5-11-09
What could be a more wholesome, uncomplicated celebration than Mother’s Day? At least this is what I used to think. Mother’s Day = flowers, cute kid-made cards, champagne brunches (that’s my kinda motherhood), and burnt toast breakfast attempts by tow-headed kindergartners with gap-toothed smiles. Now I’m more in tune to the complications. Mr. Crud is more bummed about it than me. Throughout the day I catch a glum expression on his mug.
“You okay?” I expect it to be an early onset case of the Sundays.
He shrugs. “I don’t know. It just feels weird.”
“That I’m not a mother?”
“Yeah.”
I chalk up my lack of reaction to the holiday as minor denial combined with minor hope. Maybe next year I will be a mother to a real live crying, pooping baby instead of an idea. Wouldn’t that be something.
Per usual, Facebook shakes me out of my denial with the flood of Mother’s Day-related status updates. All the mothers that I know had lovely days with their kids. Precious moments a-plenty. I feel the now-routine dip into contradiction: Good for you. Why not me?
Mr. Crud and I head to yoga class. “Happy Mother’s Day!” says our teacher as a welcome.
I know that she isn’t herself a mother so somehow this greeting feels okay. “And to you,” I say.
I pat Mr. Crud on the back. I hope I’m pregnant by Father’s Day. I already have a complicated enough Father’s Day what with my dad being dead and all.
We find our places among the yogis and wait for class to begin. Our teacher hands out slips of paper with a chant to honor Krishna’s mother. We clap to a beat. We chant. I know that Mr. Crud enjoys the clapping, that he can lose himself in the rhythm. As we clap I think of the other women and men of the world who may not be lost in the lavender-scented wholesomeness: The other wannabe parents like us who struggle with infertility and miscarriage; the parents of dead children with their wounded hearts; the children of incarcerated women, of abusive mothers, of dead, beloved or hated mothers; and simply those people who have complicated relationships with their mothers. I keep clapping. My wishes are for you, my complicated Mother’s Day compatriots, to find peace today. Just a little, whatever you can handle.
After class, Mr. Crud and I walk on sore, warriored-out legs back home. “Mother’s Day isn’t as simple as it seems,” Mr. Crud says.
“My thoughts exactly.”
“I keep wondering what next Mother’s Day will be like,” he says.
“Yeah, me too.” I wonder if we’ll be able to gross out Peabody with the story of how she was conceived on a Mother’s Day a lot like this one. I hope so.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
Um...No
4-30-09
(Sorry for the cliff-hanger, folks.)
Saturday I awake with a rollercoaster tingle in my belly. Sure, it’s 2 days before the supposed arrival of my period, but I’ve been feeling all the symptoms: random nausea, weird bursts of energy, and haven’t my boobs been looking a little larger? Plus my dreams were all about Neal Pollack a.k.a. Alternadad. No interesting narrative arc to report. We were just hanging out, palling around, talking yoga and the like. But I associate him with fatherhood, and with this leap of faith that Mr. Crud and I have taken twice so far so this dream is Significant, right? Right? I whisper in Mr. Crud’s ear, “I gotta pee. I’ll be back in a sec,” lest he worry about my disappearance from our lazy Saturday morning in bed.
I walk to the bathroom. Each step is a change of heart: no, I should wait, it’ll just be a waste of pregnancy test. Why the hell not? I spend more on drinks that I don’t finish than I did for the pee stick. Nah, this is silly. Just wait. 2 more days. You can wait.
Even though I’m not sure I am knocked up, I’ve been acting like a preg. Friday I skipped the sauna and my weekly martini. All week I loaded up on sushi in preparation for a possible sushi drought. I even used my possible pregnancy as a bargaining chip for the last piece of Gonzo Roll, the favorite roll of Mr. Crud and I that is cut into 5 pieces, which necessitates an alternating extra piece rule.
“This may be the last time I can have this for a long time,” I say to Mr. Crud over our weekly Thursday night sushi binge.
He looks at me skeptically. “Maybe.”
“If I’m wrong, I’ll give up my Gonzo rights for 2 weeks,” I say.
“Deal.”
In the bathroom I skim the side of the EPT box: detects pregnancy in 93 % of women 2 days before their period begins. Good enough.
I do the test like I’ve done before. As I wait the 3 minutes for the results, I realize that I’ve never gotten a negative result on a pregnancy test. Always 2 lines for me. I steal a glance at the stick. One line. The other one isn’t even faint. I zip back to check the microwave. 30 seconds until the results. My gut sinks. Negative. The microwave beeps. I pick up the stick and face the result window. Negative.
“Oh well,” I say and head back to bed.
Mr. Crud mumbles, “What took so long?”
“I took a pregnancy test,” I say.
“And?” He perks up a little.
“Negative.”
“I don’t even know how I feel about that.”
“Me neither.”
The cramps on Sunday and blood-streaked toilet paper on Monday confirm it. Not pregnant. Negative. All my inklings and stories were not intuition, just imagination. For the first time in the history of the Crud’s pregnancy attempts, we have not gotten pregnant our first month of trying. I tell myself that this is good. We are breaking the cycle of immediate impregnation and miscarriage. This time will be different. Third time is the charm.
“I feel both sad and relieved,” Mr. Crud says. “Is that weird?”
“Nope, that’s about how I feel.”
While I plot my week of pregnancy-less life—totally taking a Vicodin tonight, I think—I wonder if maybe my body has finally learned to tell the difference between a good egg and a bad one. Our timing was on. I felt ovulation cramps shortly after we, uh, you know. Maybe just maybe my uterus has learned discernment. (See, I knew that some part of my body was learning something from all that yoga.) For lack of finding any scientific reason for the miscarriages, I find myself tunneling deeper into superstition. I write and rewrite the story of conception, of the baby that I envision us holding one day.
Last night I tell Mr. Crud of my future fantasy that my niece Emma will one day come visit us all by herself. (No offense intended JADE, I just had this vision of Emma and me going about town on a niece-auntie mission for chocolate and costume jewelry.)
“By that time we might have a Peabody of our own,” he says. “That’ll change things.”
“If we don’t have a Peabody by then, then we’ll probably never have one,” I say.
“Yeah,” Mr. Crud says. “If that happens then we’ll have our house full of mangy cats.”
“And our well-groomed dog.”
Plan B is becoming the crazy cat and dog couple. For some reason the idea of having a lot of cats that we don’t treat well and a dog that we do cracks us up. Such is what passes for humor in Miscarriage World.
(Sorry for the cliff-hanger, folks.)
Saturday I awake with a rollercoaster tingle in my belly. Sure, it’s 2 days before the supposed arrival of my period, but I’ve been feeling all the symptoms: random nausea, weird bursts of energy, and haven’t my boobs been looking a little larger? Plus my dreams were all about Neal Pollack a.k.a. Alternadad. No interesting narrative arc to report. We were just hanging out, palling around, talking yoga and the like. But I associate him with fatherhood, and with this leap of faith that Mr. Crud and I have taken twice so far so this dream is Significant, right? Right? I whisper in Mr. Crud’s ear, “I gotta pee. I’ll be back in a sec,” lest he worry about my disappearance from our lazy Saturday morning in bed.
I walk to the bathroom. Each step is a change of heart: no, I should wait, it’ll just be a waste of pregnancy test. Why the hell not? I spend more on drinks that I don’t finish than I did for the pee stick. Nah, this is silly. Just wait. 2 more days. You can wait.
Even though I’m not sure I am knocked up, I’ve been acting like a preg. Friday I skipped the sauna and my weekly martini. All week I loaded up on sushi in preparation for a possible sushi drought. I even used my possible pregnancy as a bargaining chip for the last piece of Gonzo Roll, the favorite roll of Mr. Crud and I that is cut into 5 pieces, which necessitates an alternating extra piece rule.
“This may be the last time I can have this for a long time,” I say to Mr. Crud over our weekly Thursday night sushi binge.
He looks at me skeptically. “Maybe.”
“If I’m wrong, I’ll give up my Gonzo rights for 2 weeks,” I say.
“Deal.”
In the bathroom I skim the side of the EPT box: detects pregnancy in 93 % of women 2 days before their period begins. Good enough.
I do the test like I’ve done before. As I wait the 3 minutes for the results, I realize that I’ve never gotten a negative result on a pregnancy test. Always 2 lines for me. I steal a glance at the stick. One line. The other one isn’t even faint. I zip back to check the microwave. 30 seconds until the results. My gut sinks. Negative. The microwave beeps. I pick up the stick and face the result window. Negative.
“Oh well,” I say and head back to bed.
Mr. Crud mumbles, “What took so long?”
“I took a pregnancy test,” I say.
“And?” He perks up a little.
“Negative.”
“I don’t even know how I feel about that.”
“Me neither.”
The cramps on Sunday and blood-streaked toilet paper on Monday confirm it. Not pregnant. Negative. All my inklings and stories were not intuition, just imagination. For the first time in the history of the Crud’s pregnancy attempts, we have not gotten pregnant our first month of trying. I tell myself that this is good. We are breaking the cycle of immediate impregnation and miscarriage. This time will be different. Third time is the charm.
“I feel both sad and relieved,” Mr. Crud says. “Is that weird?”
“Nope, that’s about how I feel.”
While I plot my week of pregnancy-less life—totally taking a Vicodin tonight, I think—I wonder if maybe my body has finally learned to tell the difference between a good egg and a bad one. Our timing was on. I felt ovulation cramps shortly after we, uh, you know. Maybe just maybe my uterus has learned discernment. (See, I knew that some part of my body was learning something from all that yoga.) For lack of finding any scientific reason for the miscarriages, I find myself tunneling deeper into superstition. I write and rewrite the story of conception, of the baby that I envision us holding one day.
Last night I tell Mr. Crud of my future fantasy that my niece Emma will one day come visit us all by herself. (No offense intended JADE, I just had this vision of Emma and me going about town on a niece-auntie mission for chocolate and costume jewelry.)
“By that time we might have a Peabody of our own,” he says. “That’ll change things.”
“If we don’t have a Peabody by then, then we’ll probably never have one,” I say.
“Yeah,” Mr. Crud says. “If that happens then we’ll have our house full of mangy cats.”
“And our well-groomed dog.”
Plan B is becoming the crazy cat and dog couple. For some reason the idea of having a lot of cats that we don’t treat well and a dog that we do cracks us up. Such is what passes for humor in Miscarriage World.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Suspicious Minds
4-22-09
I spend the last three hours of my Monday night tossing and turning. Hello, Insomnia, I didn’t miss you one iota. As the numbers on my digital clock inch towards midnight I yank open my nightstand drawer. I admit it. I am powerless to defeat you insomnia. All my yoga breathing and mindfulness techniques and reassurances to myself that everything is fine, JUST FINE, are for naught. I need drugs and I need them now. I reach for my old buddy old friend, Alprazolam a.k.a. Xanax (which I will call it since it’s a delightful palindrome). Bleary-eyed I read the warning labels “Do not take if you are pregnant, breastfeeding, or suspect you are pregnant.” I consider. I do suspect I am pregnant, but my suspicions are grounded in a few rumblings in my lower abdominals and a confidence in timing. What if the zygote hasn’t found a stretch of uterus to call its own? What if it’s one of those bad old lady eggs that every article about mothers over 35 howls about? What exactly constitutes suspicion?
The first time I was pregnant, I took a Xanax the night after I’d found out so freaked out was I. I had remembered that my previous doctor had said Xanax was okay for the pregnant. I took it out of desperation. There was no way that I’d be sleeping with the knowledge that a baby-parasite had taken up residence chez Kt without it. And I slept. And the next day I googled and commenced with freaking out. I wondered if my ex-doc had misunderstood my question or if I had employed some selective hearing. (“Oh yes, Kt, you can drink wine, eat sushi, smoke, dance until morning, sweat your ass off in yoga class, and take bucketfuls of Xanax without any worries.”) If only.
Tonight I go the safe route. I put down the Xanax almost apologetically. I’ll be back someday. I rummage around and find the Unisom, which is doctor approved for pregnancy. In fact it is recommended as a means of fighting off morning sickness when taken in conjunction with vitamin B6. I hate the way Unisom turns my mornings into a zombie zone, but I am at my wits end and I need sleep.
I eke out 4 hours and spare change of sleep. I zombie my way through the morning, feeling a facsimile of wakefulness only in the afternoon. Xanax doesn’t do this to me, I grumble.
In some respects I am walking the cautious path. I’ve cut out the alcohol, quit smoking (for good this time, I swear!), replaced the Advil with Tylenol, and am consciously avoiding the lunchtime smokers that clog the Portland streets.
In other respects, not so much: I am eating as much sushi as I want.
“Don’t get that Jeremy Piven disease,” Mr. Crud warns.
“You mean being a douchebag who will fuck anything that moves?” Zing!
I am working bean sprouts and soft, unpasteurized cheese into my diet as much as possible. I am enjoying sweaty times on the yoga mat, knowing that I might have to curb my vigorous practice as early as next week.
Or I won’t. Or I’ll wake up Monday morning with cramps, a spot of blood on the TP, and a craving for a dirty martini. I try to predict how I’ll feel pregnant or not. I try to prepare myself for either eventuality. Maybe it’s good if I don’t get pregnant right away. That happened the last 2 times…and we know what happened then. Maybe getting my period is a sign that my uterus has learned to discern a good houseguest from a freeloader.
Thankfully my obsession with knowing one way or the other is waning. I’ll be fine either way. I think. Now if you’ll pardon me, I have some reassuring Buddhist philosophy books to add to my library list just in case my bravado crumbles before next Monday.
I spend the last three hours of my Monday night tossing and turning. Hello, Insomnia, I didn’t miss you one iota. As the numbers on my digital clock inch towards midnight I yank open my nightstand drawer. I admit it. I am powerless to defeat you insomnia. All my yoga breathing and mindfulness techniques and reassurances to myself that everything is fine, JUST FINE, are for naught. I need drugs and I need them now. I reach for my old buddy old friend, Alprazolam a.k.a. Xanax (which I will call it since it’s a delightful palindrome). Bleary-eyed I read the warning labels “Do not take if you are pregnant, breastfeeding, or suspect you are pregnant.” I consider. I do suspect I am pregnant, but my suspicions are grounded in a few rumblings in my lower abdominals and a confidence in timing. What if the zygote hasn’t found a stretch of uterus to call its own? What if it’s one of those bad old lady eggs that every article about mothers over 35 howls about? What exactly constitutes suspicion?
The first time I was pregnant, I took a Xanax the night after I’d found out so freaked out was I. I had remembered that my previous doctor had said Xanax was okay for the pregnant. I took it out of desperation. There was no way that I’d be sleeping with the knowledge that a baby-parasite had taken up residence chez Kt without it. And I slept. And the next day I googled and commenced with freaking out. I wondered if my ex-doc had misunderstood my question or if I had employed some selective hearing. (“Oh yes, Kt, you can drink wine, eat sushi, smoke, dance until morning, sweat your ass off in yoga class, and take bucketfuls of Xanax without any worries.”) If only.
Tonight I go the safe route. I put down the Xanax almost apologetically. I’ll be back someday. I rummage around and find the Unisom, which is doctor approved for pregnancy. In fact it is recommended as a means of fighting off morning sickness when taken in conjunction with vitamin B6. I hate the way Unisom turns my mornings into a zombie zone, but I am at my wits end and I need sleep.
I eke out 4 hours and spare change of sleep. I zombie my way through the morning, feeling a facsimile of wakefulness only in the afternoon. Xanax doesn’t do this to me, I grumble.
In some respects I am walking the cautious path. I’ve cut out the alcohol, quit smoking (for good this time, I swear!), replaced the Advil with Tylenol, and am consciously avoiding the lunchtime smokers that clog the Portland streets.
In other respects, not so much: I am eating as much sushi as I want.
“Don’t get that Jeremy Piven disease,” Mr. Crud warns.
“You mean being a douchebag who will fuck anything that moves?” Zing!
I am working bean sprouts and soft, unpasteurized cheese into my diet as much as possible. I am enjoying sweaty times on the yoga mat, knowing that I might have to curb my vigorous practice as early as next week.
Or I won’t. Or I’ll wake up Monday morning with cramps, a spot of blood on the TP, and a craving for a dirty martini. I try to predict how I’ll feel pregnant or not. I try to prepare myself for either eventuality. Maybe it’s good if I don’t get pregnant right away. That happened the last 2 times…and we know what happened then. Maybe getting my period is a sign that my uterus has learned to discern a good houseguest from a freeloader.
Thankfully my obsession with knowing one way or the other is waning. I’ll be fine either way. I think. Now if you’ll pardon me, I have some reassuring Buddhist philosophy books to add to my library list just in case my bravado crumbles before next Monday.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
"The Babies"
4-20-09
I open the can of worms. “I think I might be, you know,” I say to Mr. Crud.
Despite my assurances to myself that I would be cool about this whole “pregnancy bullshit”—as I’ve taken to calling it whenever I talk about going another round—andnot obsess over cervical fluid, pangs in the lower lady regions, and random appearances and disappearances of suspected preg-symptoms, I am about as far as one can get from cool. I’m hot. Burning. Hellfire hot.
“Really? How do you know? Really?” Mr. Crud asks, eyes wide.
“I’ve been feeling action in the lady parts. Cramps mainly. But it could just be gas,” I say.
“Don’t cramps mean--?”
“Not necessarily.” I decline to explain mittlelschmerz, the term for the slight, one-sided cramping that ladies can feel when ovulation begins, which I felt. At least I think I did.
After checking numerous fertility calculators, I compiled my data and found the fertile days. I tried not to talk up the days too much lest I scare Mr. Crud and lead to, ahem, other issues that may impede the making of a Peabody 3. Then I got to scrutinizing my fluids. We both decided that we wouldn’t put too much pressure on ourselves this month. No carpet-bombing, just leisurely good times with the one you love. Nonetheless a week ago as I lay in viparita karani in yoga class, I felt the slight cramping commence. We had some leisurely good times that morning so I wondered. Could it?
And for the last week, I did a pretty good job of letting it go. I told myself that I was quitting smoking (a-fucking-gain, I know) because smoking is dumb, all my friends are doing it, and I was tired of the extra phlegm in the morning. The quitting has nothing to do with Peabody.
Friday I almost surrendered my post-work week cocktail, but relented at the last moment. This could be the last cocktail I sip for a long, long time. Better to seize the day by the salt plum vodka martini than to lament what could have been the following Friday. I remembered my mantra: All or nothing. If this martini has any negative effect, it would be to hamper fertilization and/or implantation. I remind myself of all the times multiple doctors have assured me that nothing I ate, drank, or smoked during the first 4 weeks of pregnancy could have caused a miscarriage.
“So, when can you find out for sure?” Mr. Crud asks.
“Next weekend. Actually next Monday.”
“Oh. That’ll make for a long week.”
It already has for the both of us. Time drags. Each twinge I feel in my lower abdomen sets me spinning. I have dipped my toe back into the pregnancy and miscarriage website-a-palooza and swing between feeling comforted and totally freaked out. I allow myself to ponder the trajectory of my theoretical pregnancy, both the good outcomes (With a potential due date in early January there will be no hell trip through snowstorms for Christmas on the east coast!) and bad (If we get another ultrasound of doom, I’ll at least be evacuated of another dead baby by the 4th of July. Just in time to get shit-faced and take up smoking again!).
See what I mean? So not cool.
Last night Mr. Crud flops into bed and rolls over for a hug. “I got the super Sundays,” he says. “The Sundays” refers to the unsavory salad roll of mega dread of the week ahead and regret of the weekend promise left unfulfilled.
“Is it the Sundays plus the pregnancy bullshit?” I ask, pulling him in tight.
“Yeah.”
I thank G-d that when Mr. Crud is nervous and down, I feel okay, a shaky confidence that I will need to bolster in the coming months with large doses of Sylvia Boorstein and Buddhist philosophy.
“We need to come up with a word for this,” he says. “Like the Sundays.”
“How about ‘The Babies’?” I ask.
He considers. “Eh, it’ll do for now.”
I’m at work and going over the same Yoga Journal articles that I’ve read before, assuring myself that I don’t need to immediately halt my yoga practice on suspicion of pregnancy. I re-read an old miscarriage website that I can practically recite by heart. My eyes fall on a new (un-sourced) statistic: after 2 miscarriages, a person has a 40% chance of miscarrying again. Shit. I don’t remember that one. I feel whatever shaky confidence I had evaporate as I stare at the screen, scrolling and scrolling for source material. I try to remember all the stories of women who had multiple miscarriages and eventual successful pregnancies. I picture my yoga friend Jan who is so pregnant now that she looks on the verge of tipping over.
The phone rings. Mr. Crud. Good, I was just about to actually do some work to get my mind off of 40%. Wouldn’t want to do too much work at work.
“Hey hon, how you doing?” He asks.
“Oh okay,” I say in a tone that is clearly not okay. “I’m feeling a little scared, about, you know.”
“You got ‘the babies’?” He asks.
“Yeah, I do.”
But I can’t really talk now unless I want the collection of theater students sitting in the lobby to hear my tale of preg-scare woe.
He offers words of comfort and says, “We need to come up with a better word.”
“Agreed. It’ll do for now.”
Just like everything else.
I open the can of worms. “I think I might be, you know,” I say to Mr. Crud.
Despite my assurances to myself that I would be cool about this whole “pregnancy bullshit”—as I’ve taken to calling it whenever I talk about going another round—andnot obsess over cervical fluid, pangs in the lower lady regions, and random appearances and disappearances of suspected preg-symptoms, I am about as far as one can get from cool. I’m hot. Burning. Hellfire hot.
“Really? How do you know? Really?” Mr. Crud asks, eyes wide.
“I’ve been feeling action in the lady parts. Cramps mainly. But it could just be gas,” I say.
“Don’t cramps mean--?”
“Not necessarily.” I decline to explain mittlelschmerz, the term for the slight, one-sided cramping that ladies can feel when ovulation begins, which I felt. At least I think I did.
After checking numerous fertility calculators, I compiled my data and found the fertile days. I tried not to talk up the days too much lest I scare Mr. Crud and lead to, ahem, other issues that may impede the making of a Peabody 3. Then I got to scrutinizing my fluids. We both decided that we wouldn’t put too much pressure on ourselves this month. No carpet-bombing, just leisurely good times with the one you love. Nonetheless a week ago as I lay in viparita karani in yoga class, I felt the slight cramping commence. We had some leisurely good times that morning so I wondered. Could it?
And for the last week, I did a pretty good job of letting it go. I told myself that I was quitting smoking (a-fucking-gain, I know) because smoking is dumb, all my friends are doing it, and I was tired of the extra phlegm in the morning. The quitting has nothing to do with Peabody.
Friday I almost surrendered my post-work week cocktail, but relented at the last moment. This could be the last cocktail I sip for a long, long time. Better to seize the day by the salt plum vodka martini than to lament what could have been the following Friday. I remembered my mantra: All or nothing. If this martini has any negative effect, it would be to hamper fertilization and/or implantation. I remind myself of all the times multiple doctors have assured me that nothing I ate, drank, or smoked during the first 4 weeks of pregnancy could have caused a miscarriage.
“So, when can you find out for sure?” Mr. Crud asks.
“Next weekend. Actually next Monday.”
“Oh. That’ll make for a long week.”
It already has for the both of us. Time drags. Each twinge I feel in my lower abdomen sets me spinning. I have dipped my toe back into the pregnancy and miscarriage website-a-palooza and swing between feeling comforted and totally freaked out. I allow myself to ponder the trajectory of my theoretical pregnancy, both the good outcomes (With a potential due date in early January there will be no hell trip through snowstorms for Christmas on the east coast!) and bad (If we get another ultrasound of doom, I’ll at least be evacuated of another dead baby by the 4th of July. Just in time to get shit-faced and take up smoking again!).
See what I mean? So not cool.
Last night Mr. Crud flops into bed and rolls over for a hug. “I got the super Sundays,” he says. “The Sundays” refers to the unsavory salad roll of mega dread of the week ahead and regret of the weekend promise left unfulfilled.
“Is it the Sundays plus the pregnancy bullshit?” I ask, pulling him in tight.
“Yeah.”
I thank G-d that when Mr. Crud is nervous and down, I feel okay, a shaky confidence that I will need to bolster in the coming months with large doses of Sylvia Boorstein and Buddhist philosophy.
“We need to come up with a word for this,” he says. “Like the Sundays.”
“How about ‘The Babies’?” I ask.
He considers. “Eh, it’ll do for now.”
I’m at work and going over the same Yoga Journal articles that I’ve read before, assuring myself that I don’t need to immediately halt my yoga practice on suspicion of pregnancy. I re-read an old miscarriage website that I can practically recite by heart. My eyes fall on a new (un-sourced) statistic: after 2 miscarriages, a person has a 40% chance of miscarrying again. Shit. I don’t remember that one. I feel whatever shaky confidence I had evaporate as I stare at the screen, scrolling and scrolling for source material. I try to remember all the stories of women who had multiple miscarriages and eventual successful pregnancies. I picture my yoga friend Jan who is so pregnant now that she looks on the verge of tipping over.
The phone rings. Mr. Crud. Good, I was just about to actually do some work to get my mind off of 40%. Wouldn’t want to do too much work at work.
“Hey hon, how you doing?” He asks.
“Oh okay,” I say in a tone that is clearly not okay. “I’m feeling a little scared, about, you know.”
“You got ‘the babies’?” He asks.
“Yeah, I do.”
But I can’t really talk now unless I want the collection of theater students sitting in the lobby to hear my tale of preg-scare woe.
He offers words of comfort and says, “We need to come up with a better word.”
“Agreed. It’ll do for now.”
Just like everything else.
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