Rogue Cowboy (18 page)

Disappointment floods my system as the doctor’s words ring in my ears.  “
I’m sorry, Ava and Jeremy, the transfer was unsuccessful.”

Fuck, it hurts.  It hurts deep in my heart.  It’s all-consuming, the kind of pain that settles in your soul and just won’t ease.

“Are you okay, honey?” Jeremy asks, leading me inside our home.

I shrug, not having the energy to speak, and not knowing what to say, even if I did have the words.

“Why don’t you go and lie down.”

I nod and move to the bedroom to lie down.  It hurts him, too.  I know it does.  When the doctor broke the news, I could see the tears in his eyes.  He wants this just as much as me.

I hear him on the phone and then he comes to stand at the bedroom door.

I pat the bed beside me and he climbs in.  Snuggling into his chest, I try to give him as much comfort as I can, while I receive his comfort in return.

“I’m sorry, babe,” I finally whisper.  “I’m so sorry.”  Tears sneak down my cheeks, wetting his chest, but he makes no effort to move.

“Don’t,” he warns.  “Don’t fucking apologise.  This is
not
your fault.”

“I really thought it was going to work,” I admit.

“Me, too, honey.  Me, too.”

“Are you ready for today?”  Dr Jacoby asks.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I answer, trying to smile, but failing miserably.

Today is our final transfer day.  Since our first two transfer attempts failed, we’ve decided if this doesn’t work, then we will give IVF a break for at least twelve months.  After that, we’ll decide whether we want to go through the entire process again (since this transfer will be the last of our embryos) or whether we’ll look into adoption.

After the first attempt failed, Jeremy and I were both destroyed.  The last shred of hope that my soul was clutching onto was shattered.

We took comfort in the fact there were still two more viable embryos we could try with, but we wanted to wait until we were emotionally strong enough before we attempted another transfer.

It was a good thing we did wait, because that attempt failed as well.  I don’t think we could have sustained the heartache if we had gone ahead with another transfer so close to the last one.  We took the time and healed emotionally.

Once again, we waited, taking comfort that there was still one more embryo.  One more try.

Third time lucky, right?

Well, with our luck, that rule probably didn’t apply…

Doctor Jacoby completes the transfer and then makes us another appointment.

“We’re actually going away for four weeks, next week.  Would it be possible to wait until we return before I have the bloods done?”

“Of course.  Where are you off to?” she asks, flicking through her calendar.

“We’re taking our son to Western Australia.”  I smile.  This trip will be a good thing for all of us.  We’re excited, and can’t wait to see if everything will work out.

You see, about eight weeks ago, I watched a program on television about the positive effect camel milk was having on certain people.  I stayed up late for nights on end researching everything I could about it, and I was particularly interested to see that the milk can have an astounding effect on people with autism.

That night, I woke Jeremy up at two a.m. to explain what I had found.  Right then and there we decided we’d go to Western Australia to see if it will help Oscar. 

“Okay, so I’ll make you an appointment for five weeks’ time.  Try to refrain from using over the counter pregnancy tests, because they can give a false reading.”

“I’ll wait for the blood tests,” I assure her.  I have no desire to find out any earlier, mainly because I’m so confident the transfer will fail, I’m happy to put off receiving the results for months!

“Good luck with your trip.  If you have any concerns while you’re away, please don’t hesitate to call me.”

“Thanks so much.”

In the past, each time I have left the clinic, I’ve felt the tiniest bloom of hope in my bones.  But, leaving there this time, I realize there’s no hope at all.

In fact, I’m so doubtful this transfer will be successful, that if anyone asked me to place a bet with them, I’d bet the family farm.

***

One week later, we’re climbing into our rental car outside the Perth airport.  Last night, we had a barbeque at Laura and Luke’s house before we left. 

Jules announced she was pregnant again, and even though I was happy for her, it still hurt me deeply.  So deeply that I gave in to my tears and had a breakdown – a breakdown Sienna witnessed.

I managed to pull myself together, and after congratulating Jules, I pushed it to the back of my mind, intent on enjoying our holiday.

We drive for a few hours until we reach the camel farm where we’ll be trialling the camel milk on Oscar.

“Welcome to Spring Farm.  I’m Bob.”  A middle-aged man introduces himself, extending his hand to us.

“G’day mate, glad to be here.  I’m Jeremy, this is my wife, Ava, and our son, Oscar.”

“Nice to meet you.”  I shake his hand.

“I went on a plane,” Oscar offers.  In the last year or so, he’s slowly stopped referring to himself in third person.  To begin with, it wasn’t an issue, but the older he got, the more concerned I became that he may get teased in school for it.  So, during his therapy appointments we began focusing on that.  He still slips up every now and again – especially when he’s excited - but for the most part he speaks about himself in first person.

“Did you, mate.  By crikey, that would have been fun,” Bob says cheerfully.

“Are those the camels?” Oscar asks, wide-eyed.

“They sure are.  Would you like to take a closer look?” he asks, but Oscar’s already racing toward the massive animals.

As Oscar pats the camels, Bob speaks to Jeremy and me about the effects of camel milk.

“It’s high in calcium, iron, proteins and vitamins, and what some people might not realise is, it’s the closest milk to a mother’s milk you can find.  It’s also low in fat and is easily digestible for people who are lactose intolerant.”

“In my research I found it can help children with autism?”  My statement comes out as a question and I realize I need his reassurance that what I read is true.

He nods.  “That’s correct.  Like everything, there’s no guarantee, but I’ve certainly seen, firsthand, the positive effects of it with children with autism.”

“Okay, so where do we go from here?”  Jeremy asks.

“I would suggest giving him half a glass of the milk each morning for one week.  If you don’t see an improvement, move up to a full glass and we’ll go from there.”

The next morning, I pour Oscar half a glass of camel milk.  It looks like regular cow’s milk, but Bob advised it might have a slightly salty taste to it.  We’re at a motel just a few minutes from Bob’s farm, and he invited us back there today so Oscar could ride one of the camels.  Then, he’s going to let Oscar help him milk them.

“Wake up, buddy,” I say, kissing his forehead.

“Are we going to see the camels again?” he asks, his voice husky from sleep.

“We sure are.  Jump up and have the special milk Bob sent over, then we’ll get ready and go.”

At that moment, Jeremy comes out of the shower, a towel slung low around his hips.  My mouth waters.  Damn, my husband is delicious.  Beads of water roll over the contoured muscles of his washboard stomach and I can’t help but lick my lips.

“Stop it,” he growls.  I look down to see his cock jerk beneath the towel.

“I can’t help it.” I shrug, grinning mischievously.

He shakes his head, a smile playing on his lips.  Then he disappears into the master bedroom to change.

Oscar drinks his milk, the different taste not worrying him in the slightest.

“Yum,” he says, wiping his hand across his mouth when he is finished.  “Can we go now?”

“As soon as you’re dressed.”

He runs off to change and I debate whether to go and
help
Jeremy get dressed or not.  I don’t get to make a decision though, because he walks out wearing his jeans and unbuttoned shirt.  His tanned skin begs to be licked and I ache to run my fingers over his body.

As he stalks towards me, he begins buttoning his shirt.  I pout, not wanting the view to be gone.  He reaches me and wraps his hand around the back of my neck, tugging me into him.  Then, his lips come down on mine and he kisses me deep.  His tongue sweeps into my mouth and he pushes me into the bench, trapping me against him.

My fingers thread into his hair and I grip him, holding him to me.

“Ready!” Oscar shouts, breaking our moment.

Jeremy curses and I laugh.

“Come on, boys.  Let’s go.”

After two mornings of Oscar drinking the camel milk, Jeremy and I notice a dramatic change in his behaviour.  His concentration improves, his hyperactivity lessens, he begins to express himself emotionally with more ease, and he starts making eye contact when he’s speaking.

He’s like a completely different child, but still the same one.

The biggest positive is the fact
he
seems happier within himself.

After three and a half weeks in Western Australia, we board the plane to return home.  Bob has vowed to send us shipments of camel milk each week, but Jeremy and I have been talking about purchasing our own camel to milk.  The milk is expensive, and because it’s not available in stores, the price tag is even higher – not to mention the added cost of shipping it over.

Jeremy’s parents – Maggie and Scott – meet us at the airport to take us home.  They, too, are stunned with the calmer version of their grandson.

“It’s simply amazing,” Maggie says in wonderment.  “I just can’t believe it.  Saying that, I’ll take him any way we can get him.”

“Absolutely,” I agree wholeheartedly.

“You look fabulous, too, Ava.  That Western Australian air must agree with you.” 

“Thank you.  I feel great.  It was good to just relax for a few weeks and forget the world.” 
And my fertility problems.

Three days after we return home, Jeremy and I make the trek into Darwin again.  This time, I don’t feel nervous, I don’t have butterflies, I don’t feel…
anything
.

“You ready, honey?”  Jeremy asks, his eyes betraying his anxiety.

“Yes.  Let’s go in.”

Doctor Jacoby takes my blood and then Jeremy and I walk down to the mall to kill a few hours before the results are back.

We have lunch at a delicious little kebab shop and then we walk back to the clinic.

“Okay, so I have the results of your blood work here, Ava.”  She pauses, while reading the papers in front of her.  “Congratulations.”  She smiles.  “You’re pregnant.”

It doesn’t sink in right away.  I think, because I was so convinced it wouldn’t work, I’m in shock that it
did
work.

Congratulations.  You’re pregnant.

I’m pregnant.

Oh my god.

I’m pregnant.

I burst into tears, unable to contain my emotions.

I’m pregnant.

“I’m really pregnant?” I say, needing to hear the confirmation again.

“You absolutely are.”  It’s then I notice the tears in her own eyes.

Jeremy stands up and pulls me into his chest.  My arms go around his neck and that’s when I feel his body shaking.

He’s crying.

My man, who’s held it together for the last four years, has finally broken.

“Baby,” I sob.  “Don’t cry.”

He pulls himself together, wiping his eyes with the inside of his shirt collar.

“Sorry, doc,” he sniffles, a wry grin on his face.

Tears are streaming down her cheeks now, so she grabs a tissue and dabs her eyes dry.  I take one for myself and do the same.

“Okay, so let’s go ahead and do an ultrasound to determine exactly how far you are and what your due date is.”

I drink a bunch of water and forty minutes later I’m lying on the bed, my bladder bulging, awaiting the sonographer to complete the ultrasound.

She places the probe on my belly and I hold my breath, waiting to see what shows up on the screen.

I can’t make anything out and I begin to panic a little, thinking the blood test showed a false positive result.

“See this flicker?”  She points to the screen.

Just faintly, on the grainy black and white image, I see a flicker.

“That’s the heart beat.”  She presses a button and the sound of our baby’s heart beating fills the room.

I burst into tears again and Jeremy squeezes my hand.

“Jesus,” he whispers in awe.

The sonographer takes some measurements and lets us know we’re about six weeks pregnant.  She gives us an estimated due date and we leave feeling like we’re walking on Cloud Nine.

I just hope nothing goes wrong.