Shorty got low, low, low...

I'm in a surprisingly nice king-size bed in the Best Western, killing time while Heather reads and initials an 18-page document that maps out every element of IVF, from drugs to risks to chances of damaged sex chromosomes.  She's muttering, "We're gonna have fucking twins."

It took me about twenty minutes to read the thing, and I realized belatedly that I had given our consent to donate any unused or unusable eggs or embryos to the lab to improve their "quality control" procedures.  I like to believe they're going to use the eggs to practice with lasers and needles and whatnot, but shouldn't they already know how to do that?  Fuck, I hope they do.

Tomorrow morning is the class, so this is last-minute homework.  All this stuff was in the packet they sent us months ago, and reading it seemed absurdly optimistic at the time.  Today, we thought another test result had disappeared, so even reading these papers now seems like a leap.

There are all sorts of things in the paperwork that are disturbing, but par for the course: increased chances of multiples, blah blah blah.  However, one of the back pages includes, among reasons that the procedure might fail, "acts of God," which they suggest might include a hurricane or terrorist attack.  It brings me back five years, to the time I visited Planned Parenthood (ironically, for birth control) and saw notes next to every phone with instructions on how to handle bomb threats.  Perhaps that will come up in the class.

We're supposed to have all these forms filled out-- Heather called her cousin to ask what kind of cancer their aunt had and the response was, "Well, now it's in her lungs, breast, and cervix"-- and not only are they long and detailed, they aren't totally inclusive of our situation, i.e., lady and donor sperm with random other lady on the side.  There's kind of a weird section where they ask about "build," "disposition," and "distinguishing characteristics" of each parent, and all I can say is that the donor guy seems pleasant.  It sure doesn't matter if I am. 

I'm not saying that in a melodramatic, "I have no role here" way; if anything, I'm disappointed that I might have to be more involved in the paperwork.

A nurse from the Nashville office called Heather this morning to confirm our class.  There will be six other couples there, she said, and we'll need to take notes.  I've elected to bring my laptop, which will either make things way easier since my shorthand sucks or way more difficult because I'll look like a douche.  I'm excited to see the other couples because we don't know anyone who's done IVF, but I worry it'll be a room full of rich people who drive luxury cars and want to send their test-tube babies to private school.  I don't know if the lesbians in sneakers will fit in.  Maybe there'll be some nerdy prospective dad who brings his computer, too, and we can e-mail each other our notes.  Oh, man, I could totally send him a link to my blog.  More people should know about it.