Rodeos

by Isaac Rankin

Before the nurse can draw back the bay curtain, you cup your hand and yell at a whisper, Your beard makes you look like Jesus! It’s not you but the valium talking, winding it’s way through your veins, preparing your body for a microscopic speck soon to sail for a distant shore.

We’re batting .400 on transfers, which I remind you makes us the Ted Williams of in vitro fertilization.

Teddy who? you ask.

A famous baseball player, I tell you, and you stare at me with a puzzled look as I try to explain the brilliance of getting a hit four out of ten tries for an entire season. Trust me, it’s a good thing.

Jesus had darker skin, you say, then cut me off before I can answer, Do you remember in the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe when Susan asks Mr. Beaver if Aslan is safe?

Of course he isn’t safe, I say. You smile.

But he’s good, you say.

But he’s good, I repeat. You whisper those words over and over as they roll you away, your grip so tight that I’m reminded of our first success story’s arrival: twenty hours of labor and four hours of pushing until 23.5 wailing inches emerged from your body. Then you hemorrhaged, and 15 medical personnel entered the room and saved your life. Through it all, you squeezed my hand so many times and with such force that I had to ice it for a week—mostly while watching Jeopardy reruns on my night shifts with little buddy.

In the transfer room, they show the little bundle of cells on a screen with your name and birthdate next to it.

Is that you? the nurse asks.

How could I be anyone but me? you respond. Part of me is glad this is our last one, because they’ve warned us you’re at the age when this starts to get risky. And I know you’d never stop.

Is this your first time? the nurse asks, and the valium responds for you:

Pssshhh, followed by a lip trill and a of wave your hand, this is my sixth ro-dee-oh!

You’ve been giving yourself injections every day for two months and have enough pills at home to start your own pharmacy. If this works, pretty soon you’ll start vomiting three times a day and won’t stop for months, which is what you want more than anything I’ve ever wanted in this life.

My hand feels the slightest squeeze as the catheter goes in, then a lab tech brings in the syringe that contains our tiny possibility. The doctor points to another screen and we watch as he inserts the syringe in the catheter, then presses. And just like that: Our last one has set sail.

Our second success story wouldn’t put his hand down, so the doctor told us they would have to cut him out. He has a lot of questions, his future teachers will say. He’s always been that way, we’ll respond.

They rushed you to the operating room like a scene from a movie and told me I could follow in a few minutes. I’m sure I turned ghost white, because before you left you smiled, squeezed my hand, and gave me a look that said, Don’t worry. You should know by now that there’s nothing stronger than a mother.

Isaac Rankin lives in Charlotte, NC, where he works as a financial consultant. His poems, creative nonfiction, and short stories have appeared in the Indianapolis Review, Potomac Review, William & Mary Review, and other places. His first collection of poetry, Wonderings, was published by Main Street Rag Publishing Company in 2022.