Chapter 1

One Valley Doll to begin anew
A little pill to right the present askew.

THE APPOINTMENT

The vitamin for unwanted pregnancies—Methotrexate.  Is it the cramping, or the blood, or the disappointment that is making me nauseous? Certainly hard to say.

Anything that is meant to kill leukemia, breast cancer, head and neck cancer, and now, my poorly located baby, is probably only working if it makes one feel terrible—consolation in the form of bodily retribution.  Still, nausea is no friend.  She is a devilish little fiend that is always around, nagging your body with her little irksome happiness killers.

Do you want this beautiful, healthy, organic, and lovely looking dinner you just slaved over for you and your husband?

Nope!—an impertinent creature that nausea is.  You don’t want that!  You get to hang out with me, and I never go away.  I just stick around like a stagnant saggy menstrual cycle, rotting away at your uterus and bodily pride.

After three of these (this being the third), you would think the process would become easier.

Maybe it is.  Now at least I know to hope for no D&C.

All this passing blood is a good thing.  Nausea is not the enemy.  Remember that!

If it so happens that all my current hopes and dreams come out with this pill and some heavy vaginal bleeding, then I can refrain from more scarring to my uterus, or worse—the anathema: the removal of my last ovary.  Then I would really be screwed—and only in the worst of ways.

Sex, my favorite job on my path to my ideal occupation, would forever remind me of my total and complete maternal failure to procure progeny.  Sex: to be transformed into the antithesis of fun.  How can a happily married, healthy woman be expected to accept that!?  Especially, when she has more sex drive than a frisky teenager after their first beer?  Just another one of Fortuna’s little tricks.

Let’s have a romantic evening, dinner was nice, some thoughtful discussion over our future together, then we kiss, and my clothes come off, and oh wait!  The little reminder perks her interest.  And before something positive and happy is about to happen—while my bare skin still feels the newly foreign touch of the cool air—in comes my ever obscure and equally detestable reality.

That exposed treasure region—that supposed source of passion and pleasure—harbors the same frustrating disappointment as before.

Then the excitement becomes lackluster.

I get it, a lot of people can’t have babies.  But I highly doubt they would be as eternally endearing, uncompromisingly loving, thankful and happy as I would be as a mother.  Some people dream to be rich, or famous, or have some remarkable career.  A worldly career in this regard was never my calling; mine was having children of my own.

As soon as I could play with dolls, probably before I could walk, I was training for my future.  And thirty-five years later, I am in my late thirties (pretty much forty), have one ovary, and my third (now advanced maternal age, and equally unsuccessful) pregnancy is undergoing a chemical abortion. 

At least this ectopic didn’t rupture—being on the ‘high risk’ list with an ‘unproven uterus,’ I was offered an early intra-vaginal ultrasound as soon as I found out I was pregnant.  (Maybe not immediately when I found out, as that would still have been too early.)  The regularity at which I take pregnancy tests would probably catch near the very moment of conception.  So then: maybe a couple of weeks after I notified my OB, I was offered a still remarkably early ultrasound to bring reassurance that this pregnancy was finally the one.  It was meant to be a little quick look-see to make sure that my, probably last chance at egg and sperm union, found fertile territory to grow.

When we are young, every message we are fed is to keep people and things out of our vaginas.  Keep your clothes on; that dress shows too much; change into something less hoeish; get home early; no drinking or bad decisions!

And if it is incoming from one of the many condescending educational campaigns at school, on billboards, or on television, they favor more the direct: Don’t get pregnant, you will throw your future away!

But as soon as twenty-one years of age comes, it seems impossible to keep the medical world out of Miss Va-Jay.  Get your paps!  Let’s screen for STDs!  Might be pregnant?—Time for an ultrasound.  Bleeding too much this month?—Better take a look.  In the ER for abdominal pain?—Get undressed.

And now that I am well-known on the fertility path, there is weekly some new ultrasound tech all up in my situation with their phallic wand and cold gel, telling me to breathe out while they turn my vagina into an experiment.  Sometimes I wonder if I get a Brazilian wax merely to quell my fear of OB judgement rather than for the sex appeal at home.

Who wants to be talked about by the docs and nurses as the less-than-desirable?  I am already a regular—and if I remember anything from my OB rotations during nursing school: it is how the image of the bad ones stick around long after they have left.

You may go in one hundred times with a prim and proper undercarriage.  But if just one time you are running late, or forgot your appointment and so rush in after say, working out (or living a normal life where you can’t just wash your vagina all the time), they will remember it.

Well, in any case, after another deep sonographic inspection of my bald and perfumed nether region, they caught it.  It was yet another ectopic, up extremely near, or perhaps still attached to my ovary.  I was assured that since this one was early, a gentler approach could be taken.

Just take this one-time vitamin to restore the environment.  Expect some blood (again).  And keep trying.  One little pill, then I could begin anew.

But they all know, as well as I, that my remaining ovary is shriveling up and any hope for a healthy pregnancy is dying with it. 

‘There’s always adoption,’ they tell me.

Those bastards!  Not the poor kids—I mean the nurses and techs with their self-righteous preaching to barren women.  The worst thing to tell a woman losing a baby is to consider adoption.  Here, just think about all the women that get pregnant when they don’t want to be pregnant—just have one of their children because you are defective.

Vanessa thinks about a penis and she gets pregnant.  Now on her third, happily and easily pregnant, my dear and increasingly annoying (and always younger) friend, is here with me at this follow-up appointment.

Her cute little baby bump appears to me like a gem from some Indiana Jones crusade.  It is attainable for her; but for me: forever distant, with impassable and impossible booby traps. 

Being around someone so fertile, juxtaposed with the barren desert, would seem depressing.  On the contrary, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to have an ‘event’ again at the OB.  So, Vanessa vowed to be my moral support.

In truth, she is the nicest girl in the world, and being upset with her ease of femininity would feel unnatural.  Though honestly, I do envy her (and super hard)—like a deep seated sinful covet that I would do so much more for than I am willing to admit to myself.

But I love her; and it seems appropriate that she is a walking advertisement to get pregnant.  She looks hot—even late in her third trimester—she is never sick, and always so endearing and maternal that you wish you had a mom like her.

Maybe some of her inherent maternal-being is contagious.  Docs are always explaining, stress makes it harder to become pregnant.  You lose sleep—your FSH and LH go wacky.  Your cortisol goes up—and now, because of your stress to get pregnant, you will have a harder time becoming pregnant. 

If that’s true: then maybe some of her anti-not-get-pregnant nature can diffuse into me.  Her contagious uterus could only complement my daily regimen of closely watched pro-fertility foods, ovulation tracking, and the real delineator of the serious pregnancy crusaders: vaginal pH and temperature monitoring—all of which comprise a major daily life effort.  The upside of my current life is frequent sex and exercise classes—both of which, however, similarly threaten monotony when you fail to make progress.

Between balancing the multitudes of pro-fertility advice: eating correctly (low sugar, organic, healthy fats, micronutrients, ideal protein sources), completion of ‘adequate’ sleep cycles, a few dates with friends for the recommended social decompression, and staying fit to protect the future child’s temple, I am surprised there is any time remaining for accomplishing any number of the responsibilities involved in running a home, let alone reading a good non-fertility book.  There is no time for the archetypal twenty-first century ‘work.’  That’s ridiculous.  This is work!  No intellectually honest person could possibly expect a working girl to fulfill all responsibilities above, and balance a nine-to-five, and still be ready to make a baby every single ‘ovulation-ready’ night (multiple times a night if you are really committed).  Don’t’ forget: you must sleep eight hours to keep LH and FSH optimal.  And don’t stress about it!

Certainly, working in a cubical surrounded by sycophantic individuals suffering from the delusion that what they do matters would only further degenerate this situation.  Thus, it is pleasant that my other half obliges the requisite vocational arrangement.  Of course, he would rather be at home too—and indeed the pinnacle of pro-fertility work involves plenty of due effort from husbands as well.

Yet, there is more gravitating his time to our home.  Aside from the tremendous number of tasks to accomplish, he (simply enough—and seemingly surprisingly rare in our culture) enjoys spending time with me.  We are and have always been best friends.  There is never enough time for the two of us.  The idea of feeling overwhelmed by the others’ presence, is as foreign to us as the idea of not reading again—another of our favorite past times.  Yes: time together, intimate sex, and reading.  Now, if our family and esteemed friendship of two became three, I would be hard-pressed to differentiate that from pure Heaven.  But for the current time, being realistic, suffice it to say I hope merely for the preservation of this last ovary for a couple more years.

Thinking of our life together, I miss his presence and support.  I wish he were here.  I know he wants to be.  He is always happiest when we are together.

I hear his playful words on repeat in my head, “Seeing that neither of us were trust-funded or get paid for being ridiculously good looking—though I would absolutely pay all that I have for a chance with you—I am contented that at least one of us is able to enjoy freedom.” 

It’s funny, after years of his tirades about the uselessness of investing in the material world, I feel like I could quote transcendentalist Thoreau easier than an English scholar.

Ironically, his checks bring in much more than we need.  And although he is up and out of the house on most days before I consider moving from bed, I know it pains him to leave me. 

“One million times over, I would prefer to be at the doctor’s office again with you.  But considering my latent absences, I fear if I were to miss another day, the greater work powers will catch on to my charade.  Then, they will be one step closer to understanding my total and complete lack of caring about their trivial matters.”

I see him smiling good-naturedly, “There could be grave consequences if I do not maintain this illusion.  But I do love you my dear, and I am with you in spirit.” 

He took off work for the last ultrasound so we could greet the good news together as newly expecting parents.  His desire to be a father is only less in magnitude when compared with me, so we were both ecstatic with joy and anticipation.  I was already planning the clothes that I would buy to adorn and accentuate my sweet little baby-bump.  We were both convinced the night before the appointment that the smallest protrusion was already evident.

It had been so long since our last pregnancy that we both forgot about the possibility of ‘poor implantation.’

We were both devastated.

They say about one percent of pregnancies are ectopic.

Surely, a single person wouldn’t have two—especially before being successfully pregnant at least once.  Well Fortuna has invariably spun a terrible web, caught up in her creativity for suffering—and just like the very first (actually, more so) we were both caught off-guard by the news. 

He suggested taking Vanessa in his stead.  She has two little ones at home (just like the stately magazine picture of a mother), but she also has unlimited support from a grandmotherly perspective; so, she can afford a free afternoon.  Vanessa was happy to oblige Grandma and accompany me on the next chapter of Fortuna’s sojourn.

The door to the patient room opens, breaking my reflection. 

“Good morning,” the doc says, “Sorry again about these circumstances.  Before we get started, I am going to have my nurse collect some of your blood for an HCG recheck to ensure you are trending in the right direction.”

The nurse follows suite behind her and does her due diligence; she leaves the room, and the blood is sent.

The doc (Jessica) has always been cordial—but not always the warmest in nature.  Rather, I have found the male docs to be the most kind.  Whenever they insert the speculum, they treat your vagina like some virginal orifice that the slightest perturbation will disrupt.  On the other hand, female docs are anything but gentle.   You are lucky if they remember lubricant for the speculum, let alone a warning before sticking it in.

Still, Jessica is partial to me and I enjoy her care, despite her sometimes hard nature.  I have been through a lot with the current doc.  We have been on a first name basis since the last major procedure.  She was the one who did my initial D&C for the second of my previous babes—my missed miscarriage (those poor little ones that die inside of you; but you don’t bleed, so you only find out when you go in for a routine ultrasound).

Then, she did my repeat D&C (the less-than-fun reiteration of the vacuum procedure) meant to nudge along that sticky little babe—who thought it better to adhere to my uterus than come out with the first attempt.

It was a year before I could even try again, and there was a possibility that my uterus might be too scarred after the repetitive interventions to ever harbor a child.  My cycle eventually returned, and things looked up, so we started trying again.  That was three years ago.

“Can I get you anything while you are waiting?” Jessica asks.

“Jessica, you are a dear.  No, I am fine, thank you.  You always ask me if you can get me something.”

Then smiling as she starts to prep the room and hands me a sheet, I ask, “Actually, do you offer bedazzling as an obstetrics service?  While you are already down there, I would very much prefer to have my Va-Jay bedazzled with rhinestones and bright colors.”

“I’m sorry sweetheart, we are fresh out of rhinestones.  I will be right back.  Be sure to strip down for me girl.  Here’s your sheet.”

And rather ironically, but well-intentioned, she added, “Good to see you again Vanessa.”  Vanessa had been in to see her a week or two before on the continuance of her trajectory toward another healthy boy.

As the happily pregnant Vanessa smiles and waves back at her, she leaves the room with an empathetic air and a kind-hearted countenance.

Dr. Jessica Buckner and I apparently went to the same elementary and middle school, which we found out later after our trials and tribulations of my medical heartache and disappointment.  Now, in addition to our frequent obstetrical encounters, she and I also attend a book club together—as much as her call schedule will allow her.

Excepting the OB clinic and the intermittent monthly run-ins with the book group, I rarely see her.  Commonly I do not otherwise hear from her except via a yearly Christmas card.  They are always a bit sterile, her husband and two children (posed all in the same way) resemble a model family—or maybe a JCPenney commercial for cardigan sweaters.  Thankfully, their dog has died.  Doesn’t she know that dogs in family photos are reserved for childless married couples?

Doc Jessica is nice today, less jovial than before when we had good news.  But at least she is trying to be positive.  I appreciate her effort.  I usually feel better after my appointments with her, even if there is nothing to show from them.  

And just like that, it comes: don’t cry.  Think about anything other than last week.  Suddenly I am sick again.  That nausea bitch is rearing her ugly head like some internal fixture that knows when to turn on at the worst times. 

Don’t think about last week.  Think about the future; focus on the schedule; today you have things to do.  Don’t come apart; no more events at the OB office. 

I think back to positive thoughts.  But I can’t help seeing Jessica’s face, and her tearful eyes, while she performed my ultrasound only to discover an empty uterus—a void that should have been my seven-week-old baby.

Jessica didn’t have to say something was wrong—it was like that probe became an icicle inside of me, and the ultrasound suite became noticeably darker.  The oxygen leaked out of the room, and I was left to inhale only pure noxious fumes from the squalid and unsettling environment.  Before telling me what she found, I could feel the cold uncomfortable probe tweaked hard to the right—which meant she was looking at my only remaining ovary.  I knew before she told me that she suspected an ectopic. 

Suddenly, I heard a heartbeat that wasn’t mine.  It was a Doppler signal from the baby!  Momentarily, I thought things were okay, then I remembered the tweak of the probe—it was still in that position.  I recollected the blank looking flesh of the balloon shaped object that her tech labeled ‘uterus’: an empty uterus. 

I hear again the result of the ensuing discussion.  And I feel the retched emptiness and unmistakably disappointed face of my husband, directed to the floor as if he feared the result of making eye contact with me.  Jessica showed me the image when I asked to see my baby, even though it was in the wrong position.  That little flicker of a heart, no bigger in size than a pen-point—why couldn’t you just move a few inches to the fertile planes a few centimeters below?  The worst petering out imaginable!  Just a tiny couple of steps and you have a healthy baby.  Instead, the little guy passes out before the finish line after months and years of training, hoping, and so many failed attempts.  You were there!  Just one or two more steps—the difference between hope and certain death.  You were the chosen egg damnit!  Just pack your bags and move a few houses!

“Thankfully, we are early enough for medical abortive therapy,” she said at the previous appointment.  “You can keep your ovary if this works and try again.  The good news is, besides being in the wrong location, seeing a heartbeat is a very good sign.  There is no reason to suspect that it would not have been viable if in the right location.  However, in this location, rupture is a certain inevitability, and this medical measure will only work early.  If we wait, surgery will be the only option.”

I consented to the medicine; Jessica hugged me while I cried, a sopping mess again, my husband doing his best to hold me together.  We planned this visit today to ensure everything worked—that all things passed, as was necessary.

Vanessa sees me turn pale, now only the two of us in the room together.  She reaches over and starts rubbing my back, “Girl you will be fine, everything will be okay.  Don’t think about it, everything will be okay.”

I am not above her rubbing my back, but I do feel rather childish with her stroking me. 

“Vanessa, I am better now; thank you.”

I take a few breaths, and then sincerely I tell Vanessa, “Thanks for being my crusading partner today.  It means a lot.”

She smiles.  “Always girl.”

“Hey,” I remember, “can you sit over there so you can tell me what you see on ultrasound?  That terror of an ultrasound tech sometimes turns the ultrasound monitor away so only the doc can see it.  It is like it is someone else’s body they are examining and have to keep the information private from my offensively curious eyes.”

Vanessa obliges and transplants herself, “Alright dear, I got you.  I’ll act like I am on my phone and record the images as discreetly as possible.”

I hope this works—though I am doubtful.

I imagine switching roles with the tech: now she’s the probed one with legs spread to the room—how does it feel to have everyone marveling at the inner contents of your vagina while I keep the ultrasound images from you!?

My… that is a very remarkable finding indeed, don’t you think Doctor?  Let me get a better view…  Oh definitely!  Much better.

Here, let me just adjust the resolution, a bit more gain… Wow!  Yes, very interesting indeed!… I am sorry ma’am, sit back, these images are not for you.

Yes, Doctor, this structure is certainly rather unusual… Ma’am please sit back!  I am sorry, you are just going to have to stay still and try not to ruin the pictures.  We all need to look at these images.  You cannot—it is against HIPAA to see your own information.

Ma’am this is my job, I would show you if I could… (really wouldn’t though, even though nothing is stopping me, except that I am a determined, uncompromising b…)

The door opens.

Crap!—That Helga-looking haggard witch is wheeling in the ultrasound machine.  Why is it always her!?  It definitely only worsens the whole lot that she was here the previous appointment.  Vanessa is already on her phone, obviously not talking to anyone, but acting like she is deep in conversation. 

The tech asks, “Miss, is it okay if your friend is in the room while we begin the examination?” looking at Vanessa out of the corner of her wicked eyes, like she has spotted an imposter. 

“Yes, she is fine—thank you.”

Turning back to Vanessa, in a demanding tone, she starts, “Ma’am you will have to be off…”

“Shhhhhhhh,” Vanessa interrupts the sorceress.

Vanessa’s finger is in the air and she is acting as if she cannot believe the nerve of the woman to interrupt such an important conversation.

Both women harbor a distasteful look—however Vanessa’s is more of the annoyed-pretty-girl variety.  Whereas the ultrasound tech looks like she is about to explode.

The tech breathes in deep, collecting herself, but still exuding vicious threats of vehement rage.  She responds, in clear indignation at so forthright a challenge to her rightful authority, “Please, Ma’am, take the call outside, or Turn Off Your Phone.  This is a medical area.”

With increased perturbation and an air of condescension, Vanessa drops her head, and looks through the tops of her eyes at the ultrasonographer, “Umm… this is a really important call, and… I need to be in here for my friend.  Furthermore, thank you for your concern, but I do not believe it bothers the patient.”

I’m pretty sure at this point the ultrasonographer had an internal conflict over the benefits and detriments of violent force.  Apparently deciding the repercussions too extensive to rationalize the joy of the event, she holds herself back from violence.

With heated expression, “Listen woman: get out, or Get Off The Phone!!”

Staring at Vanessa, I nod to her to relinquish her efforts (knowing the probable futility in provoking the Klondike Walrus Queen).

Vanessa rolls her eyes and half nods in annoyed acquiescence to the Viking ultrasound witch tech.  Then, says her fake adieu, bidding farewell to the mirage at the other end of the line.

“Now please put your phone away,” demands the now slightly more self-satisfied woman.  And adding with a snide, vainglorious grin, “We have had others who pretend to be on calls in order to record the contents of the ultrasound.”

Vanessa moves to snap back at the insinuating, intolerable undertaker of ultrasound.  But just in time the door opens and breaks her focus.

“All ready?” asks Jessica as she walks in.

“Now please move away from the ultrasound so we can begin,” the snide ultrasonographer curtly demands of Vanessa.

“She is fine.  Vanessa, stay where you are,” states the doc, matching her curt tone—much to the disdain of the tech, and of course to the complete enjoyment of the other women in the room.

Jessica, stoops to sit down on her rolling stool, grabs some ultrasound jelly, and places it gently on the probe.

She smiles at me, “Ready, dear?”

I assent.  “Hoping it all cleared out.  The bleeding completely stopped two days ago.”

I neglect to mention that I have a good feeling this time around that the abortive medicine worked.  I desperately do not want any more D&C’s, and so in irrational superstition I mention nothing about this positive feeling.  My good impression would be the perfect type to be squashed by the whims of fate—a splendid chance for Fortuna and her devilish little tricks.

“If there is no evidence that it’s stuck, and if my hormone level comes back low, when will I be able to start trying again?” I ask her.

“If all looks well, I recommend giving it at least one normal menstrual cycle.”

Vanessa winks at me, indicating that this is really not very long.  Certainly, just one month is not terribly much to add to almost forty years of infecundity (with at least fifteen of trying really, really hard). 

I am calculating the ratio of one month to fifteen years when I feel the probe.  I look up to Jessica and nod to the ultrasound in a silent plea to my doc friend that she might have it in her heart to turn the monitor so I can see.

She receives my nonverbal with pleasure.

Jessica, sitting at my feet, turns to grab the screen, but stops when she notices the expression of the ultrasonographer—and Vanessa—both of whom are now fixated on the screen.  With a concern that betrays trepidation and fear, Jessica turns her attention as well to the image displayed on the ultrasound. 

Her eyes stick there, and she seems to forget my request.  Even Vanessa, who had snuck a glance behind the ultrasonographer is allowed to look; no one seems to mind.

My heart picks up a faster beat, until I feel like it is bounding from my chest.  My stomach starts cramping again.  I recognize that nauseous sinking feeling that always accompanies similar moments of bad news.  I feel the tears already coming.  I know before they tell me that my last ovary, the harbinger of another surgery, is holding something deadly.  A final intervention, my last ovary gone, my already limited hope of a child, transforming to no hope.

Breathing fast, and now tears welling in my eyes, “Please, let me see.”

Jessica, the ultrasonographer, and Vanessa, failing to process my request, stare a few seconds longer at the screen.  Then Jessica, looking directly at me, as if she just bore witness to something she did not recognize, turns the screen toward me with her left hand, while her right hand is steadfastly holding the ultrasound probe. 

Plain as I have dreamed so many times, on the screen is a beautiful set of arms, legs, a head, torso, two feet, and a beating heart.  Around this cruel joke, by fate, is the thick membrane I know to be my last ovary.  I cannot help but break down in uncontrollable sobs.

Vanessa stands up and covers me with her hugs and consolation.  “We’ll get through this love!  It’s okay; it’s okay.”  She squeezes tightly and I can feel her tears on my neck, knowing as well as I, that this healthy-looking baby will now have to be killed, as they remove my last ovary, and with it: my remaining hope for a child. 

The thought of killing something so precious, so wonderful and helpless, makes me sick.  I feel the retching starting.  I hold back vomit, but more tears come.  What a terrible, terrible cruel joke to play on someone. 

Maybe we can just see what happens; maybe, by some miracle, this ovary won’t rupture.

Before this thought materializes into more than a transient whisper, I know enough about how all this works to recognize it for what it is: an empty hope, with only one end.

No utopia.  No fairytale.  Accept it; do the surgery.  You can never have what you really want in this world anyway.

I probably cursed myself from the first time I obsessed over being a mom.  I should have dreamt about some mansion house, silly car, or stupid diamond.

Be strong.  You knew it wasn’t going to be as easy as just taking some chemo pill and starting over.

I look up, drying my eyes, trying to think of something other than the nausea.  Vanessa is still embracing me, but I barely feel her presence.  I feel alone.

Don’t think about being sick.  Do not picture vomit.  Don’t remember the smell.

In my concerted attempt to quell my urge to regurgitate, all that my efforts accomplish is merely churching-up the word vomit.  Rather than any other topic, my brain instead floods with the repeating pattern:

expectoration – emission – expulsion – emesis, expectoration – emission – expulsion – emesis, expectoration – emission – expulsion – emesis, …

Stop it brain!  Don’t think about emesis, because that will evoke emesis!  Look around the room.  Focus elsewhere; ask questions; pull yourself together!

I see Jessica look toward the ultrasonographer.  She then catches my eye peering over Vanessa’s shoulder.  Trying to regain a semblance of myself, I loosen my grip on Vanessa. 

I implore Jessica, but also trying to focus on something else (maybe a mitigation—something, before I completely lose it), “Is it possible to at least get some eggs before it has to come out?”

Jessica starts to answer, then stops, giving me an inquisitive look, scrunching her eyebrows.

She starts again and then stops.

Then evidently comprehending what I was asking, she slightly smiles and responds, “That is your uterus—not your ovary…” 

Vanessa lifts up from me, and also turns to Jessica.  My heart stops beating, my stomach goes quiet, my brain: blank.

Then Jessica adds, “There is no ectopic.” 

Time stops.  I can feel my knuckles turning white with Vanessa squeezing my hand.  I look over at Vanessa who is smiling widely.

Then my tears really begin to flow.  With just a hint of this possible implication, the happiness is overwhelming.

I return my glance to Jessica; I feel increasing heat rising from my body.  My eyes open wider.

I can see she is smiling too, widely; there is no mistaking it.  Her eyes are fully open, and her face is blushed.  SHE LOOKS SO HAPPY!  SOMETHING IS UNMYSTAKABLY GOOD!

And then looking at me directly, her eyes locked to mine, she says “You have a healthy nine-week appearing pregnancy.”

I startle, dropping my guard over myself.

There is no time.  I quickly break eye contact and rapidly move my mouth away from Jessica.  And therefore, through no fault of my own, I happen to turn directly toward the ultrasound tech as I am gripped with spontaneous convulsions.

I vomit all over her.

Chapter 2

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