The Cube People Read Online Free PDF Page B

times the motility of the average man. Queue the John Williams’ Superman music please. A lot of people with PCOS tend to be big, fat. Some sort of insulin resistance. I don’t really understand it completely, but basically it’s very easy to gain weight. Sarah has large breasts, a bit of a gut, and a flat bum, but I wouldn’t classify her as fat. Anyway, Dr. King suggested she lose a few pounds and prescribed her Metformin to help balance out the insulin sugar levels.
    She’s now lost ten pounds and has worked herself up from one Metformin pill a day to three, but she’s still not ovulating. She’s hoping that Dr. King will put her on some sort of fertility drug to get things moving, but she doesn’t have a lot of hope these days. At night before bed she has been reading The Lost Daughters of China , a book about all the little girls being dropped off on doorsteps because of China’s one child policy. There are thousands of little Chinese girls waiting to be adopted. Sarah thinks about them crying, wanting their mommy.
    I go downstairs past the security guard and wait by the front entrance. When I see our desert-sand Corolla round the corner, I step out and wave. I get in. Sarah is crying. “What’s wrong baby?”
    â€œI just want to get pregnant,” she blubbers.
    â€œWell that’s what we’re working on baby.”
    â€œThe Metformin gives me gas. I think this is fucking hopeless. Why don’t we just get a girl from China?”
    â€œListen, babe, a girl from China is twenty thousand dollars. Making one of our own is free,” I plead.
    â€œI don’t care about the goddamn money, I want a baby. I want us to be a family.”
    â€œRight. Let’s go see Dr. King and see what he has to say, okay?” I suggest as I softly stroke her shoulder.
    Her bottom lip quivers and she wipes her eyes with a crumpled napkin from the glove compartment. “Okay,” she agrees, driving away.
    Dr. King’s office is actually located at the Civic Campus of the Ottawa Hospital. In true hospital fashion, parking is limited, inconvenient and overpriced. You’d figure a place that catered to the sick and elderly would have a slightly more liberal parking philosophy. We corkscrew up to the top of a parking garage that has been under renovation forever. Six months ago they were working on it and they’ve made zero progress since that time. We walk down five flights of stairs, cross over to the adjacent building and take the elevator up to the sixth floor. We let the nurse know we’re there and she tells us to take a seat down the hall. Today there is no one else in the waiting area. I look out the window and see our car parked on the roof of the next building.
    A very pregnant lady waddles by. I watch Sarah’s eyes lock onto her belly, as a cat would when it sees a mouse. Then I think about those women who are occasionally found splayed open like grade ten science frogs, their babies cut out. I imagine Sarah with her arm around the neck of the woman who just walked by, Sarah with some sort of Halloween knife in the other hand. Before I let the gruesome image go to where it is going, I give my head a shake.
    Dr. King appears with his file folder. “Mr. and Mrs. MacDonald.” We both stand up and follow him into his office. One wall is covered in thank-you cards with pictures of babies. He appears to have helped hundreds of patients, but he couldn’t have been doing this all that long because he looks like Doogie Howser. He flips through Sarah’s medical folder and looks at her recent blood tests. “So, still not ovulating, eh? Well okay then. We’re going to try something else to get you to ovulate, Clomid.”
    Sarah smiles at this news and squeezes my knee. I can tell she’s ecstatic. When I think of fertility drugs, I immediately think of twins, triplets, a full house. I imagine myself in a glass house where the