The Idiopath

Howard put the letter down, his whole body shaking. It was the kind of shaking that comes with a surge of bad adrenalin when you don't know what just happened except that it's really bad. "Confirming our previous conversation..." What conversation? He looked at the letter again. It was dated a week ago. What conversation?

He picked up the envelope again and saw that the letter was addressed to Emily.

The pieces slowly fell into place in his addled mind. He went immediately to Emily's office and handed her the letter.

She took the sheet of paper, and without looking at it, her eyes spilled over with tears.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he said.

She broke down, and he took her in his arms. After holding her a while, he tried again.

"Can we talk about this, Em?"

She sniffled loudly, nodding. "Idiopathic. Couldn't they choose a better word?"

"It just means unexplained, Emily."

"I know what it means. And they seem to know enough to know that it's my problem not yours."

"Sweetheart," he started, not knowing where to go from there. They'd talked about this so many times. They'd read everything there was to read. They'd consulted the best doctors. They'd been poked, prodded, and asked a host of embarrassing questions. And now after all of that, the best that modern medicine had to tell them was that their infertility was "idiopathic." Unexplained.

"So you've had the results from the last round of tests for a while, I take it."

"I'm sorry. I don't know why I didn't tell you right away. I mean for the first hour or so, I didn't want to believe it. After that...."

Howard wanted to forgive her instantly, but the fact that she chose not to share this with him immediately stung. They'd always shared everything.

"It's ok, baby. Really. Don't even think about it." He sounded genuine and forgiving.

"I feel so deficient. I mean they basically said it's my problem, and they have no idea why. I mean, I'm young. I'm healthy. I don't smoke. I don't have endometriosis."

They'd been through many lists like this many times before. They'd both read way more online about infertility than anyone should. In fact, early on the whole ordeal, Emily had joked that if you didn't think you had any medical problems, you could surely find one online that you most certainly had.

"...and they have absolutely no suggestions on what to do next except for a donor egg."

"And you're still sure that's not an option?"

"That's not an option."

"Anyway, Em, it's not a 'problem.' It's just unexplained. You're the one who used to always tell me how flawed modern medicine is."

"And now, here I am at it's mercy."

"Or not," Howard said.

In their extensive searches and reading, they'd come across several clinics offering alternative treatments. They ranged from relatively harmless things like herbs, acupuncture, and massage to some treatments that were really out there.

"We've talked about this before," Emily said. "Alternative means it's all in my head."

"That may be what it means to you, Miss Logical, but that's not what it means. There are things that Western science hasn't figured out yet. Intricate connections between the body and mind that--"

"Really, Howard," she rolled her eyes. "And even if you're right, do you think it would really work on me given that I think it's all a load of crap?"

He decided to try another track. "Having a baby isn't everything. We have a really great life, and I never really wanted --"

"Can we please not have this conversation again? Anyway, I know you're just trying to get me to consider some new age whacko treatment you've heard about."

"OK. Let's not have the conversation again. Let's have a nice bottle of wine and a great dinner."

She nodded weakly.

The next afternoon Emily overheard Howard talking to an alternative reproductive center in New York. He'd asked her casually beforehand if she minded if he just talked to them. She shrugged noncommittally.

Over dinner, Howard cautiously approached the topic again. "So, Em. I really liked the doctor I talked with today."

"Doctor? As in an actual MD?" she said sarcastically.

"Do you think you might just go talk to him with me?"

Again, she shrugged noncommittally.

A week later, two tickets to New York appeared under a magnet on the refrigerator, and soon after that, they left for a quick weekend trip.

It would be a fateful trip.