Bringing in Finn Read Online Free Page B

would go on my own. As I waited in that grungy, airless office, I was happy I’d come by myself. Bill hated small spaces—and waiting—and I could imagine him pacing back and forth like a caged tiger in the cluttered room.
    I’d moved through the remainder of Cosmo , Elle, and a ten-month-old InStyle, when the nurse finally called my name.
    â€œI’m Sara,” I said, jumping up so she could see me.
    â€œFollow me.”
    She ushered me into an examination room and told me Dr. Bizan would be in shortly. Another nurse came in and took my weight, blood pressure, and temperature: all normal. After she left, I looked around for something else to distract me. I felt more nervous than ever, afraid that Dr. Bizan either wouldn’t be a good fit or would chastise me for going so long without consulting a doctor.

    In direct contrast with the waiting room, the examination room was spare and orderly. My stomach grumbled. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was after 3:00 PM, and I hadn’t eaten lunch. I decided to lie back on the exam table and meditate. I’d studied various meditation techniques in my training in England and joined a meditation group when I moved to Chicago. Someone from the group had recently shared an article about an order of yogis from Tibet who were able to nourish themselves with their breath instead of with food. If they could fast for weeks at a time, I could wait to eat until after my appointment.
    I’d found meditation impossible when I first started; I’d been unable to sit still for more than one minute at a time. I’d dedicated myself to the practice, though, believing for reasons I did not understand that it was important for me. In the years to come, I would often thank whatever intuition had guided me to meditation. “The middle of a crisis is probably not the ideal time to start a practice,” one of my teachers in England said. A gift of meditation was said to be equanimity, calmness within uncomfortable situations.
    The sanitary paper crackled beneath my body. I tried to find a position where my spine was straight and I could stay still. I counted my breaths. Inhale, “one.” Exhale, “two.”
    I made it to twenty-six before a knock on the door jolted me out of the quiet. I sat up fast, blood rushing to my head. Dr. Bizan entered the room. She was trim and athletic-looking, with honey-blond hair pulled back into a low ponytail.
    â€œI’m terribly sorry for the wait,” she said, shaking my hand and then, as if deciding more was needed to apologize, moving in for a hug. “The practice has just exploded, and I’ve delivered twelve babies this week so far.”
    She took a seat in a chair next to the exam table. I liked hearing about the babies Dr. Bizan had delivered that week. The high volume
perhaps explained the lack of organization in her office. I wondered if Dr. Bizan worked by herself and if she was a mother, and if she ever got a complete night of sleep.
    Dr. Bizan scanned the files I’d had sent over from Dr. Angelli.
    â€œI see here that you haven’t had a regular cycle in a couple years, and that you and your husband would like to start a family,” she said.
    I braced myself for a reprimand, but Dr. Bizan moved right along.
    â€œAnd you’ve tried acupuncture and herbs,” she said, looking up at me from the folder. I nodded.
    â€œThat’s great. A lot of my patients become pregnant incorporating alternative therapies. They can be very effective.”
    I relaxed further. I uncrossed my legs and laid my hands next to me on the table as Dr. Bizan continued.
    â€œSince you’ve been trying for a while and have not started having a cycle on your own, I’d like you to see a reproductive endocrinologist.”
    I felt unnerved at the immediate referral to another doctor. Dr. Bizan continued speaking, but I felt distracted. I watched her lips move, but I heard only one out