Steve’s sperm were delivered to the loading dock of Shdy Grve hospital. I can’t tell from here, being 1100 miles away, but I assume the hospital is pretty close to the PGD Center? Spitting distance perhaps? Does close count in horseshoes, hand grenades and semen sampling? No matter; they are gone, missing, fini, AWOL. Perhaps they are hurtling through some antiquated vacuum-tube mail delivery system, perhaps they hopped the Red Line to Tenleytown… they are dead to me.
Tomorrow poor Steve (who finds this entire process intensely embarrassing) will perform on command again and I will chauffeur the new troop of tiny reprobates into Minneapolis. The lab manager told me that Federal Express told her that they could not give any assurances that this would not happen again. They suggested that she write: DO NOT DELIVER TO ANY OTHER ADDRESS on the package. Yes, Fed Ex suggested that. I always thought that was sort of implied when you paid a parcel delivery service to deliver your parcel but… OK. What I find so baffling is that the PGD Center does genetic testing for people all over the country. How do they usually get their specimens, carrier pigeon?
Now that I think about it, the guy who will be doing the FISH test mentioned in an email that he is actually going to be visiting my clinic tomorrow- hey! Do you think I can just ask him to bring it back with him?
The actual D&C took four minutes, according to the post-OP nurse. Perhaps she thought this would be reassuring but in truth I was appalled. Steve takes longer than that to floss. How could my OB possibly have treated my uterus like the Ming vase it is in less time than a commercial break? The mind boggles.
Physical condition after D&C: excellent. Minimal bleeding, no cramping. Terrible sore throat from where they stuck the tube in while I was under general anesthetic and lingering post-anesthesia headache but all in all, not bad.
Summer wins her next Burmese meal on me for both successfully guessing the first asinine thing the nurses said to me and for conjuring up that delightful, high-protein Ben & Jerry’s flavor: Spunky Monkey. I bow.
I saw, let me make sure I get them all, seven nurses for my D&C on Friday. Each one started by establishing that I was there for a D&C for a missed aborti… miscarriage. Then, like so many clock-work parrots, they said, “Well you can always try again.”
Ladies, do you think trying again is my problem?
Then, after they got a handle on the number of pregnancies, miscarriages and D&Cs I have had they grasped the one salient point: “At least you have your son. That must make this so much easier for you.”
One, whom I later learned had been through fertility treatments and has one child as a result, went on to say, “Some of these women come in here so upset [by the fact that they are having a D&C following a miscarriage] and they already have a child… I just want to tell them, to tell YOU, that you should get down on your knees and thank God for what you already have.”
Let me assure you that this remark is even less palatable when you aren’t wearing any pants and the person delivering these sanctimonious nuggets is digging around in the back of your hand trying to find a vein.
I grinned at her and nodded and said, “Oh yes. YES. That is so true. I feel that having my son makes any future children expendable.”
She said, “Exactly,” but looked uncertain.
I hung up on Steve at 3:20 on Saturday afternoon. He walked in the door at about 9:30 Sunday night. He said, “Hi sweetie” and I said, “I am going to bed.” And I did. Then he was on a business call when I got up this morning and did not get off until after I had taken Patrick to communist playgroup. I did not speak to him until after Packy went down for his nap at 12:40.
So, unless you count the terse bed announcement we went 45 ½ hours without speaking.
Steve called Saturday morning and said, “You sound terrible.”
I said, “Yeah, my throat is still really sore and I have an awful pounding headache.”
“Well, take it easy.”
“Right, I am. How are things there?”
“Oh fine,” he said, “I pulled my hamstring so I am out for the weekend but BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH and then Q-Tip ran BLAH BLAH and Boston actually….”
What I heard was: I pulled my hamstring, so I am going to be sitting here in the middle of a polo field doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING for two days while you are most likely getting sick plus bleeding and cramping plus taking care of a crazy two year old all day long.
I said, “You pulled your hamstring? So could you come home early?”
There was an almost imperceptible pause and Steve said, “No. No, I’ll be back tomorrow night as planned.”
I ended that conversation by saying that I had a problem with this assessment, but we could talk about it later.
It was only when he called back that afternoon and asked how I was and then said, “Make sure you are drinking plenty of fluids” that I snapped.
FLUIDS? I don’t need orange juice, you asschunk, I need my husband to come home and take care of our toddler so that I can take a fistful of vicodin and go to bed until Monday. Monday’ish.
So I delivered a brilliant ex tempore speech to that effect and slammed the phone down. Then I threw all of our phones into the basement and put The Red Balloon on again (and yes, Virgina, Patrick ate about two pounds of sesame snack sticks on Steve's pillow while I cheerfully reminded him to wipe his hands.)
Steve was flattened and gray when he got home and has been suitably chastened ever since. He was wrong. He knows he was wrong. And I’m cool with that. He is sort of my bitch now, if you can say that respectfully in a loving and fully actualized marriage. Among other things, he is suddenly 190% in favor of IVF (since he suspects that the last D&C drove me over the edge)- provided the FISH results look ok. He’s asked me 50 times if I want to get a masseuse in every week for a while. He ordered all sorts of computer games that he thought we could play together. He called around to the various clubs and we are going to take tennis lessons this winter. OK, so I married a guy who tends to try to solve problems with… money. Can I say that? It’s so tacky, but it’s true. It is not my way, growing up in the 'hood, but I can sympathize with the intrinsic limitations that have left him with such a scarcity of tools.
He’s trying. At least he’s trying.
I am SO GLAD I hung up on his ass, though.
Drink fluids, my...