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.
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