Monday's ultrasound confirmed that, in the sealed-box-with-radioactive-isotope that is my uterus, the kitten, if you will, is currently alive.
I am the possessor of one small black blob, complete with teeny, super-rapid heartbeat.
Just one. That means of my 18 clanking oocytes, I ended up with one embryo that was capable and willing to latch on, and one blastocyst on the rocks. Wow, that's a lot of work.
My always-supportive husband: "Man, why did (neighbor's name) get twins and we only got one?"
As always, I reply that someday I will stuff two large, non-round items up his butt and ask him to push them out.
We'll apparently learn a lot more at next Monday's ultrasound. I have now brought the two borrowed pregnancy books into the house, but haven't read them yet. At some point, I think it's just going to be considered negligent to refuse to read them for fear of awakening the Bad Luck.
Although, as an extremely wacky family doctor once told me, "Crack addicts and drunks have healthy babies all the time. I don't recommend it, but it happens." So, um - I guess I won't screw up too terribly bad in the next few days, given that the most addictive substance I've had since April was a deeeeelicious Wild Cherry Pepsi at the movies the other night. (I was afraid I'd doze off during the 7:oo p.m. show.)
If only I could...
1. Tell the difference between gas pain and uterine cramps.
2. Get some Giant Pregnancy Ta-Tas (TM) to balance out my progesterone bloat.
3. Feel more confident. (But maybe soon!)