We’re less than a week from Heather’s first—and maybe only—pregnancy test, and we are melting the fuck down.
Once she pointed out that this was truly her last chance, things took a sober turn. I want to comfort her, but I want to raise her child, too, and it’s not really something you can minimize anyhow. You can’t comfort somebody who’s looking at the end of her thirty-year-long dream. Yes, we talk about all the trips we’ll take and how we’ll drink and she’ll smoke, but we don’t even like drinking. Even in Amsterdam, through the cloud of smoke, we’ll know she can’t have a baby.
It’s exactly that attempt at self-soothing that’s getting us into trouble lately. “Think positive” is the mantra, maybe visualizing a pregnant belly or infant. “Snuggle in,” I tell the embryos. You can’t imagine the message with good news without imagining the bad one, though. “Hi, this message is for Rachel and Heather. We just wanted to let you know that this cycle did not produce a pregnancy…” I hear the nurse’s kind voice and intonation so clearly. Do they call you directly if you are pregnant?
Funnily enough, they gave us a customer-satisfaction form as we left following Heather’s egg transfer. I think they want to be sure you fill it out before you get the test results.