Death?

Ashley

The question escaped before I could dress it up into something less embarrassing.

He didn’t laugh or dismiss me.

“It’s understandable to be frightened, especially when you’re unfamiliar with the treatment. IVF is generally safe, but it does carry risks. The hormone medication can cause bloating, headaches, breast tenderness, and discomfort around the ovaries. Some patients also experience mood changes.”

I looked at him.

“Mood changes?”

“Yes.”

I let out a small sigh. “Wonderful. So I might be crying over a biscuit one day and threatening somebody the next.”

He chuckled.

“Your emotions may fluctuate, but not everyone experiences significant mood changes. One complication we monitor for is ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome, or OHSS, which occurs when the ovaries respond too strongly to the medication. Severe cases are uncommon, and we’ll monitor your response to reduce the risk.”

He explained that severe abdominal pain, persistent vomiting, rapid swelling, difficulty breathing, or significantly reduced urination required urgent medical attention.

“We’ll give you clear instructions on what to watch for and how to contact us. You won’t be managing this alone.”

I nodded, though the knot in my stomach hadn’t completely disappeared.

I hated not knowing what was going to happen to me. I hated that I was agreeing to put my body through something I barely understood a few days ago.

But then I thought about Jason.

His excitement during our last conversation. The way his face lit up at the thought of finally getting his transplant.

I could be scared and still do this.

“Alright,” I said quietly. “I’ll try not to panic.”

“You don’t have to pretend you’re not afraid. Just make sure you tell us when something concerns you.”

That, I could do.

I took a breath. “So, what am I supposed to do and not do during the treatment?”

He explained that I needed to follow my medication schedule carefully, attend every monitoring appointment, and contact the clinic if I missed a dose or experienced anything concerning. I should eat balanced meals, stay hydrated, avoid smoking and recreational drugs, and refrain from alcohol during treatment. He also advised keeping caffeine moderate and checking with the clinic before taking new medications, supplements, or herbal remedies.

“As your ovaries enlarge during stimulation, avoid strenuous exercise, heavy lifting, and activities involving sudden twisting or high impact. Gentle walking is generally fine unless we advise otherwise.”

I frowned.

“So, no intense workouts?”

“Correct.”

I sighed dramatically.

“Doctor, you’re taking away my freedom one instruction at a time.”

He smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t change the medical advice to make it more entertaining.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

At least he had a sense of humour.

“Also,” I asked, “do I have to stop drinking carbonated drinks?”

“Not necessarily. Carbonated drinks aren’t universally prohibited during IVF. Just maintain a balanced diet and follow any specific advice we give you.”

I visibly relaxed.

“Thank God. Because if you told me I couldn’t drink my favourite fizzy drinks for the next several months, I might have reconsidered my entire existence.”

He laughed.

I was joking, but only slightly.

What a deal I’d gotten myself into.

There were injections, scans, blood tests, restrictions, waiting periods, and an entire medical process I couldn’t simply skip because I was having a bad day.

And I hadn’t even started properly.

Dr. Bennett reviewed my baseline results and confirmed that I could begin the stimulation phase according to the treatment plan. A nurse explained how the injections would work and what I needed to know before administering subsequent doses.

Then she took me into the examination area.

I lay on the examination bed, staring at the ceiling while she prepared the medication.

This was really happening.

“Ashley, I’m going to administer the injection into the skin of your lower abdomen,” she explained. “You’ll feel a small pinch.”

I looked at the syringe.

“Is that the smallest needle you have?”

She smiled. “It’s a small needle.”

“That’s exactly what people say before doing something unpleasant.”

“Try to relax your stomach.”

I gripped the edge of the bed.

“I’m trying. My stomach and I are currently having a disagreement.”

She cleaned the injection site.

I shut my eyes.

“Okay,” I whispered. “I’m ready.”

The needle went in.

I flinched.

“Ow!”

A moment later, it was over.

I opened one eye.

“That was it?”

“That was it.”

I stared at her, mildly offended.

I’d prepared myself for a dramatic experience. I’d even considered what my final words might be.

And that was all?

I sat up and adjusted my clothes.

“Honestly, I was expecting more suffering.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way.”

I looked at her.

“Please don’t say things like that.”

She laughed as she helped me gather my things.

I wasn’t laughing quite as hard, but I managed a small smile.

One injection down.

Several more to go.

My new life was looking increasingly suspicious.

When I returned to the waiting area, the cold-faced woman was standing by the entrance, checking her phone.

She glanced up.

“Are you done?”

“Yes.”

“You need to be at the hospital by ten.”

I checked the time.

Then I checked it again.

“Ten?”

“Yes, Ashley.”

I wanted to ask whether these people had ever heard of rest. I’d barely survived my first fertility appointment, and now I was expected to spend another eight hours at the hospital.

But I swallowed the complaint.

I had accepted the arrangement. Jason needed the money, and I wasn’t going to jeopardise his treatment because I was tired.

Still, accepting a job didn’t mean I had suddenly stopped being human.

“Alright,” I said, heading towards the car.

The woman followed.

I settled into my seat and watched the clinic disappear behind us.

Another eight hours of sitting beside an unconscious billionaire.

Another day of talking to a man who couldn’t answer me.

I rested my head against the seat and closed my eyes.