Ch 12 After lunch, which I do eat and which I offer to Sly and Doris (because that, my friends, is how a hostess treats her guests – she offers them the standard three meals), I leave the house again for the ultrasound

Me: I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon. I made it months ago and I wasn’t able to reschedule.

Doris: Go ahead. We’re fine here.

And fine they are indeed. Diane Rehm, whom Sly and Doris, the tolerant, compassionate liberals call “The Speech Impediment Lady,” is blasting from the stereo. My house is noisy and full of NPR sticky-lip sounds. NPR people! You are too close to the microphone! Back away!

There is nobody else in the waiting room at the clinic, so the receptionist and I exchange notes.[1] Surprise pregnancy, surprise miscarriage, wedding boycott, crazy in laws to be and all.

Receptionist: I married a man who’s 18 years younger than I am.

Me: Wow!

Receptionist: His mom is only a few years older than I am. But she dresses like a hoochie mama – bare midriffs, really short skirts.

Me: Hmm. I don’t think I could have exposed my midriff even when I was 15. I mean, I could have, but it would not have been all flat and taut. I have always been a bit chubby.

Receptionist: At my wedding – at my wedding! – she picked up the best man, took him back to our house, and had sex with him.

Me: I am pretty sure that my husband’s mother will not be picking anyone up and having sex. Points to her, I guess. It could always be worse.

Receptionist: My father in law has pinched my ass. He threw up in our bathroom sink once when he had a bad migraine and didn’t clean it up. He didn’t tell us about it either. My friend who was over at the house – for Easter lunch – is the one who found the vomit. She had to tell me.

Me: She didn’t just clean it up?

Receptionist: We’re really good friends, but not that good.

Me: Yeah, I would have to really love someone to clean the vomit of a relative stranger.  

Two very pregnant women waddle into the waiting room.

Receptionist: Come with me. You don’t need to be in here with them.

She takes me to an empty exam room, gets me a diet Coke[2] and a People magazine[3] and says, “Wait here, hon.” She pats my shoulder as she leaves.[4]

A few minutes later, the ultrasound tech takes me to an exam room.

Ultrasound tech: Lie down on that table and lift your shirt, please.

Note that. A medical professional using “lie” correctly.

She rubs cold blue gel on my abdomen and then pushes a wand all over my bare flesh.

The doctor comes in, looked at the ultrasound, and confirmed that the baby has died. The size on the image indicates it was ten weeks old, which explains why I stopped feeling nauseated two weeks before, as it was now 12 weeks past the day when I became pregnant. Or whatever. Don’t jump on me for how I am measuring pregnancy duration. Point is, I stopped feeling crummy all the time two weeks ago. And I know the date that – ahem – I became pregnant.

That was the day Primo left on a week-long work trip after having just been gone for three days. After you have been together for a few years, it’s not so hard to remember the exact times when you have sex because it’s not all day, every day, the way you thought it would be before you ever had it.

Yeah, that was my vision when I was 17: Steady Boyfriend/Living Together/Marriage = All Sex All The Time.

Me: What drugs can you give me to deal with the in laws?

I explain about the cheese eating lactose intolerant bourbon drinking, not lunch eating, telling me how to make an apple pie even though I know how to make pie, falling down the stairs, in our bedroom, asking Primo to move the TV upstairs houseguests – to the doctor.

Doctor: Vodka. I recommend vodka. Lots of vodka. And margaritas. Go out for a margarita or two.

Me: I don’t really drink.

Doctor: You might need to start.

Me: Maybe.

Doctor: You probably need a D&C.

Me: Why? Won’t it come out by itself?

Doctor: It could get infected. It could come out at an inconvenient time. It’s better to take care of this. Let me call someone who can do it for you.

Me: But I don’t have time! I have houseguests! I have a wedding!

Doctor: You have to have this done.

He calls the OB/GYN who does the D&Cs and hands the phone to me.

Me: I don’t have time to do this now. I’m getting married on Friday. My sister, my brother and my mom arrive on Thursday. When do I do this? Can’t we do this next week?

OB/GYN doctor on phone: You can just wait and it will come out naturally. But we don’t know when that would happen. It could be tomorrow, it could be two weeks from now. You don’t want blood to pour out of you in the middle of your wedding, do you?

Me: I guess not, although my dress is red and white so maybe nobody would notice.

She doesn’t laugh.

DC doctor on phone: We can do this on Wednesday. I am booked all day, but I will come in early to take care of you. Be here at 7:30.

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[1] Are you shocked that I would be sharing really personal information with a stranger?

[2] Diet soda OK now, I guess.

[3] It was like she knew me.

[4] There are angels everywhere.