Fifteen embryos turned seven beautiful blastocysts including this one: the one living in my uterus, the one I pray is nestled secure for the stay, the one I hope is going to make us somebody’s parents. We’ve named her Maggie the Multi-celled Organism: a textbook perfect, greatly extended grade “AA” embie. AA: Like the fellowship. Or my bra size pre-fertility treatments.
It was ridiculously good news. It had been many, many months since the doc performing our transfer had seen such a fine specimen. “Something like this,” he told us, “means you’re looking at a between 65-75 percent chance of implantation this cycle.” And but for the painfully full bladder (pain, an understatement…agony more like it!) and my general reticence to celebrate too soon, I might have jumped off that table and hugged him.
Thus commences our latest Pregnancy Watch. It’s somehow more meaningful (and certainly more emotionally charged) for the knowledge that we stand greater than a snowball’s chance in Hell of getting knocked up good and proper this time. And it’s wrought with excitement and retrograde wait-can-you-poop-it-out worry.
No, by the way. You can’t. You can’t poop it out.
In spite of this, however, I can’t hardly shake the borderline-obsessive concern for Maggie’s well-being. Is she comfortable if I sleep on my side? Does she like chicken? And – think Jesus in your Cheerios here, folks! – is she attempting to communicate with us in the cryptic letters “BL” sprawled across her mid-section. Letters, by the way, only her father and I can seem to discern in the first place.
Wouldyalookatthat: I love – really love – a not-quite-someone I’ve never met.