Chapter 1: The Accusation

Minutes after Shanna’s egg retrieval began, the doctor burst into the waiting room, eyes blazing. The vinyl chairs were a tired blue, and the morning news flickered silently on the wall-mounted TV, ignored by everyone. A Dunkin’ coffee cup sat on the nurse’s desk, half-empty and forgotten.

"You knew today was her procedure. Why would you sleep with her last night?" she demanded, her voice slicing through the low hospital hum.

For a moment, the world stopped. The nurse behind the desk glanced over, eyebrows raised. I staggered back a step, hands shoved in my pockets, suddenly freezing under the fluorescent lights. The shock hit hard, and I couldn’t find any words.

Because my wife was undergoing IVF, we hadn’t been intimate for over five months.

I just stood there, trying to steady my breathing, every muscle tense as the accusation echoed in my ears. My hands shook a little—nothing in medical school had prepared me for this.

It hit me like a ton of bricks. My mind was reeling.

The doctor's words bounced off the scuffed tile floor, each syllable stinging. All my clinical confidence vanished, replaced by a sickening uncertainty.

After scolding me, the doctor spun on her heel, her white coat flaring as she hurried back toward the OR. Her sneakers squeaked, drawing the attention of nurses clustered at their station. Even the muted TV seemed to pause.

I called after her, "I didn’t..."

My voice caught, barely more than a whisper. The words hung there, fragile and useless.

She turned, eyes narrowed. "Just because you say you didn’t, does that make it true?"

The look she gave me was familiar—a blend of frustration and a veteran’s distrust. I could almost hear her thinking, Not another one of these.

"The other day, a patient hid a cold. On the table, she crashed—couldn’t breathe, airway blocked. She’s still in the ICU."

Her tone softened just a touch, revealing exhaustion under the edge. She checked the wall clock above the nurse’s station, no doubt counting minutes to her next crisis.

"We go by the facts. Too many patients and families aren’t honest."

The hospital’s unwritten rule pulsed in the air: lies make things dangerous. I felt the weight of both my roles—doctor and husband—crushing me.

She probably saw me as just another self-centered husband. I caught my reflection in a glass door—blue scrubs and ID badge—feeling exposed, no armor left.

I tried to explain, keeping my voice low: "I’m in medicine too. During ovarian stimulation for IVF, women are supposed to avoid sex. I know that."

It sounded like pleading, as if the shared language of medicine might bridge the gap between us. But for once, my white coat meant nothing.

"How did you determine my wife had sex last night?"

I tried to keep it professional, but my words were stiff, too formal for the situation. Maybe logic would help where explanations couldn’t.

She glanced at me, tone softening. "All her follicles had already ovulated. We couldn’t retrieve a single egg."

She paused, searching my face for understanding. The beep of a monitor echoed from the OR, urgent and impersonal.

"All the follicles have ovulated?" I managed.

A cold sweat broke out as the clinical reality crashed in. I gripped the waiting room chair, knuckles pale.

"Yes, not a single one could be retrieved."

Her words landed with a finality that made my chest ache. I sank lower into the chair, the hospital suddenly too small.

IVF is an obstacle course—physical exams, stimulation, egg retrieval, matching, implantation, waiting for results...

I pictured our kitchen whiteboard at home, milestones marked in red, each step a new hope. Now, the bridge to the next phase had collapsed beneath us.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. The sting of failure was sharp and sudden.

Even after years in medicine, I’d never felt regret this raw.

I ran a hand over my jaw, struggling to steady my breath. I’d given bad news before, but now I was the one drowning in it.

But there are a dozen reasons for premature ovulation—exercise, biking, stress. It’s not always about sex.

My brain tried to cling to rationality, listing possibilities like a lifeline, desperate to find something—anything—to explain it away.

"There could be another cause," I said, voice tight, reaching for some control. I tried to sound more like a colleague, less like a man in crisis.

She met my eyes, her look softer now. "Let me be direct—her vaginal wall and cervix are really swollen and congested, with some minor bleeding and tissue shedding."

She checked her chart. "She got the trigger shot right on time, so that shouldn’t have been the issue. Based on everything, we think she didn’t follow medical advice and had sex before surgery."

She hesitated, voice gentler. "That’s just our suspicion. You should talk to your wife."

With a nod, she disappeared down the hall, leaving me in the blinding hospital light, feeling both accused and somehow understood.