We both know why my husband’s so leery when it comes to any kind of medical “intervention.” Dinah’s husband Jeff is a bit like that too, although not as much as Oliver. Their mom struggled with depression for decades and it affected them a lot, growing up. Oliver’s terrified of putting anything into your body that could upset its fragile, “delicate” balance. I’ve tried to convey to him that although I appreciate his concerns, it’s my body and I’m willing to take the risk, but he seems to think the hormones will turn me into some kind of monster and will put everything in jeopardy—my mental health, general wellbeing, and maybe even our relationship. The thing is, he’s not being totally paranoid: we saw it happen to a couple we knew. They went through years of unsuccessful fertility treatments that left them in a mountain of debt, and ultimately divorced.

I look down at the bubbles in my glass. “Plus, you know…it’s expensive. And we’ve had expenses this year already that we didn’t exactly budget for.” Like the burst pipe in April, and Oliver’s surprise root canal in July. Yep, it’s not been a great year. But here’s the other thing I don’t say to Dinah: that it would feel like failure. It would feel like failure and humiliation to me, to sit there in front of some shiny, white-coated professional and say please can you help me, my body won’t do what a woman’s body is supposed to do.

I know I shouldn’t feel this way. I know if I said all this out loud, Dinah would remind me that this is in no way my fault; that this isn’t failure, it’s just life. But there’s a voice in my head that says otherwise.

“I hear you.” Dinah sips her drink, then gives me a tentative look. Dinah’s pretty forthright; she’ll say things others wouldn’t. But even she’s aware how sensitive this particular ground is.

“What about”—she clears her throat—“just, you know, getting tests done? Have you and Oliver ever had that stuff, um, checked out?” She flushes, and I probably do too. But I know she’s being helpful. She likes to find solutions, it’s her way.

I hesitate.

“Not exactly.” I mean, my OB-GYN has checked out the usual stuff, but that’s not the same as the tests I know they can run in these fertility clinics. I lighten my voice, trying to joke. “Oliver would likely freak out at that too, though. You know how he thinks all genetic testing is basically the government trying to steal our DNA.”

Dinah gives me a half-smile. She’s aware of Oliver’s somewhat paranoid tendencies from when she and Jeff did an Ancestry.com thing a few months back and tried to get us on board.