Invisible String

2

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above us as we sat in the consultation room, side by side on the small couch. I could feel Travis’s leg pressed against mine — solid, steady — grounding me even though my heart was fluttering like a trapped bird.

Across from us, the doctor spoke kindly but efficiently, flipping through charts, diagrams, and calendars like she’d done this a thousand times. And maybe she had. But for us, it was all brand new.

“So, your baseline bloodwork and ultrasound will be scheduled for next week,” she explained, pointing to the calendar. “That starts the cycle. From there, we’ll monitor follicle growth, and then trigger ovulation when the time is right.”

Travis nodded like he was following, but I could feel the tension in his shoulders. I tried to keep up too, but my brain was swimming in acronyms and hormone levels.

“We’ll need to do the injections daily — subcutaneous, in the lower abdomen.” She looked at me. “Have you ever done injections before?”

I shook my head slowly. “Only flu shots.”

She smiled gently and reached into a drawer, pulling out a small practice pad and demo needle. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. We’ll show you exactly how to do it. You can practice a few times with saline.”

Travis leaned forward. “Can I… do it for her? If she wants?”

That made me smile, despite the nerves. She nodded. “Absolutely. A lot of partners help with injections.”

We asked every question we could think of — about timelines, side effects, how I might feel emotionally and physically, what would happen if things didn’t go exactly to plan. And for every one, the doctor had an answer. By the end of the appointment, we had a schedule printed out, a checklist of medications, and a small folder with instructions that felt far too thin for something that carried so much weight.

As we walked out, I laced my fingers through Travis’s. “That was… a lot,” I whispered.

“Yeah,” he said, exhaling. “But we’ve got this.”

I looked up at him. “Even with needles?”

He grinned. “Especially with needles. I’ll stab you myself if I have to.”

I laughed — tired, nervous, but genuinely — and squeezed his hand. “Thanks, babe. For being here.”

“Always,” he said, brushing a kiss to the top of my head. “This is our fight. We’re in it together.”

---

The clinic had started to feel like a second home.

Early morning light spilled through the waiting room windows as I sat curled into Travis’s side, hoodie pulled over my head, holding a water bottle and silently bracing for another blood draw. It was follicle check day — again. I’d lost count of how many times I’d sat in that same chair, waiting to hear how many eggs were growing, how well my body was responding.

Travis was, of course, right there beside me. Always.

“You got this, babe,” he whispered as the nurse called my name. He stood up with me, hand warm in mine, his voice the only steady thing in a world that felt like it kept tilting.

He knew I hated needles. That the blood draws every few days were worse for me than the hormone injections. He came with me to every appointment anyway, sometimes making dumb jokes, sometimes just rubbing my back while I squeezed my eyes shut and focused on breathing.

“Left arm again?” the nurse asked kindly as I settled into the chair.

“Yeah,” I murmured, already rolling up my sleeve. Travis knelt beside me, his other hand resting on my knee.