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plunged a syringe into her belly at a ninety-degree angle. I feel sick. I have to put my head between my knees.
    “I can’t do this,” I say to Andrew.
    “We’ll do it together,” he says, squeezing my hand. He is trying to be positive for me. Andrew hates needles more than I do.
    This is the last step on our medical fertility road. We made our decision last night, over steak and a good bottle of Merlot. Andrew lit candles to mark the solemnity of the occasion. We talked for hours, weighing pros and cons, more like military strategists than a couple desperate for a child, struggling to maintain their sanity. After four years of tests, temperature taking and charting, exploratory surgery, fertility drugs with intrauterine insemination (IUI) and clinically enhanced sperm, a couple of Chinese herbalists and naturopaths on the side and endless counting of days, we’re down to this. Our last shot.
    We’re ordering up some high-test fertility drugs to be injected into me daily. Blood testing and vaginal ultrasounds every other day. The grand finale will be a supercharged sperm IUI. For three menstrual cycles, if need be. Our doctor gave us a fifty-fifty chance over the three months, based on statistics, our history—and the fact that they cannot find a single bloody thing wrong with either one of us.
    The nurse shows us how to prepare a clean environment. Then, how to snap open the little glass vials of powder and pure water and draw them up into the syringe. And how to flick the syringe to remove air bubbles. Finally, how to pinch my belly below the naval and stab it, straight in. This last part is done on oranges for practice.
    I can’t do the injections. I’m unco-ordinated. After several tries, I still cannot hold the orange skin pinched in one hand and stab it with the other. Either I let go of the pinch, or my stab is crooked.
    “You have to learn how,” Andrew says gently.
    “Why?” I ask. “You’re going to do the injections. I just have to take them. Even-steven.”
    “But, Meg, I may not always be there,” he says, talking to me as if I’m four. “The nurse just said they must be administered between 6:00 and 8:00 p.m. daily.”
    “That’s right,” she says, coming back into the room. “Actually, most women prefer to give themselves the injections. Once they realize there is a painful burning sensation, they like to do it themselves. Less flinching.”
    Like hell.
    “You’ll be there,” I say to my husband. “If I have to be there, so do you. We’re a team, remember?”
    Two days later, Andrew and I have prepared a clean work space in anticipation of our first injection experience. It’s 6:00 p.m. He informs me that it’s a one-person job. Those little vials and needles break easily. The ones with powder in them are $100 a pop. The fewer cooks the better, as they say. He lines all his materials up in little methodical rows on the island in our kitchen. It feels like a high school science lab. I keep glancing up at the front door, hoping no one rings the doorbell. Anyone happening upon this scene would likely report us to the police.
    We move to the living room and I lie down on the floor. Andrew rips open an antiseptic pad and swabs my belly.
    “Do you pinch, or do I?” I ask.
    “I do,” he says. “The person injecting is the pincher too. For maximum control.”
    I look away, out the big window as he pinches me. I feel the sharp needle poke. But I’ve taken anti-flinch precautions. I’m holding a leg of the end table in one fist and a leg of the coffee table in the other. It’s when he pushes the plunger down that I start to holler. “What are you injecting me with, battery acid?” I shriek.
    He finishes plunging and pulls the needle out. It burns. I hug my stomach and roll over on my side. My belly is on fire.
    “Meg, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He smooths the hair from my forehead with his big hand. I look up at him. His face is twisted in concern. “I don’t know about