September 20 is Ezra’s three-month-aversary, but it marks another occasion as well.
Exactly one year ago, Sandy and I got up early and drove to a clinic in River North, where they retrieved 18 eggs from my swollen ovaries, mixed them with Sandy’s sperm, and made a bunch of embryos. Five days later, a doctor chose one of them to implant in my uterus. He chose Ezra.
Thinking about it this way blows my mind. Out of all the possible combinations of Sandy and me that were created one year ago, only one of those was Ezra. What great luck that we found him.
This year, to mark the anniversary, I finally swept through my drawers and closet and found all the places I’d hidden away the tools of my infertility treatment, making a big pile in the living room of my pills and vials and syringes, before throwing most of it away. Perhaps someday I’ll need those things again, but for now I’m content to gaze on my sleeping boy and wonder at the confluence of science and fortune that brought him to me.