musesandlyrics | 6.16. Gone With The Wind quote
6.16. "Nothing has turned out as we expected. It never does. Life's under no obligation to give us what we expect. We take what we get and are thankful it's no worse than it is."
Gone With The Wind
Braden sat in the cold medical clinic waiting room, a magazine open in his lap that he wasn't reading. If someone asked, he wouldn't even be able to tell them the name of it. He had his leg crossed over his knee, but it was bouncing anxiously as he glanced around at the medical posters on the wall of cartoon sperm and what a baby would look like in a womb. It wasn't like Braden was squeamish, he was a paramedic for bloody shitting sake, but he also didn't particularly want shit like this thrust in his face. It was all part of the package, though, and it just wasn't helping that he had been sitting for hours waiting. It was too much time, and his mind was in overdrive. Mixed with lack of sleep, he was just stressed out to the max.
"Braden Evans?" The voice infiltrated his thoughts and he realised he had been staring blankly at the womb poster. He jumped at his name and dropped the magazine, his skittish behaviour earning him strange looks from a row of pregnant women sitting across from him. As if a single bloke in a fertility clinic wasn't a weird enough sight, he went and drew even more attention to himself by being a dipstick. He hastily grabbed the magazine back up from the floor when he stood and neatly placed it back on the pile, realising in horror it was a magazine for teen girls with a big fluro green headline of what tampons were the best and safest option. He immediately flushed bright red and couldn't look at the other occupants of the waiting room anymore. He just kept his head dipped as he followed the female doctor from where she called him. She ushered him into her office wish a friendly smile. "Take a seat, Mr Evans."
Braden obediently sat before her desk in the consult chair and cleared his throat. "I know this isnae a normal occurrence," he murmured, meeting her eyes when she sat down in front of a fresh file with his name on it. He strained his eyes, trying to see what the papers inside it said, but it was impossible from where he was sitting. "Especially not considering I've already... you know." Just a few hours prior, he had been sat in a small, sterile room with a plastic cup in his hand. It brought back memories of the last time, and he really did wonder why the hell he was putting himself through this again. It was also disconcerting how normal his sperm looked. It looked like any other cup of sperm. At least, that's what he assumed.
The doctor shook her head. "Not at all. In fact, it's been a couple of years since your last spermanalysis. It's actually a sound decision to want to have a follow up second opinion." She paused, glancing down at the papers and then met his gaze again, folding her hands in front of her. "Unfortunately, I don't have good news for you, Mr Evans. Your sperm count is still extremely low and what is there are, shall we say, slow swimmers. With this type of pathology, it would be negligent of me to advise that you could have a chance of conceiving. With these results, you would obviously have no issues ejaculating, but the sperm wouldn't survive the distance to conception."
"Oh," was all Braden could say and he couldn't stop his shoulders slumping a little more than they already were. "But I... all the things the other doctor suggested, I've been doing them, like. Exercise, and eating certain things in my diet, nay much alcohol, I dinnae smoke or anything. I've even been wearing, erm, cotton boxers and nay taking hot baths. There was even these vitamins, and this oil to rub..." He trailed off and looked at her with a frown. "None of it was ever going to work, was it?"
The doctor watched him sympathetically and shook her head. "I'm afraid not, Braden. This is just what seems to be a genetic anomaly. I'm not even sure it's hereditary, seeing as, according to your medical history, no other male in your family has a history of it. I know this is a blow, and to hear it a second time. Was that why you wanted the appointment here in London? Just a confirmation? Or were you hoping for a different result with a view to conceive?"
Braden swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump that was there. He really just wanted to cry and he wasn't too far off it, he suspected. "Just confirmation, I guess..." he replied hoarsely, quietly. The truth was, he had come in hopes the results might be just a wee bit better with his chances increased slightly. Something to give him hope, of some sort. Something he could take back to Kenzie with the thought they could maybe have a baby of their own one day. He had tried so hard with all the remedies, clutched onto that mere suggestion it might get better and he might have a chance of a baby all his own one day. But the more rational part of him had known the result was going to be the same. It was like he just needed to hear it again, even if it had come like an even harder blow to the gut to be told a second time. Now he was just tired and he wanted to go to Iain's and crawl back into bed.
"Have you got any questions, Braden? About anything?" the doctor prompted gently.
"You take credit card, right?" Braden asked flatly, already reaching behind him to get his wallet out. A few short hours in an expensive fertility clinic that could fit him in for an appointment at very short notice, it was going to cost him a fortune. Probably everything he had earned in the last month, if not more.
The doctor nodded and handed him some sheets of paper from the file. "Yes, you can pay by credit card at our reception on the way out. Would you like a copy of the results? I can tell you that your blood tests were clear. With everything else, you're one hundred percent healthy," she told him with a faint smile.
Braden stood and took the sheets of her. "Yay," he responded, not meaning to come off sounding like a sarcastic prick. It wasn't like he owed her anything, though. Ten minutes in a room to toss off into a cup and a five minute consult, a couple of thousand pounds later, he wasn't feeling very accommodating. "Thank you, Dr Lister. Appreciate your time." He didn't say anything further and just left her office. In the corridor on the way back to the reception, he approached a bin. With a pause and a pained frown, he stuffed the test results into it without a second thought. It wasn't like it was something he wanted to frame with pride. In fact, right at the moment, there wasn't a whole lot he felt proud of. He just felt... broken.
Again.
Word Count | 1,257
Gone With The Wind
Braden sat in the cold medical clinic waiting room, a magazine open in his lap that he wasn't reading. If someone asked, he wouldn't even be able to tell them the name of it. He had his leg crossed over his knee, but it was bouncing anxiously as he glanced around at the medical posters on the wall of cartoon sperm and what a baby would look like in a womb. It wasn't like Braden was squeamish, he was a paramedic for bloody shitting sake, but he also didn't particularly want shit like this thrust in his face. It was all part of the package, though, and it just wasn't helping that he had been sitting for hours waiting. It was too much time, and his mind was in overdrive. Mixed with lack of sleep, he was just stressed out to the max.
"Braden Evans?" The voice infiltrated his thoughts and he realised he had been staring blankly at the womb poster. He jumped at his name and dropped the magazine, his skittish behaviour earning him strange looks from a row of pregnant women sitting across from him. As if a single bloke in a fertility clinic wasn't a weird enough sight, he went and drew even more attention to himself by being a dipstick. He hastily grabbed the magazine back up from the floor when he stood and neatly placed it back on the pile, realising in horror it was a magazine for teen girls with a big fluro green headline of what tampons were the best and safest option. He immediately flushed bright red and couldn't look at the other occupants of the waiting room anymore. He just kept his head dipped as he followed the female doctor from where she called him. She ushered him into her office wish a friendly smile. "Take a seat, Mr Evans."
Braden obediently sat before her desk in the consult chair and cleared his throat. "I know this isnae a normal occurrence," he murmured, meeting her eyes when she sat down in front of a fresh file with his name on it. He strained his eyes, trying to see what the papers inside it said, but it was impossible from where he was sitting. "Especially not considering I've already... you know." Just a few hours prior, he had been sat in a small, sterile room with a plastic cup in his hand. It brought back memories of the last time, and he really did wonder why the hell he was putting himself through this again. It was also disconcerting how normal his sperm looked. It looked like any other cup of sperm. At least, that's what he assumed.
The doctor shook her head. "Not at all. In fact, it's been a couple of years since your last spermanalysis. It's actually a sound decision to want to have a follow up second opinion." She paused, glancing down at the papers and then met his gaze again, folding her hands in front of her. "Unfortunately, I don't have good news for you, Mr Evans. Your sperm count is still extremely low and what is there are, shall we say, slow swimmers. With this type of pathology, it would be negligent of me to advise that you could have a chance of conceiving. With these results, you would obviously have no issues ejaculating, but the sperm wouldn't survive the distance to conception."
"Oh," was all Braden could say and he couldn't stop his shoulders slumping a little more than they already were. "But I... all the things the other doctor suggested, I've been doing them, like. Exercise, and eating certain things in my diet, nay much alcohol, I dinnae smoke or anything. I've even been wearing, erm, cotton boxers and nay taking hot baths. There was even these vitamins, and this oil to rub..." He trailed off and looked at her with a frown. "None of it was ever going to work, was it?"
The doctor watched him sympathetically and shook her head. "I'm afraid not, Braden. This is just what seems to be a genetic anomaly. I'm not even sure it's hereditary, seeing as, according to your medical history, no other male in your family has a history of it. I know this is a blow, and to hear it a second time. Was that why you wanted the appointment here in London? Just a confirmation? Or were you hoping for a different result with a view to conceive?"
Braden swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump that was there. He really just wanted to cry and he wasn't too far off it, he suspected. "Just confirmation, I guess..." he replied hoarsely, quietly. The truth was, he had come in hopes the results might be just a wee bit better with his chances increased slightly. Something to give him hope, of some sort. Something he could take back to Kenzie with the thought they could maybe have a baby of their own one day. He had tried so hard with all the remedies, clutched onto that mere suggestion it might get better and he might have a chance of a baby all his own one day. But the more rational part of him had known the result was going to be the same. It was like he just needed to hear it again, even if it had come like an even harder blow to the gut to be told a second time. Now he was just tired and he wanted to go to Iain's and crawl back into bed.
"Have you got any questions, Braden? About anything?" the doctor prompted gently.
"You take credit card, right?" Braden asked flatly, already reaching behind him to get his wallet out. A few short hours in an expensive fertility clinic that could fit him in for an appointment at very short notice, it was going to cost him a fortune. Probably everything he had earned in the last month, if not more.
The doctor nodded and handed him some sheets of paper from the file. "Yes, you can pay by credit card at our reception on the way out. Would you like a copy of the results? I can tell you that your blood tests were clear. With everything else, you're one hundred percent healthy," she told him with a faint smile.
Braden stood and took the sheets of her. "Yay," he responded, not meaning to come off sounding like a sarcastic prick. It wasn't like he owed her anything, though. Ten minutes in a room to toss off into a cup and a five minute consult, a couple of thousand pounds later, he wasn't feeling very accommodating. "Thank you, Dr Lister. Appreciate your time." He didn't say anything further and just left her office. In the corridor on the way back to the reception, he approached a bin. With a pause and a pained frown, he stuffed the test results into it without a second thought. It wasn't like it was something he wanted to frame with pride. In fact, right at the moment, there wasn't a whole lot he felt proud of. He just felt... broken.
Again.
Word Count | 1,257