Don't Ask, Don't Tell

7-24-09

As the time approaches when we can theoretically start telling friends, family, coworkers, pals, chums, and random people on the street that I am knocked up, I find myself growing more reluctant to share the news. After each ultrasound I have sworn, “Okay, now I’ll tell my student worker I’m pregnant” so he knows why I look like creamed ass at the end of a work day and why my laziness has grown to gargantuan proportions.

“You print these out?” He asks me yesterday.

“Oh yeah, like 3 days ago,” I say.

He is the most fabulous of fabulous student workers so he smiles and hands me my forgotten printouts instead of throwing me a side-eye. Tell him, tell him, I think to myself all afternoon.

The other preg lady in the department pops by my window. “The ultrasound went okay?” she whispers.

I nod. “Everything looks good.”

She gives a silent cheer. Now would be an excellent time to tell him. The man has ears. He likely knows what an ultrasound is or at least that it’s connected to pregnancy. But my lips remain zipped.

Last weekend Mr. Crud and I are taking an afternoon stroll to the yummy vegan milkshake/smoothie stand. Across the street we spy our old friend and Mr. Crud’s ex-band mate.

“Let’s go say ‘hi,’” I say.

“Can we tell him?” Mr. Crud asks.

“No, let’s wait,” I say.

After a preg-free conversation, we go on our merry way. Mr. Crud says, “So when can we start telling people?”

“You can tell whoever you want to,” I say. “Well, except Eli when I’m with you.”

“Okay.”

“After 2 Sundays from now. That’s when the miscarriage chance officially goes way down.” I say.

“Okay, two Sundays.”

But even that makes my guts roil. What if we find out there’s some genetic problem with Purvis and (g-d forbid) have to terminate the pregnancy? That strikes me as being a hell of a lot harder to explain than a miscarriage. Then again the what-if rabbit hole in pregnancy is endless. For the sake of any other preg ladies who may be reading this, I’ll spare you the list, but in my last year of Miscarriage World membership I’ve learned a ton more than I ever wanted to know about all the things that can go wrong. During my first pregnancy I could avert my eyes and reassure myself “no, that won’t happen to you.” But I know all too well that yes, that can happen to me. Twice in fact.

Today I hear my cell phone ring from my bag. Even though my boss is in the next room I dash to pick it up. (Not that she cares, but I have some silly professional rule about not answering my cell at work.) It’s the genetic counselor.

“Your results look good. Your chance for Down’s Syndrome had dropped considerably as has the chance for Trisomy 18.”

She gives me the nitty gritty numbers and I jot them down to share with Mr. Crud. Now can I relax? Yeah, for about a half hour or so at least.

I call Mr. Crud and give him the good news. “Wow. Yay.” He says.

And then it comes up. “Now can we start telling people?”

“Sure. Maybe. How about after next Sunday?”

I guess I’m waiting for it to be obvious. I feel awkward sharing the news with people who don’t know of our miscarriage struggles, like I need to fill in the bad news after giving the good. A sort of “but don’t get too excited because it’s gotten fucked up before” coda to the joy. And then there’s the whole identity thing. Will people see me differently now that I’m pregnant? Will I no longer be privy to dirty jokes? Will people be afraid of offending my delicate sensibilities? Actually I’ve found that I’m a lot less delicate than usual. (Delicate being a relative term.) I hunger for murder mysteries, thrillers, tales of darkness, vampire books. My usual literary fiction-humorous memoir reading list has taken a decidedly bloody turn. And why not? Pregnancy and birth aren’t for wimps. Partly I like reading about others in dire straits so I can breathe a shallow sigh of relief, “At least my entire family wasn’t murdered while I watched.” I am reminded of our trek home last Christmas during Portland’s latest Storm of the Century. As Mr. Crud and I jammed onto a bus destined for the Portland Airport that would get us there a good 2 hours after our departure time but we had to go anyway just in case, we looked at each other and shook our heads. “At least we aren’t being hunted by Cylons.”

I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. My belly definitely protrudes, but not in an obviously pregnant way, just in a bloated belly way. Soon, I tell myself, soon there (g-d willing) won’t be any question about what I’ve been up to.

RANDOM: I want to start a heavy metal pregnancy-themed band called Chloasma. I’m pretty sure we could put some of those spooky death metal bands to shame. Does gore spill from their wieners? No, sir.