Bringing in Finn Read Online Free Page A

“It’s not like any animals would drink it.”
    I told Bill if he kept up the jokes, I’d slip some of the tea into his morning coffee.
    â€œFat chance I wouldn’t notice that smell,” he said, poking me in the ribs.
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    When I hadn’t had a period after nearly twenty-four months of acupuncture, something in Bill caught like a trip line. For two years he’d taken the support role, letting me seek the treatments that felt comfortable to me for my body.
    I was thirty-two, still within the optimal fertility age, according to Web MD, but he was six years older, and attending his friend’s fortieth birthday party the week before had triggered a sense of biological urgency in him.
    We came together in our kitchen, where we always seemed to have our serious discussions. I sat on one of our bar stools at the
island in the center of the kitchen, going through mail. Bill was prepping for dinner. He julienned carrots, shaving them precisely into ribbons of orange that fell soundlessly onto the dark wood surface of his cutting board. I was organizing bills into file folders, and the granite countertop was strewn with open envelopes and mail.
    â€œI should have put my foot down months ago,” Bill said, assuming a parental tone. “I don’t even want to think about what we’ve spent on these treatments, not to mention the teas. It’s a total scam.”
    â€œAcupuncture has helped thousands of people get pregnant,” I protested. “Probably millions if you take into account the thousands of years it’s been used.”
    â€œIt’s bullshit,” he said.
    â€œIt just hasn’t worked for us,” I said.
    My shoulders slumped and I slid down the back of the chair until my neck rested on its metal rungs. I’d only just allowed myself to admit, in the midst of Bill’s tantrum, that acupuncture really hadn’t worked. I had remained so convinced that it would just take a little more time, that surely my body would remember to ovulate and I would start having periods again.
    I was quiet for a moment, listening to the sound of garlic frying in a pan on the stove. We agreed that I would seek out a Western medical doctor, and I began making inquiries among my friends.
    Even with Caroline putting in a personal referral, the first available appointment I could secure with Dr. Bizan was three months away. I asked the receptionist to call me if anything opened up earlier. Once I’d booked the appointment and circled the date twice with a Sharpie in my calendar, I felt a cold shock of fear. For the first time, I was afraid that something might be seriously wrong with me and afraid that we would have problems becoming pregnant. I was scared enough that I was even ready to take the Pill if that was what Dr. Bizan prescribed.

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    â€œYou’re sure Dr. Bizan is an actual medical doctor—with a real degree?” Bill asked as I came out of the shower on the day of my appointment.
    Bill had been testy since I’d told him Dr. Bizan was a DO, rather than an MD. I had just learned about DOs: Western medical doctors who are trained to treat the whole person, as opposed to being symptom-focused. I was excited to find out this kind of doctor existed.
    â€œYes—geez,” I said, hanging my towel on the back of the bathroom door and pulling a dress over my head. “DOs are fully licensed Western medical doctors. Dr. Bizan has been Caroline’s OB for three pregnancies, and she works out of St. Joseph’s, a totally Western hospital. Like I said, you’re welcome to come with me.”
    Dr. Bizan’s office had called the day before with a cancellation, and I’d scrambled to reorganize my own schedule to be able to make the appointment. Bill had recently left the advertising agency and started his own creative group with a best friend. He had two meetings and a shoot scheduled that day, so we’d already agreed that I