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The New Yorker, that venerated bastion of sophisticated urban wit, runs a weekly caption contest, inviting readers to submit their own text to accompany a one-panel cartoon. One astute reader noticed that a single pithy phrase perfectly applies to each and every illustration: "Christ, what an asshole!"
It also applies to my last entry. It wasn't until today that I realized what an awkward position I'd put you all in. By juxtaposing such good news with such bad news, I may have been true to the situation, but I ended up creating one of those uncomfortable moments where you're not sure whether to offer congratulations or condolences. That wasn't really fair. I am so grateful that you rose to the uncomfortable occasion, kindly extending both without making either sound jarring, instead of simply typing, "Christ, what an asshole!"
You may have thought it — trust me, I think it about myself a thousand times a day, particularly today in the parking garage at the hospital when I called one of my infertility doctors by the wrong name entirely and only realized it an hour later — but you didn't say it. Even though it would have been the perfect caption for that post, and perhaps a great deal of my blog.
Now on to the important news. I am skipping tomorrow's repeat beta.
The explanation for why, having to do with inconvenience and logistics, is long and convoluted enough that I will skip it. I just can't make it to the lab before going to the airport, boarding a plane, flying to another airport, boarding another plane, disembarking in New Orleans, and then driving another three and a half hours to our final destination, my grandparents' house, which I expect to reach at about midnight. Just Charlie and me. Oh, and whatever nervous breakdown I manage to stuff beneath the seat in front of me, if I can smuggle it past the TSA. (I am planning to shove it up my "Christ, what an asshole!")
I have never felt this fatalistic about a pregnancy before. The only thing that would change our current course of treatment (progesterone, Estrace, baby aspirin, and Lovenox) would be to learn that my hCG has dropped. If that has indeed happened, I'll know it soon enough. Once Julia said that she wanted frequent early followups because while she wanted very much to be pregnant, she had no interest in merely pretending to be pregnant. I always liked that, and I agree with it. I would very much like to know how things are going. But as it turns out, the world has not, in fact, stopped turning simply because I peed on a stick, and I have other obligations, and when placed alongside those, my desire to know diminishes to the size of a humble whim rather than a non-negotiable emotional requirement.
And I am kind of proud of myself for that last paragraph. It's not like me — self-indulgent, self-absorbed — at all. So if you can think of any reason it deserves the one-size-fits-all caption, please don't tell me. Save your "Christ, what an asshole!" for when I tell you what the nurse said after I told her I couldn't tell her my LMP if my fruity-looking monocle depended on it.