March 13th, 2007

calicocurl

Dear Universe...

You know, the last time I requested that a baby be born, you weren't anywhere near this difficult about it. I remember quite distinctly asking my parents for a little sister. We were still living in Queens at the time, which is the only way I have to date that request, so it must have been before February 1974, I'm guessing it was some time in 1973. Margaret, the most kick-ass little sister you can imagine was born in May of 1974. You delivered exactly what I asked for then, so what the heck is the problem this time around?

Is it lack of specificity? I know that 'healthy, live baby' isn't very specific. Not a problem. You want specific, I can give you specific. I want to have a baby. That baby needs to have the right number of chromosomes, half from me and half from psychohist. It needs to have my mitochondrial DNA. I'd prefer that the baby be female; I want a daughter. She needs to be at least as smart as me, but I'd prefer it if she were even smarter than her father. She needs to be at least as pretty as me, but prettier would be better. If she had Margaret's poise that would be a plus. I'd like her to grow up to be between 5'7" and 5'9", because being taller than average is nice, but being too tall is a pain. I'd like her to be slim and strong. I want her to have blue eyes like mine, but they should be almond shaped like her father's. Dark auburn is my preferred hair color given the likely options. She should have fair skin, no spots, no freckles, no annoying moles. As for any other parameters, halfway between me and psychohist is what I want. There you go, can you ask for more specific than that?

So please, can we stop with the thwarting already?
calicocurl

8

This morning I got out of bed, and went to use the bathroom. When I was done I looked down and saw some brown spots in the toilet. An inspection of my underwear revealed more brown. Eit. I was pretty darn sure it was over then. This was my period, held at bay by nothing more than my nightly progesterone shot.

After my shower I installed a maxi pad. There wasn't any more blood, but I figured it was just a matter of time; I might as well be prepared. Then I went off to get tested in what seemed like an excercise in futility. In addition to the maxi pad I was wearing my "My Husband Loves Me Anyway" pendant. Its too sparkly for daytime wear, really, but I needed it.

I went to work. I've been on the brink of tears all morning, but hey, I'm leaving this job on Friday, so its probably not a big deal that I'm getting nothing done. I got lunch. I got a coke to go with. My work has free soda, but the selection doesn't stretch to heretic coke (caffine-free coke), so I had been drinking ginger ale. I figured what the heck, caffine now wouldn't change the results. I sat down at my desk to eat. After two sips of the illicit caffinated coke the phone rang.

The tone of the nurse's voice immediately told me that this was bad news. I was expecting bad news. It was not, however, exactly the bad news I was expecting. The test was positive, but the number was 8. Anything under a 5 is negative, and at this point they expect a number over 100. The nurse said to discontinue the progesterone and come back on Friday for more blood work. I asked to talk to Grace. I didn't want to give up the progesterone... well, I basically didn't want to give up on even the most marginal of positives. This is as pregnant as I've ever been before.

Grace called back less than 15 minutes later. She is sure that this is not going to work out. If it were just late implantation they'd still expect to see a number over 20. Best case scenario: its a chemical pregnancy that will resolve itself soon. Worst case scenario: its ectopic. Lovely. My risk of ectopics is increased by both the fact that I used IVF and the fact that I have endometriosis. Oh well. My tubes may be allegedly clear, but its not like they've shown any evidence of actually working.

Of course I am completely insane. I'd quit drinking the coke after the first phone call. I went back to the kitchen and got a ginger ale. I'd also gotten permission from Grace to continue the progesterone. It won't actually hurt me. I'm just way too stubborn to give up, and stopping the progesterone is giving up, even though I know that this is almost certainly not the little embryo that could. I just can't kill it myself by stopping its support mechanism, it has to go splat on its own.

So, there you have it. I'm pregnant, kind of, but not for very much longer.