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You gotta believe

I have been thinking a lot about my friends inside the computer. Several of us are on the verge of something big.

Brenda's in retrieval right now (high as a goddamn kite, I hope). Later today I'm looking forward to an update from getupgrrl, if not on her follicle count, then on who got the last word in the impassioned, well-reasoned debate she had with her husband.

Tomorrow in South Africa, which is — oh, hell, I don't know, yesterday? today? Christmas? — in the US, Tertia gets the results of PGD on her 18 embryos. Also tomorrow, in a time zone I can relate to, Jo and I have a date in the stirrups (though not with each other, alas).

IVF success rates being what they are, it's extremely unlikely we'd all get pregnant if you limited your sample to the five of us. Instead I choose to believe that each of us will be in the lucky minority in our own highly specific group. For example, among 33-year-olds with endometriosis, slight male factor, two prior pregnancies, little to no sleep in the past 48 hours, and inner elbows that look like they've been worked over with a Garden Weasel, I'll be the lucky winner.

Magical thinking, I know, but please don't attempt to convince me otherwise — at the moment I need to believe.