By: Heather Somaini
I’ve written 36 blogs so far and somehow encapsulated 4.5 years into them. It’s kind of amazing that out of 4.5 years, I only came up with those 36 stories. I’m wondering if I can write 36 blogs for the next six months of our story because this is where the good stuff is…the kind of stuff that separates the men from the boys, the wheat from the chaff and the sheep from the goats. Are you ready? Hold on tight.
August 5th was a perfectly good Saturday. Everyone was going about their business of the weekend but Tere and I had a date with the doctor. Well, not really with the doctor but rather with a nurse and a phlebotomist. We were going in for the infamous pregnancy test. When you’re on all those crazy fertility drugs, you can’t use an over-the-counter test because it will generally come back positive so you have to go in for the big blood test.
We went in. They took the blood. We waited. They told us they would call in a few hours with the results. I didn’t realize it took that long and had scheduled a breakfast with a young filmmaker who had just moved to town. Tere and I met him at a favorite spot around the corner, Le Pain Quotidien. We explained that we were waiting for “the news” and if I was staring at my cell phone, that it really wasn’t about my lack of interest in his future career. We went through the whole breakfast and the phone never rang.
We went home. We really didn’t know what to do with ourselves. I remember roaming around the house, staring out the window into the canyon, wondering what my future had in store. It was weird because we just didn’t have any other plans and we kept looking at each other like “now what?”
The phone rang. It was the nurse. No beating around the bush – we were pregnant. We sat there for a little while just smiling and giggling. When the newness of our news started to dissipate and we were full on our moment of holding this knowledge just to ourselves, we called my Mom. And Tere’s best friends. And I’m sure a number of other people. It was a good day. It was a perfect day.
I love that moment when you have the news you’ve been waiting for – those moments that are all yours and you sit and taste every bit of it because it hasn’t yet been built up or broken down by what other people think. I love holding those things as just mine for as long as humanly possible before I let anyone else in on my secret.
But with every amazing thing comes the other side and over the next few days, the euphoria of our pregnancy started to subside as we realized there was a very serious unknown. Our next bit of news was at least two weeks away at our next ultrasound appointment.
We had put in three embryos. Three was too many and very risky. I began to worry that we would have to electively reduce the number of embryos. I knew it was something we agreed to but I couldn’t imagine having to do it. Every night and pretty much every day, I begged the universe or God or the Patron Saint of Motherhood to take care of this for us and make sure there were only two babies.
Only two, only two, only two…my mantra…only two. Please only two.
One will be ok.
But please, no more than two.
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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