This came from a prompt about Regina and Robin considering expanding their family. TW: issues surrounding potential miscarriage.
They try.
It's stupid to try. She is nearly 39, Robin is 42.
Her diagnosis is tough.
But they want to grow their family so badly. Robin so wants to be there this time, Regina wants him there this time, and she really loved being pregnant, til the stressful end, she did.
Insurance covers IVF now and techniques have improved since they looked into this before Henry's adoption. So they decide to go through it this time.
Even the doctors are cautiously optimistic.
There are so many tests, it seems her blood is drawn daily for two months. She feels like a pincushion, always being poked and prodded as they try to find exactly what prevents her body from keeping a new life.
And then there are the medications. They have to make messy cocktails full of hormones, you'd think a doctor would need to be in charge of mixing them up, but it's all trusted on them. Pour one glass bottle into another, mix, keep out those air bubbles, and load up an injection needle with a potion she tries to picture as magical instead of dangerous. Ots hard at first. There is a learning curve. But soon they become pros. They develop their own system for keeping air bubbles out of the needles, find just the angle to insert the needle in to lessen the time needed to be poked.
Many injections just go under her skin. He gives her those on her belly, and her abdomen is now dotted in purple, sore marks. She can give those to herself, too, and does, when she sees the pain in his eyes at seeing her battered stomach.
But Robin must give her the one that goes at the base of her spine, and she doesn't look, but she knows the bruising there is bad, from how tender it is and how Robin gasps when he sees her.
She tells him there's no pain (she lies, there is, but it's pain she will gladly endure, and it's not too awful, the pain).
It takes so much to make a baby when your body is refusing to do it on its own.
But it's working, the treatments. Things are beginning to grow in her, her uterus is swollen and heavy.
It turns out she's not too old. Her body responds, her body grows the eggs.
It turns out Robin's not too old. His men do the job.
Then one day there's a trigger shot, a huge needle he has to stick in her already bruised back, but Robin does it, apologizing for being too gently and needing to remove and re-insert.
She's put under, one Wednesday morning, and they harvest what they can from that stubborn body of hers.
8 eggs come out, and the doctor is so happy for them.
6 fertilize and 4 make it until day 5 embryos. They test them, all free of any genetic disorder, despite her age.
"This is good news," the doctor assures. "Let's take the healthiest. Just one to start out with. We will freeze the others."
One perfect embryo is injected into her womb, with a doctor looking at the sonogram while aiming for the perfect spot to drop it.
Regina feels he's playing a video game with a joystick in hand, especially the way he celebrates when it drops in just the right place (god she hopes a right place exists in there).
And then there is waiting.
Two weeks of fretting.
Two weeks of avoiding peeing on a stick because they tell her she can't, the hormones in her system are tricky and can throw off those tests. She has to wait for a blood test.
They take the day off work on the day of the test, not wanting to be bogged down with bad results. Right after the test, Robin drags her into a movie intent on distraction her until the results are ready, but she doesn't pay attention to any of it.
He's trying to convince her to go to an amusement park for god's sake, when the phone rings.
Her breath catches until she hears the word positive.
Their embryo sticks.
.::.
She sticks, she holds, she tries.
But a few weeks later, Regina wakes up to blood.
So much blood.
They drive to the hospital and wait for the inevitable words of pity,hand holding when they find that little perfect embryo just couldn't hang onto her poisoned, toxic body.
And she keeps apologizing, over and over, and he keeps begging her not to, because it's not her fault, he says, it's not.
Her sheets are stained with blood, and she dreads seeing them, but when she makes her way back to bed, sheets are already clean and dry.
Robin got someone to clean them, and she doesn't know who, and doesn't want to know, either. She appreciates the gesture.
She doesn't want to see the evidence of what her body did to an innocent life.
.::.
Five percent of women miscarry at this point of pregnancy.
That's not insignificant.
She's unlucky. Not broken.
It's not her body. It's not the way she's handled herself. This isn't about eating too little kale, or eating too many tacos.
The doctors assure her this over and over again.
There are three perfect embryos left, frozen in time, hoping for a chance to grow inside her.
And the doctor reminds them.
"They are here waiting for you, should you decide to try again."
Robin doesn't push her to decide, doesn't ever bring it up, even.
He dotes on her. He's been treating her the way he did when they first fell in love, has since their reunion, luckily, so she doesn't see his actions as pity over the miscarriage.
He is just perfect. She has a wonderful husband, who still writes her love notes, who kisses her goodbye when he so much as leaves a room, who knows how she craves affection and gives it to her, reaching his hand out to grab hers while they eat at the kitchen table, just because he can, just because it makes her smile.
They are happy. They have a perfect life.
They have two beautiful children, who are healthy and happy and growing into good men.
Is it selfish to want even more than this?
Why can't they just be pleased with all the blessings they do have?
She doesn't know the answer. She doesn't know why she desperately wants to experience pregnancy again, without being a widow in the midst of it. She doesn't know why she pictures her life with another messy, loud baby.
But months later, she still thinks of those three frozen embryos, three perfect mixtures of her and her husband.
She stays up late one night, and Robin knows she's not herself, but she's not ready to share and he's not willing to push. He's fast asleep next to her as she thinks of the possible tragedy, the pain of losing another one, as she looks at pictures of Roland and Henry. She has a perfect family, and there is no reason to believe that doing to it will make it any more perfect.
But then it hits her like a tidal wave.
Fuck it all, and fuck all the logical reasons why she should be content with everything she has, logic and reason don't apply to feelings if the heart. They never did.
You cannot do a pro/con list and carefully weigh options when your heart and soul is invested in one option.
She shakes Robin awake, not caring about the time. He looks dazed, a bit worried, but that fear drains out of his eyes when he sees her smiling face.
"What is it, love?" he asks, his voice hoarse with sleep.
"Im ready," she says, dipping down to kiss him. "If you still want to, I want to. To try the whole thing again, one more time, I just… I really want another baby, Robin."
He smiles, but it doesn't meet his eyes. He cradled her cheek and urges her to come down here with him.
Her heart beats rapidly, she didn't expect anything other than excitement and support.
But there's something on his mind. He likes to say important things while he holds her, he's long since noticed that she responds better to when being touched with affection. And maybe is childish, but she loves it, so she settles down, lays a head on his chest, and asks him what his reservations are.
"Watching you blame yourself was one of the worst moments of my life," he whispers rubbing a hand through her hair. "I love you so much, and you were in so much pain, and I can't, I—"
She hears his voice break, and tries to life her head up so she can properly see him, but he holds her head on his chest.
"I really want another child in any way we can, but if this doesn't work out, there's no blaming yourself allowed. Your body is perfect. Your body gave us two perfect sons. If it weren't for the endometriosis and... whatever else, we would never have Henry, so thank god for it because that boy is ours, he never belonged to anyone else. And who knows if we'd have a child as strong and caring as Roland without it. Your body is perfect. You can't hold anything against it. Do you understand?"
Tears are falling on his chest, she knows he feels them. She manages to croak out a Yes, before he's drawing her back, laying her on a pillow and kissing away every tear away whispering she's perfect, that he loves her, loves every part of her, begging her to love herself — her whole self, every partof her — as much as he does.
She promises to try.
This time she will be in a much better place.
Because he's right. Her body knows what it's doing. It gave her so much, perhaps it's waiting to give her the perfect addition to her family. She doesn't know what sort of journey they have in front of them, but somehow, she's sure it will end well.