And that was the cycle where you gave birth to a flock of snow white doves, right?
Ten minutes in, I was cackling. I sounded hysterical, felt that way, too. "I'm sorry," I apologized. "This is all just so absurd."
We'd been playing a lively guessing game: my doctor was summarizing my reproductive career without consulting my file, and I was cheerfully correcting him as we went.
"And then we transferred three," he said, nodding in remembrance.
"Mmmm, no," I said, enjoying this hugely.
"Really?" he asked, starting to rifle through my file. "I would swear we..."
That's when I started laughing. "I've never made three," I said, and cackled.
It is absurd, all of it. I have an encyclopedic, obsessive knowledge of my own medical history; my doctor had my file open on his lap; and yet we were still playing this ridiculous game of Go Fish. ("And that was the cycle you got pregnant with that adorable litter of playful but cross-eyed Siamese kittens!" "Uh, nooooo..." "Are you sure? Because I thought...")
Absurd, because despite what you might think, given my three pregnancies, I am terrible at IVF, barely squeaking by each cycle; but there I was, talking protocol at my local clinic.
And also because I am not good at pregnancy. But here I am again, hoping, ready, asking, "Please, sir, may I have another?"
You can laugh. It's okay. It's funny.
I'm laughing — yes, at the absurdity of it all, because about a year ago I was pretty sure it would never come to this. But also because I'm delighted. I'm thrilled to know what I want, to have a plan, to be in a position to try. Still pragmatic, because I'm not, you know, stupid, but also optimistic that there is a chance — just — that we could, if we are extremely lucky, eventually succeed in having another child.
So. We talked protocol, we talked dates, and we did a cursory physical exam. ("Oh, how I've missed this," I sighed, as the speculum slid home.) My doctor deployed his stethoscope, and remarked with some satisfaction that my calm composure must be a front, because my heart was racketing along at about 120 beats per minute.
Can't fool the guy with the scope. Can't fool myself, either: no matter how I try to caution myself that this cycle might fail, that a pregnancy might fail, that my body might fail in the end, my palms get moist and my heart beats hard and I smile when I think about it.
I'm excited, and hoping, and laughing.