by S Vitrolica

Created on: July 14, 2009

Googling in order try to decipher lab results is one thing. Hearing the dirty from a real doc is another.

He's passing the baton. My locally renowned geeky German gynecologist can do nothing more for us. The man I chose to bring my future kidlets in this world acknowledged with authority yesterday that our test results are really, really not good, and that if we want to have children, insemination may be our only chance. We were given an appointment with a fertility specialist. Duh, it's about time.

Can someone please tell me how many men are going to be needed for Sassy to get pregnant?

Summer 2006 I was pregnant. It only took Manboy and a two week vacation in a beachside villa. We were caught by suprise and suprised by joy until as quickly as this life was thrust into my womb it made it's way onward.

By this time we were back home and Manboy was away on business.

I stayed alone, watching movies one after the other, willing myself into him to distract myself from the reality I was facing. I wept beyond my own understanding, sometimes waking myself up even in the night with bitter sobs.

Before that time I didn't care about having babies. Losing one was an experience I would wish on no one.

If it worked one time, it will work again. I didn't want it to work again. I wanted the life that my body had so mechanically rejected to come back. I wanted that child. It was not a puppy or broken toy to be replaced with another.

That was what my heart said. In my heart, he was already able to run and play, though he never would.

One person close to me robotically parrotted words she had surely wikipedia-ed, You know, if you lost it there was surely something wrong with it.

Those were the words of my doctor, of the lab technician who, after taking my blood to confirm the pregnancy, took blood a second time to confirm my falling hormone levels. Those same were words clumsily trying ignorantly, man-ishly, to help when spoken by Manboy, as I lay curled into a ball, hurling grief in his arms.

But I could not take those words from another woman, especially one who was herself pregnant.

I told her that I knew she was trying to help, but that was a stupid thing to say, something she would never dare to say had she herself passed through this herself. I told her that I hoped she would never have to understand the feeling of someone saying these very words, living it on the inside while well-meaningness cuts to the heart with its pragmatism. I told her this gently

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