Oh heavens. It is very nice of you to be sympathetic but I am fine, absolutely completely 100% fine. It is hard not to instinctively root for the blastomere, no matter how mythical it might be in this case, but after my short sharp shock of disappointment at the realization that I am not a mere 36 weeks from a baby, I started laughing and I haven't stopped yet.
You MUST see the number of pregnancy tests I now have in my bathroom, really you must. I am INSANE. I could build a playhouse with these things; a really disturbing playhouse, true, but we could start a rousing game of Match the Second Line Shades in it.
Worst (truly plausible) case scenario is that I need to have another D&C. Not an ideal solution, but not the end of the world for me either. I missed my OB's call tonight but I'll try him tomorrow and see what he wants to do. Probably another blood draw when I get back next week.
I did call the local RE to see if the hcg negates my Day 3 tests (yes!) and left a truly embarrassing message for the PGD nurse in which I tried to explain the entire year in 30 seconds (note to self: "This is Julia calling. I would appreciate a call back at the following number. Beep.") I need to learn to shut up.
I wish I hadn't promised an interesting post without thinking of one first, especially since I have like five minutes to write this.
Oh! Oh I know! We'll do a story exchange! That way I will have something to read when I get back (unless the Florida rental actually has the internet connection they promised in which case you'll hear from me sooner) and you can all entertain each other in my absence. We keep an open blog here at the sign of the hippogriff.
The theme will be worst rejections: romantic, professional or otherwise.
When I applied to law schools senior year of college I included what could charitably best be described as a "stretch" school. In other words, I wasn't actually bright enough to get into this bower of academe and I knew that, but I was hoping they did not. Or alternately, I hoped they might be looking to fill the Irrepressible niche that Fall. And no, I am not going to tell you which school because no doubt you all went there and then you would laugh at me. No, I am not telling.
Every day I would anxiously check my mail until, with the inevitability of death, the envelope arrived with their crest upon it. It was thin, depressingly thin, and contained the following letter reproduced to the best of my ability:
Dear Ms. Julia,
Thank you for your interest in our program.
Although our applicant pool has dropped significantly from last year (down to 3100 from 4700 in 1992) we are still unable to offer you a place in the incoming class of 1996.
Good luck with your future studies.
Better University Than You
That night my roommate Doug and I made Kahlua milkshakes until dawn and danced to the Crash-Test Dummies. We got drunk and silly and played strip Trivial Pursuit and quoted my rejection letter until we had it letter-perfect. We improvised ways that the letter could be used in alternate situations. For example: "I am sorry, Susan. Although my sexual conquests for the year are down significantly from last year (1 serious girlfriend, 3 semi-regular hookups and 5 end-of-party grope sessions) I still find myself repelled by you and unable to even consider taking this date any further. Goodnight."
Even in retrospect, and knowing that I hated law school with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns, my feelings are still hurt. Couldn't they just have said No?
So that is the rejection story that comes to mind. And yours would be...?