations and hours squinting through microscopes and cervixes.

It has been a long journey, tough throughout, but it was a blessing to have Dr. D in our lives as we trudged along. Even when his D's were clipped, his compassion burned through the receiver, his hopefulness evident.

And his science and miracles real.