On Thursday, we learned the research program that we hoped might benefit from the last of our embryos was no longer accepting donations. So we stopped off at the clinic to bring her home.
There, the chief embryologist showed us where she’d been living these past five months: in a vat full of liquid nitrogen, alive with smoke and possibilities. It was the single most incredible, beautiful thing I ever saw, and I was a little overcome. Our baby-on-the-way was like this once, and now (s)he lives in my uterus!
And so, what for all her awesome, she deserves a proper send-off.
The big idea: When the bubula-in-my-belly turns one, we’ll return to that little sitting spot in Blue Hill where – when prepared to try absolutely anything once – we sat one afternoon, desperate and sad, stuffing and sewing little satchels full of “magic” herbs and crystals we scored at a Wiccan gift shop in Salem a few weeks prior. (“You got anything here that can help a couple of Jewish infertiles get knocked up?” And the gal behind the counter handed us a half dozen dime bags full of potpourri and hope.) In that place, we intend to celebrate the kid we have and bury the one we never met.
For now, though, she’ll live in a planter on our garden windowsill.
Meanwhile, there’s this.
The Igmeister says s’up.
(S)he’s got discernible fingers attached to a perfectly formed little hand on long arms that quite resemble the father’s! And a mouth that opens and shuts in preparation for all the talking (s)he’ll do, like…y’know me.
Doc was able to predict quite early – and with something like 93% accuracy! – that we’re having a…
Anxious that testicles are going to fall off, or a vagina’s going to develop a penis, we’re not telling until post-18-week anatomy scan. Plus, truth be told, I’m not sure we really care if what’s growing in there is a boy, a girl or a pygmy marmoset if (s)he’s as healthy as all this.
(S)he’s growing up so fast!