The clinic

Forty-five minutes in a nondescript waiting room afforded me ample time to experience sense of surrealism. In all my life, I never pictured myself here--a center for reproductive medicine.

Like an expectant father at his first appointment, Max waited anxiously by my side. This appointment was important to him. He understood the risks dating a late-30 something woman with a less-than-stellar medical history. But in the end, he decided that I meant more than any chance at fatherhood. And for this, I felt I owed it to him to be sure.

Even though this was only a consultation, I came prepared with the surgical records from the multiple myomectomy I had undergone in 2004. Before the procedure, my uterus was the size of a woman in her 14th week of pregnancy. I wasn't pregnant, but carried sizeable, twin fibroid tumors instead. And even though the surgery to remove the unwanted went well, I felt certain that with the tumors also went my chances at motherhood.

"Not so," said Dr. Mulvaney, a 6'4", 350-pound OB/GYN with hands the size of baseball gloves. I knew the minute I saw him that this was the doctor who had delivered my friend's second child. There could only be one doctor in town with mitts like those.

"Based on what I've read in the surgical notes, your fibroids were located on the back of your uterus and probably didn't affect the cavity," continued the good doctor, his kind but booming voice revealing island roots. "We can run a test to be sure, but I don't see anything that suggests you couldn't get pregnant or carry a baby to term."

Max was about to do a victory dance, when Mulvaney thwarted the celebration.

"The real concern is your age," he said. At this point, Ms. Mandy, you're racing against the clock. As he explained the fertility statistics of women over 40, I could feel Max doing calculations in his head. We had 10 months before my ovaries exploded.

After deciding on a course of action--a couple blood tests, an ultrasound, and Hysterosalpinogram for me, and a sperm analysis for Max-- we left the clinic completely overwhelmed and a little discombobulated. And before we made it to the car, Max started second-guessing our plans for a fall or winter wedding.

"Maybe we should move things up?" As Max began undoing all the plans we'd made, my heart began pounding as certain ambivalences I feel about motherhood rushed through my veins. In all his excitment, Max unintentionally had me feeling backed against a wall. But instead of a defensive posture, I broke down in tears. We drove the rest of the way in silence. And after arriving home, I crawled in bed and took a two-hour nap.

Later that evening, Max apologized for his behavior.

"I don't want to be the only one who wants this," he said.

"It is not that I don't want to have a child with you," I replied. "I feel as though we already have a lot ahead of us. We have to get through telling my parents about this relationship, preparing for a wedding, and moving to some unknown foreign country. I can't imagine setting up house, negotiating our new life together...and starting a family. It would be too much for me."

Max said that he agreed and completely understood my feelings and fears. We would leave plans unchanged, and take our chances. "The time has to be right for both of us," he said reassuringly.

I felt comforted by our conversations. And even though we have no immediate plans to try to get pregnant, I have decided to go through the fertility testing suggested by Doctor Mulvaney. In the meantime, Max will learn more about his future job responsibilities and our relocation, and I will (hopefully) get a better handle on my fears and ambivalence toward motherhood. Despite Max's reassurances, I understand that time really isn't on our side. It's the 9th inning. Even with Dr. Mulvaney's golden gloves and Max's excellent coaching, I'm still standing in the batter box and looking at a full count.