Late!

3-13-09

I confirm and re-confirm the fertility calculator’s prediction of the first date of my period. I count the days in my date book. No denying it. March 5 was supposed to be the start of the next bloodbath. My gut aches. Shit. How could it? Could we really? I look back to our last, ahem, session of love, and shake my head. No. No way. It would have to be a miracle. Mr. Crud echoes the sentiment when I tell him of my pregnancy fears.

“That’s impossible,” he says. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll come.”

“I mean, it’s not out of the realm of possibility. It could have happened. It’s just highly highly unlikely that it did,” I say.

Friday night we go to the Savoy like we do every Friday night. I order my well-earned martini and settle back. March 6 and still no blood. All day I have been cramp-mining, hoping each rumbling in the lower abdominal area is the start of the latest round of crushing cramps.

“I’ve never really wished for cramps before,” I say to Mr. Crud and take a sip of martini. I nibble on the blue cheese-stuffed olives the bartender brought over for me to try. Oh the delights of forbidden foods are many. I wonder if I am nibbling my last bit of blue cheese and savoring my final martini.

Mr. Crud reaches across the table and pats my hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s just that I’m not ready, you know? I’m scared. I haven’t gotten my bravery up for another round.”

Mr. Crud goes into counselor mode. “What do you mean by scared?”

I spill the well-worn catalogue of fears and concerns: I don’t want to go through another miscarriage, another doomed ultrasound. Just picturing the ultrasound room is brining tears to my eyes.

“All of those things sound perfectly normal.” He says.

“Yeah, I know. I’m just not ready for it yet.”

Mr. Crud shrugs his shoulders. “Not really anything we can do about it now.”

“If I am pregnant, I’m totally getting an abortion,” I say.

We catch each other’s eyes and burst into hysterical laughter. We laugh until my stomach starts to ache—oh could it finally be the cramps I wished for upon a star—and tears are spilling from my eyes.

“That would sure surprise the doctors.”

“’No, we just decided we weren’t ready yet. This one is elective,’” I pretend explaining it to the doctor who has performed my D & C-s.

“I’m glad we can laugh about this stuff,” Mr. Crud says.

“And how. Cheers.” I hold up my half-finished martini. Our salads arrive. I manage to forget the nagging what-ifs of the last few days.

Saturday I awake. Still no blood. Shit. I think back to the past month. A couple of nights of heavy drinking, the usual sushi parade, and a few half-tabs of Xanax. As I did in July, I conjure the too-tough-to-die baby fantasy. The baby that wants to live so badly that it was created on non-fertile days and survived all the vodka and puffs of cigarette that I threw at it. Then I worry. What if my carrying on has messed up another embryo? What if I am totally to blame this time? I remember my old mantra—all or nothing, all or nothing—and put the baby fears on hold.

That afternoon I pick up another package of pee sticks. I’ll be using them eventually. This seems to do the trick. When I return home from the store, the cramps kick in, then the bloody smears. Ahhh…sweet relief.

“We need to celebrate,” I tell Mr. Crud. “With liquor.”

I’m going to need some liquid courage if I’m going to make it through another first trimester. Guess I’ll have to front load it.