Numbers Don't Lie...Or Do They?

"We totally need to buy that," I gushed at Jimmi as I pulled the tiny, pink onesie off the rack at Buy Buy Baby on Saturday night. Being a woman, or master of manipulation, I was able to get my husband to the store under the pretense of "just looking," but I barely made it ten steps in before I wanted to purchase every pink or purple item I spotted. But this one shirt was really so perfect. It was just a basic pale-pink onesie, but the words printed on it made me laugh out loud, "This shirt is Daddy-proof" was written across the front. Above that read "Head" with an arrow pointing up, two arrows labeled "Arm" were pointing to the holes on either side and down at the bottom, where the back meets the front, was an arrow pointing down to the word "snap." It was brilliant! Jimmi didn't quite understand why I found it so amusing, but it won't be long before it becomes very clear. We continued walking through the store, out of the clothing section where I could've maxed out my credit cards with one swoop of sequins, glitter and bows, and landed in the pharmacy aisle. "Wow," I gasped as I realized how many new and ingenious breakthroughs have been made in snot-sucking since my boys were babies. There were the basic hospital bulbs, which never really worked. Then I saw a battery-operated mucus removing device, which seemed like something I might put on my registry in the future, and then, "Ewwwww!" I screamed as I grabbed the box in front of me. This can't be what it looks like. Can it? The tool was called the "Snotsucker." No fancy name was necessary for this product, though I couldn't believe how accurate the moniker was. The small package had a very simple cartoon drawing on the outside of it. The lower part of the box showed a smiling baby with great, big eyes. In his nose was a thin, blue tube connected to a clear tube connected to a thin, red tube that was being sucked by what appeared to be the mother's lips. "What the Hell is THAT?!" Jimmi shrieked with the same disgusted look I knew I had. "I think you're actually supposed to suck the snot out of the baby's nose with your mouth!" I had to be interpreting the picture incorrectly so I quickly turned over the box to read the words. Nope, I was right. "Gross!" Jimmi said, and we both decided it was time to move on to a less scary aisle for beginner and renewing parents of infants.

A few more steps brought us to the land of bouncy seats. Well, they used to be bouncy seats. Now they're high-tech, swooshing, music-playing, ocean-breezing, rocking and gliding mega-seats. And there were so many choices! "How do we know which one to get?" I asked out loud as I watched Jimmi's head actually explode. "Ok, we'll figure this out later. Let's look at carseats and strollers," I suggested as we walked past the furniture. "Good thing I still have Dylan and Justin's crib." We entered the travel section and it was almost like a game show where you had to guess which one would be the best option. I'll take the carseat behind Door number three for $450, please! Wait, what? Does that price tag really say $450? For a carseat? And obviously we'd want an additional base for the other car, right? $219? For a BASE? Is it made of GOLD? We tried to find more reasonable options that would still protect our baby in case of an accident but the selection was overwhelming. Though, Jimmi did find a toddler seat made by a popular race car company, and that almost made him seem more excited than scared to death about becoming a dad. Finally we perused the barrage of strollers. "Yes!" I exclaimed, "They DO have a double Snap n Go!" Jimmi's face told me he had no idea what I was talking about. "A Snap n Go is the best invention ever! It's just the bars and basket of a stroller that any carseat will snap into. It's lighter weight and easier than dealing with a huge stroller." I could see he still wasn't processing the "double" part. "Hey, listen. Twins are a real possibility so you may want to get used to the idea." 

Obviously I'd considered the twin thing. I mean, we transferred two embryos into Lyndsay, so it's not that farfetched of a concept. But, until that moment, I hadn't actually thought about anything other than having twins means having two babies. I didn't think about two carseats and two high chairs and two bouncers and double strollers and another crib and twice as many diapers and bottles and clothes. The dollar signs started adding up in my head and I must've looked completely bewildered when I heard, "May I help you with something?" I snapped out of my visible shock and answered the saleswoman, "We're just looking right now, thank you." She smiled, "Are you newly expecting?" I felt myself relax as I nodded, "Very newly, yes." She congratulated us and I couldn't help thinking about how much fun it'll be to screw with people by telling them I'm pregnant and watching their confusion as my weight never changes but a baby magically appears in the spring. Maybe I'll even walk around with a beer in my hand for the next nine months! 

After returning home that night Jimmi disappeared into the basement to rehearse for his upcoming drumming gig and I went to consult with my good friend, Google. Lyndsay was scheduled for a blood test to determine her HCG level on Monday and I was really curious to know what the number should be for a singleton (one baby) and what it might be if she's carrying twins. What I found didn't help much. Generally the levels are lower with one baby and higher with multiples, but most of the websites I read mentioned that the more important factor is how much the level rises after two days. In order to consider it a normal pregnancy, the number is expected to at least double. If it goes up much more than that, multiples might be possible. Of course, the only true test to determine how many babies we're having will be an ultrasound, but that's not for another week or so.

On Sunday morning I texted Lyndsay to check in. I was a bit nervous to hear that she wasn't feeling well and decided to stay on the couch all day. Being the paranoid Googler I am, I checked her symptoms with early pregnancy and found them to be pretty common. She also mentioned overdoing it a little bit the day before and assumed the extra exertion might have been the culprit. "You're not bleeding or cramping, right?" I texted. "No, nothing like that," she responded and a sense of ease came over me. I thought back to being newly pregnant with Dylan when I decided it was a good idea to hop over the seats at a Bon Jovi concert instead of waiting for the people next to me to exit my row. The next day I was a crampy, nervous wreck and my mom reamed me out for it! Obviously everything worked out and Dylan was fine. I guess our bodies tell us when we need to slow down and rest for a bit. About an hour later Lyndsay sent me a picture of a pregnancy test and I was a little confused until I read the text, "I just took the final test I had cause I'm obsessive!! Look! Lines exact same color. :) Getting darker by the day!" I couldn't stop the smile from overtaking my face at the meaning of what she'd just written. Pregnancy tests respond to the level of HCG (pregnancy hormone) in your body. The more pregnant you are, the more HCG you produce. More HCG means darker lines on a pregnancy test. As far as the latest picture showed, things were still moving along with our little pumpkin!

Buzz!

Buzz!

I heard my phone vibrating early this morning and noticed the Minnesota area code right away. It was the call we were waiting for! Lyndsay's blood test was scheduled for that day and she told me if she was able to get it done before work she should be able to pull up the results by 9:00 AM, EST. Let me first say that we're totally cheating. Aside from the fact that Lyndsay was told not to take a home test, which she and I both blatantly ignored, she is also in a position to get her blood results before our fertility clinic calls either one of us because she works at the hospital! It's nice to have friends on the inside. Anyway, my hand was shaking as I answered the phone. Why was she calling and not texting? Was something wrong and she wanted to tell me instead of writing the bad news? "Suzanne? It's Lyndsay," she said. "I have my blood level results." I have no idea why I was so scared, "And?" was all I could get out. "Five-hundred twenty-three," she answered. Ok, that sounded high, but I remembered everything I'd read about the first test not meaning much without the second. "Is that high?" I asked naively. Her voice boomed into the phone, "That's HUGE! You're totally having twins!" I laughed as I tried not to get too excited, "Well, I read that it might not mean anything yet." She laughed, "When I carried for my cousin my first test was two-hundred and sixty. This is five-hundred and twenty-three!" Ok, I couldn't argue with that. I hung up and texted Jimmi, who was downstairs, "Lyndsay's levels are at 523." He didn't write back but yelled up to me, "Does that mean twins?" I called back, "It's definitely possible!"

I didn't want to over think the number until I heard from our clinic, and the nurse was taking forever to call! Finally, at about 1:00, I saw the number appear on the phone. "Hi Suzanne! I have Lyndsay's blood results," she said cheerily. "We're pregnant, right?" I tried to play dumb. "Yeah, you could say that. Her HCG was five-hundred and twenty-three, so you probably have two growing in there." I needed clarification, "Can you really tell just from the HCG level?" She answered, "Well, not totally. We really need to see how the number rises on Wednesday. But I can tell you that we usually like the first test to be between fifty and ninety. Yours is five twenty-three. Pretty safe bet you're having twins." I tried not to burst with joy since I know more than one person who started out with twins and ended up losing one or both before the first trimester was finished. "I'm gonna call Lyndsay now and let her know her results. I also want her to raise her dose of Progesterone because that level dropped a bit. It's still in the normal range but we want it back where it was. I'll call you on Wednesday when I have her next blood levels," she said. "Can you just tell me her due date?" I asked. "Looks like May 18th," she said, "that would make her about four weeks pregnant." We ended the call and I sent a text to Jimmi at rehearsal... 

"Looks like twins." 

The Morning After

Nothing like finding out you're pregnant on Thursday and having to immediately shift gears back into cancer-mode on Friday morning. But, this is what my life has become. An endless cycle of enjoying good news for a short while before the reality check smacks me back into perpetual fear.

In other words, Friday was Scan Day.

Every three months for the last two years I've had to have a CT scan of my chest, abdomen and pelvis to check for cancer recurrences. Sometime during the same week, usually two days later, I'll have an appointment with my oncologist to hear the scan results and suffer through a rather painful internal exam. I realize these exams are uncomfortable for all women, but for those of us who've had that area radiated, it's an entirely different level of discomfort, usually followed by a few days of bleeding from the damaged skin inside the vagina being ripped apart as the speculum opens it up enough for the doctor to look inside. Yeah, it's a real party! Anyway, the system for my check-ups changed slightly during the last round because of the back pain I was experiencing. Scans were moved up and extra tests, like an MRI and PET scan, were ordered. After going back and forth for weeks trying to determine the cause of the new pain, I was told I had a small fracture in my pelvic bone caused by radiation damage. But, just to make sure, a follow-up MRI was scheduled ten weeks later, along with my regular CT scan, to make sure what appeared to be a fracture wasn't growing or spreading or multiplying, indicating that it may actually be cancer. Oh, the joy of the unknown! When the office called to schedule all of my tests and appointments I was surprised that they were all being stuffed into one day. "Is it ok to do the CT scan and the MRI back to back?" I asked the scheduler. "They'll need to inject two different dyes into me and I have to be pre-medicated for the MRI because of a previous allergic reaction." I was put on hold for a minute then the voice came back to the line, "I just spoke to the radiologist. It's not a problem to do them back to back. So you're all set for nine-forty on September sixth for your CT scan, followed by your MRI at ten and your appointment with Dr. L at eleven. And don't forget you'll need to be here an hour earlier to drink the oral contrast and get set up with your IV." Yeah, I know. I hung up the phone and groaned audibly. As much as I wanted to shout at the scheduler, "Don't you know I don't do mornings!" I decided to suck it up and deal with the early appointments for one day.

The prep work for my tests started on Thursday night at 9:00. That's when I choked down the first of three doses of Prednisone I'd need to take before my MRI to reduce the risk of anaphylaxis when the dye is injected into my vein. Before I went to sleep that night I set my alarm for 3:00 AM, 7:00 AM and 9:00 AM. The first buzzer jolted me out of a dead sleep to pop my second pill, the second buzzer was my actual wake-up call, though I never really fell back to sleep after the first alarm, and the third buzzer would be a reminder to take my final dose of Prednisone, along with 50 mg of Benadryl.

In order to get to the cancer center in time for my 8:40 check-in time, I needed to leave my house at 7:40. Damn rush hour traffic! I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything but water before the CT scan, so coffee was not an option. Wanna see me in a really bad mood? Force me to wake up early, don't allow me to eat, deny me a cup of coffee and make me go to the cancer center for scans and an internal exam. I'm surprised I didn't bite the receptionist's head off when I checked in at the radiology desk. She handed me a clipboard with the paperwork I had to fill out each time I'm there and I sat down with my mom, who had met me in the parking lot, and started flipping through the pages. "They told me they were gonna put a note in my file so they wouldn't give me this one again!" I said when I saw the the question that always hurt my heart. "Is there any chance you could be pregnant?" No, morons, there is NO CHANCE I will EVER be pregnant! I don't have a uterus anymore! Look at my chart! Wait! And a mischievous smile crept over my face as I looked at the options below the question. "I am pregnant. I think I am pregnant. I am not pregnant." I texted a picture to Lyndsay and asked, "How do I answer this?" I thought about adding a fourth option "I'm sort of pregnant" but didn't think the staff would enjoy my humor so I checked the box next to "I am not pregnant" and moved on to the MRI questionnaire about whether or not I have any metal in my body. Only one answer had changed since the last time, "Do you have a BB anywhere in your body?" I checked "yes" next to that question and giggled as I remembered the techs finding the pellet my 14 year-old boyfriend had shot into my ass in 1989 that had apparently been there ever since. I returned the completed forms and was handed a large bottle of nasty, red "fruit punch" and I knew I had one hour to drink the oral contrast down to the bottom of the label.

"Suzanne?" It was my turn. I gave my mom a kiss and followed the nurse into the always freezing, tiny room with a chair and a sink where she'd start my IV. It's almost comical how similar the experience is every time. "It's cold in here," I'll announce as the nurse du jour runs out to get me a warm blanket. When she returns I'll spell my name and tell her my date of birth, then she'll ask me which arm she should use for my IV. My answer is always the same, "Whichever you want. I only have one really good vein but it has a lot of scar tissue and I'd rather use another one." Then the faceless nurse will check over my arms, push down in a few locations, realize I'm correct about the overused vein being scarred and look around for another one. Today's nurse decided to change things up a bit. I never look when the IV is going in, but I felt her pushing on my good vein which is actually my bad one. Then I felt the cold of the alcohol wipe cleaning off the area, "Are you using the scarred vein?" I asked her. "Don't worry, I'm going above the spot with the scar tissue," she lied as she took the easy way out and went right into the area I specifically asked her to avoid. What a great way to start the day! And it didn't get better from there. "Hi, I'm Tech S," said the mopey and never pleasant radiology tech I've seen many times before. "I'm here to take you for your CT scan." I tried to keep up as he grabbed my IV bag and basically ran across the hall to the room with the giant machine. "Ok, you're gonna lie here with your head on the pillow and your legs down there," he pointed. Then he covered me with a blanket and instructed, without a hint of empathy, "Pull your pants down to your knees." I tried to break the grump out of him with a smile as I positioned myself on the table, "I know. I'm an old pro at this." He was clearly not amused and my statement, instead of chilling him out, made him seem even moodier because he said nothing at all after that. The only way I knew he had left the room to start the test was because I heard the door close behind him and the motor on the machine start to hum. Soon the table started moving into the giant white circle and I closed my eyed. Here we go! "Breathe in," said the recorded voice. "Hold your breath," it continued. "Breathe," it finished. I followed the instructions twice before the table brought me out of the circle and I knew it was time to be injected with the first dose of dye I'd have that day. Captain Curt came back to tell me we were just waiting for the nurse, which I already knew. It seemed to be taking longer than it normally did and the hum of the motor slowed then shut off completely. Tech S left the room without an explanation and I assumed it was to turn the machine back on. The sound of everything starting up again told me I was correct, but then I heard Tech S taking to someone in the control room and the table began moving back into the machine. That's weird, I thought to myself. "Breathe in," said the recorded voice again. I listened, though I was very confused. Why were they repeating this part of the scan before injecting me with dye? "Hold your breath." What's going on? Did they see something in there and they need another picture of it before the dye? "Breathe." The table moved out after the two additional pictures and the nurse came in to inject me. Back into the spinning circle I went, being told to breathe in, hold my breath and breathe three more times...wait...four. Isn't it usually three times after the injection? Something must be wrong. The table moved back and the machine shut off. Tech S came back just long enough to tell me to pull up my pants, then he handed my IV off to Tech J, the MRI tech who had discovered the BB last time, and I followed her to the next small, freezing room with a chair and a sink.

"You'll have to get undressed for the MRI," said Tech J, who was every bit as sweet as Tech S was sour. "I know it's cold in here but we'll get you some warm blankets as soon as you get into the MRI." She left the room and I changed into a gigantic blue robe, then I followed her to a walk-in metal detector followed by a handheld metal detector and finally into the room with the next giant machine with a moving table that would take me into the scanning coffin. Tech J handed me some ear plugs and helped me onto the table. She put a bolster under my knees, stuck an emergency call ball into my hand and headed out to start the scanner. I immediately noticed that the sound of the MRI machine running sounded like a tweeting bird. Actually, it was more like a bird tweeting on top of a hip hop beat. I closed my eyes as the table started moving, not wanting to make the same mistake as last time when I accidentally opened my eyes too soon and saw how tightly packed I was in the machine. It was like being buried alive. Tech J's voice came over the speaker, "Ok, this first test will take four minutes." And the buzzes and beeps and clicks began. It was like being inside of a video game. "Six minutes for the next one," said Tech J. I listened to the birds chirping and the machine guns shooting and the sledgehammers pounding for what seemed like hours until my body started to relax and I drifted off to...Gasp! I can't breathe! Oh my GOD! I'm having an allergic reaction to the dye! I need to sit up!

Wait!

I'm breathing. I'm fine! Was I dreaming? They haven't even injected the MRI dye yet. How did I fall asleep with all that noise? Ah, must've been the Benadryl. I'm so glad I didn't actually move or I would've had to repeat the entire 25 minutes I'd already done. "Ok, we're taking you out for your injection now," said Tech J as the table started moving. My heart raced as the nurse started to slowly push the plunger into my arm and I wondered if my dream was actually a premonition. Would the pre-meds work to stop the allergy this time? "You ok?" the nurse asked after the dye had officially made it into my body. I took a few breaths and nodded. "Ok, here we go," said Tech J and the table moved back for the last time. "Four minutes...six minutes...four minutes..." This is taking forever! I thought with each announcement of the length of the next test until the machine finally stopped and the table took me out of my shallow grave. "Sorry it was a little longer than last time. They ordered some additional pictures," Tech J explained. What? "Who ordered them? Why?" I asked, knowing now there had to be a problem. "The radiologist. They just wanted to have a better look." A better look at what?! But I didn't actually ask because I was sure she wouldn't tell me the real answer. I just followed her to the dressing room to change back into my clothes before my appointment with Dr. L, which was kind of pointless since I'd just be getting naked again once I got down there, then I headed to the waiting area to get my mom and Jimmi, who had arrived while I was in the MRI.

Dr. L's waiting room was unusually empty and my second favorite nurse came out to get us immediately. "Congratulations!" she squealed with her huge smile, "I heard the good news!" I knew she was referring to our little bun (buns?) in the oven because I'd called Nurse L, my favorite nurse, the day before to ask a question about my pre-meds and I spilled the beans. Clearly she had done some bean-spilling of her own! "Thank you," I gushed as we all followed her to an exam room where I had the seat of honor, complete with stirrups. "Is he examining you today or just giving you your scan results?" I guess that answered my question but I asked it anyway, "He has the results already?" The nurse nodded. "Then both, I guess." I was glad I didn't have to wait out the weekend, but I instantly started sweating and my heart started pounding. "You need to relax," said the nurse as she read the monitor attached to my finger, "your heart rate is at one-hundred and twenty beats per minute!" I tried to slow my breathing enough to get a normal reading. When she was done she handed me a sheet and instructed me to take off everything from the waist down and put the sheet over my lap.

Dr. L walked in followed by Nurse L, who was smiling. "I'm so excited for you!" she said as I pulled out my phone to show her the picture of Lyndsay's pregnancy test. "Did you tell him?" I asked pointing at Dr. L. "Let me see," he said as he reached for my phone. "You found someone?" he asked, obviously referring to our gestational carrier. I couldn't help myself, "No. I'm pregnant! It's a miracle!" Dr. L's face took on a look of confusion until I let him off the hook, "I'm kidding! Yes, we found someone!" We talked babies for a few minutes until he held up the report from the radiologist and announced, "Your CT was normal. Everything looks good." My mom let out the breath she was holding but I wasn't satisfied, "What about the MRI?" I asked. "I don't have that report yet. It's too soon. But I saw the pictures and they look the same as last time," he tried to soothe me. "Are you sure?" I challenged. "Well," he said, "I'm not a radiologist. But I didn't see anything." Not good enough. "When will you have the report?" I asked. He told me he would definitely call me by the end of the day, but if I didn't hear anything I should call and check in. Then Nurse L helped me get my feet into the stirrups while Dr. L told me to scoot down to the edge of the table. My mom and Jimmi moved to the other side of the curtain before the real fun began. "That's the smallest speculum, right?" I asked as the dreaded instrument made its way from the nurse's hand to the doctor's hand then headed right for my radiation-damaged snoochie. "It's the smallest one we have," he said as the overly-lubed up plastic made its way in and opened up the area so the doctor could take a look and make sure everything was still a healthy pink. I cringed as he moved it up and down and all around then pulled it out only to replace it with a gloved finger. "Are you using the vaginal moisturizer?" he asked as he felt around my love canal. "No," I answered honestly. "Can you tell?" He shrugged, "You should really use it every day to keep the area soft and elastic. And you should use your dilator at least three times a week too," he said, referring to the medically prescribed dildo that sits in my drawer collecting dust. "I keep telling you I hate that thing!" I whined stubbornly. "Look," he said, "the radiation damage never stops. It only gets worse. If you don't moisturize and keep the area open you could have a lot of problems." I had to make another joke, "Can't I just use Jimmi every day?" He managed a small smile, "You can if you want, but you need the moisturizer too. It's not lubrication. It's more like hand lotion to use every day." The words just fell out of my mouth, "If he's using hand lotion every day he won't be able to help me!" I could actually see Jimmi's face turning red behind the curtain. Dr. L removed his gloves and I sat up, "Everything looks and feels normal," he said. "I'll call you with the MRI results and I'll see you again after the holidays."

I wouldn't allow myself to continue my baby excitement until the MRI report was officially read. An hour went by, then two, then three. By 4:30 I couldn't stand it any longer and I called Dr. L's office to ask if the results were in. A message was sent to Nurse L to return my call and an agonizing hour went by before I saw her number on my caller ID. "Hi Suzanne. Sorry it took so long but I wanted Dr. L to read to the report himself before I called you with results," Ok, fine. TELL ME!! "It says, 'there are many micro fractures in the right side of your sacrum. This is not cancer. It is caused by weakened bones due to radiation damage.' So it's nothing bad," she said. I had to have more information, "So there was one fracture a few months ago and now there are a lot of them? Are you sure it's not a lot of little spots of cancer?" Nurse L replied, "This can happen with radiation damage. You have to be really careful how you work out from now on, but he wants you to make sure you do something to keep the bones and muscles strong. You need to find exercises that won't put pressure on that pelvic bone. No running, no bicycles nothing on a mat on your back." Well, that just described my entire workout routine. "Ok," I said, still not totally convinced, "As long as it's not cancer."

I've let the results sink in for a few days and I've decided to trust that my doctors know what they're talking about and allow myself to be excited about the next phase of our lives that is currently growing inside Lyndsay. She'll have her official blood test on Monday, and if it confirms what the home pregnancy tests have told us, she'll have another blood test on Wednesday. As long as her HCG levels double (or more!) in those two days, we'll start counting the weeks until the first and scariest trimester is over. Keep your fingers crossed! Grow baby(ies), grow!!

Testing: One...Two...

"Lyndsay's official pregnancy test will be on September ninth. Don't cheat and take a home test!" was the last thing Nurse J said to us before we left the clinic after the transfer on Friday. Most normal people  would probably listen to that advice because the false negative rate if you test too early is really high. But giving those instructions to two people with as much combined patience as Lyndsay and I have was a huge waste of vocal energy.

"How soon did you test positive when you carried for your cousin?" I asked Lyndsay. "It was a week after the transfer," she told me. "I had a few negative tests before that because it was too early." I convinced myself to wait out the week before asking her to pee on a stick, even though I was tempted to collect a urine sample from her before she got on the plane to head back to Minnesota on Saturday morning, only one day after our embabies were released into her nice, cushy uterus. 

Lyndsay and her mom made it back home safely and were able to spend Labor Day with their family. I texted a few times to ask how she was feeling. "Nothing to report yet," she told me on one occasion, and, "I still feel great," was the response on another. "When do you think you'll take a home test?" I urged carefully without pressure. "Probably Friday," she replied, "I don't want to do it too early because the cost really adds up!" She was right. Before I found out I was pregnant with Dylan I must've peed on 12 of those stupid plastic sticks over the course of two weeks. Not one of them showed up positive and I was out like $100! Wait! I Know what to do! I thought as the lightbulb glistened in my head. I'll send her some tests so she won't have to worry about buying them and I won't have to actually ask her to take one! It was already Tuesday, at that point, and I couldn't believe it took me so long to think of that idea. I'm totally losing my touch. I sat down at the computer and typed in "buy home pregnancy test online" and hit the Return key. I scanned the options that popped up in front of my eyes and clicked on drugstore.com, which I've used in the past. Did I want a digital test that would actually have the words "pregnant" or "not pregnant" or did I want one with one line for no and two lines for yes? How about a plus sign or a minus sign? I settled on a name brand, two-line test that came with three sticks in one box in case she got a negative result on the first or second try. Besides, $15.00 for three tests was a great deal! I added them to my online basket and clicked the "checkout" button to see the different delivery options. Yes! They had overnight shipping! $19.99?! That's more than the entire box costs! Oh well. I was halfway through the checkout process at that point, might as well just complete it. And done! 

I woke up on Wednesday morning to a shipping confirmation e-mail from drugstore.com. "Your item shipped on Wednesday, September 4, 2013 and is expected to be delivered on Thursday, September 5, 2013." Wait, what?! I placed my order on Tuesday and I purposely paid double to have the package delivered the next day! Why didn't it ship out? I'll bet it was because I bought it in the afternoon and never bothered to read the shipping rules. It was probably too late to go out that day. Damnit! 

It was difficult, but I waited out another day. On Thursday morning Lyndsay and I were texting and she let me know that she was starting to feel nauseated when she would get hungry, "just like last time," she said. That was a good sign, right? I couldn't help myself and I let it slip that a box of pregnancy tests would be arriving on her doorstep at any moment. She didn't seem bothered at all and I had to ask, "Have you snuck any tests yet?" Her response was a quick, "Nope." I would never have been able to wait that long! I'd been looking online that week to check the earliest it's possible to test positive after an embryo transfer and most people said day 6. There were a few on day 5 and only one that I saw on Day 4. Today would mark the 6th post transfer day. I figured it would be pretty accurate by now, though Lyndsay reminded me again that she didn't get a positive result until the one week mark last time. The day dragged on until, finally at 3:00 PM, Lyndsay told me the box had arrived. As much as I wanted to type in all capital letters, "GO TAKE A TEST RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE!!!!" I refrained. Instead, I went with, "Do you have to pee?" Subtle, yet to the point. She sent back a winky face which I chose to mean she understood exactly what I was asking. About five minutes later a picture came through on my phone, followed by these words:

"Ok, so I fibbed a little. ;) I have been testing since Tuesday!! All have been positive. :) This is my 5th test and all are positive. :)"

It was only after reading the text that I looked carefully at the picture she'd sent of the test she'd just taken. Two lines. There were TWO lines! Yes, one was lighter in color than the other, but it was definitely there! Oh my GOD! She's pregnant! WE'RE PREGNANT! I had to shake myself back into reality and apologize to my friend who was standing in my kitchen, helping us train our dog, "I'm sorry," I said to her, "I should've waited to look at that text until you were gone because now I won't be able to concentrate! Lyndsay just took a pregnancy test." That caught Jimmi's attention, too, and he handed the puppy a few treats and got up from the floor. "And?" he asked. I showed him the picture. "So what does that mean?" he asked, clearly not allowing it all to sink in yet. "She's pregnant!" I announced! "Congratulations!" shrieked my friend as we both watched Jimmi's face go from beach-tanned to pale white. "You ok?" I giggled. The new Daddy-to-Be shook his head, shrugged and said, "Gotta go!" and headed out to the garage to embrace his new status. "He's such a drama King," I laughed. 

A few minutes later, the trainer left and Jimmi came back inside, "I see your color has come back," I joked with him. "Are you happy?" "Grrrr!" he said. "Are you happy?" I asked again. "GRRRR!" he said again. "Answer me, you jerk!" I playfully punched him in the arm. "Yes, of course I am...Mommy," he smiled.  I wrapped my arms around my husband and looked into his aqua eyes, "Me too...Daddy."

The Transfer

I waited nervously outside the security check at the airport anxiously eying every exiting passenger. Nope. Not that one. Nope. Not not that one either. Wait! I think I see...nope. What felt like days dragged on until I finally laid eyes on the carefully curled blonde hair and dimpled smile. "That's her!" I announced to my mom as I sped off toward the woman who would be implanted with my babies only one day later. Hugs were exchanged and introductions were made, "Hi! I'm Suzanne and this is my mom, Eileen," I said to Lyndsay's mom who responded, "Nice to meet you. I'm Sharon." And the four of us headed out of the airport and into New York City for a Girls' Day.

"Have you ever been to New York?" I asked Sharon as we drove off in my mom's car. "Never," she replied, clearly excited about the new adventure. My mom purposely followed the route that would take us around the back of the Statue of Liberty, and I pointed the landmark out each time there was a break in the trees that were blocking her. "I think we'll take the ferry over," my mom thought out loud. "It's a holiday weekend so traffic in the tunnel might be backed up getting out of The City later." She parked the car at NY Waterway, right on the Hudson River, and walked into the terminal to purchase tickets for the the 5 minute ride over the water. A short while later we were sitting outside on top of the boat staring at the famous New York Skyline as we sailed by. Sharon was busy snapping pictures to send to her husband and Facebook and Lyndsay and I were chatting about the plan for the day. "I think this time we'll head over to Rockefeller Center and you can see where they put up the huge tree at Christmastime. Then we can walk by Radio City Music Hall and go over to Fifth Avenue so you hit the American Girl store for Hallie," I said, referring to Lyndsay's 3 year-old daughter. 

When the ferry docked the four of us got into a yellow taxicab, "Get ready for your first New York City cab ride. It can be quite an experience!" My mom asked the driver to take us to Rockefeller Center and, after fighting a bit of traffic, we were standing in the exact location of the future Christmas tree pointing out where the ice-skaters will be once the weather gets cold. They took some photos then we showed them where the crowd forms outside the NBC building when The Today Show is filming. After a quick stroll by Radio City Music Hall we ended up on Fifth Avenue, one of my favorite streets in The City. I'd been to the American Girl Store twice before that day, but I'd never actually seen all of the ridiculous departments inside. As we walked through the first floor, endless choices of base model dolls were displayed behind plexiglass cases. There were blonde dolls and brunette dolls, some with curls, others with bangs. Freckles adorned some of their faces while others had dimples. Blue-eyed, brown-eyed and hazel-eyed dolls were offered. The combination of possibilities seemed overwhelming, and that was just for the doll itself! Then she needed clothes! Winter clothes and summer clothes and dressy clothes and casual clothes and sleeping clothes and shoes and boots and hats and coats and underwear! They even had clothes for little girls to wear to match what their dolls were wearing! My head was spinning as I sorted through doll earrings and glasses and braces and rollerblades and ice-skates and musical instruments and dogs and cats and horses and hot dog carts and dental chairs. We ascended to Level 2 where a doll-sized Volkswagen Beetle caught my eye, so I stopped to check it out for my future daughter since Jimmi is a VW aficionado. "Three-hundred and fifty dollars?!" I blurted out as I checked the price of the baby-blue convertible. "That's almost as much as a REAL Volkswagen!" I chuckled, wishing Jimmi was there to yell at me for my latest dig at the brand he loves so much. Then I turned the corner and saw the line of impatient girls holding their dolls and whining to their mothers about how long it was taking. What are they waiting for? I thought to myself. My eyes moved to the front of the line where there was a counter with American Girl employees working diligently on their tasks. In front of each of them was a doll sitting in a stylist's chair having her hair done. Yes, you did read that correctly. The dolls were having their hair professionally styled by people who were clearly being paid actual money to do this job. "Seriously?" I asked Lyndsay and her mom as we watched. "How much does that cost?" None of us knew the answer and I think we were all scared to ask. I shook my head and we continued up to the third level of madness. Around the corner stood a nurse, or an employee in a white nurse's coat, under a sign that read, "Hospital." There was a sign-in sheet and a poor little doll with a cast on her leg, sitting in a wheelchair on the counter. "You've GOT to be kidding me!" The dollar signs added up in my head as I imagined myself five years later, attempting to tell my daughter she's nuts as I shell out the cash to have her dolly's dog-chewed leg fixed right before her flowing locks are braided by a fake-hair specialist. "Well, I'm ready to go!" I announced and we headed out of the store where entire mortgage payments can be spent and back onto Fifth Avenue...actually, still a place where entire mortgage payments can be spent. 

"Have you heard of St. Patrick's Cathedral?" I asked as the famous church greeted our view. The look on Sharon's face told me she'd be interested in a quick walkthrough, so we entered the building and walked down the long, pew-lined aisle, staring up and the intricately detailed architecture and colorfully decorated stained-glass windows. I'm not a religious person but something about the old, beautiful cathedrals always overwhelms me with a need to pray. I silently asked for a healthy baby and continued on my way. After a full lap around the church we exited back onto Fifth Avenue to make one more quick stop before my mom and I walked Lyndsay and Sharon into the heart of New York City: Times Square.

The area, which was normally gridlocked with tourists, seemed unusually quiet and I was surprised at how easily we were able to move around without being bumped by skyscraper gawkers. "It's so empty," I said. Sharon's face told me she didn't agree and her words confirmed it, "This is empty?" she exclaimed. Ah, good old perspective slapped me right in the face. Clearly an empty New York City is much more crowded than a busy Minneapolis any day. When we stopped to allow Sharon to take some pictures I pointed up to the top of a building a few blocks away, "See the ball of lights with the big two-thousand thirteen under it? That's the ball that drops on New Year's Eve." Just as all of our eyes looked at the glittering orb of lights, the giant screen underneath it was showing a pregnant woman having an ultrasound. Two seconds later the picture changed to a full-screen shot of the fetus moving around in utero. A few more seconds later the picture switched to a newborn baby. We all stared for a minute until I spoke, "Think that's a sign?" I asked. "Definitely," Sharon answered with a smile.

By the time we got to the restaurant I was starving. Big difference from the last time when I was so sick I could barely eat the rice I'd ordered! After we'd sat down Lyndsay took a ziplock bag full of prescription bottles out of her purse and chugged down a few pills. I think the reality of everything this woman had to do to have MY baby started sinking in. I knew she had to give herself daily shots and I knew there was a lovely vaginal cream waiting for her at the hotel that she would need to insert that night, but I never knew she had to take so many pills on top of all of that. As someone who doesn't even like to take Tylenol for a headache, this was just amazing to me. I mean, let's be honest here, the entire process of what Lyndsay is doing for us just goes beyond what any normal person would do for another person, let alone a complete stranger. And that's what we were to each other just a few short months ago, right? Total strangers. Now this woman was bruised from injections, choking down a million pills and sticking things up her hoo-ha for us and I just couldn't think of a way to thank her enough. 

We all scarfed down fresh mozzarella (I made Lyndsay's mom try it this time!), pasta and the best tartufo we'd ever eaten, then we hurried off to the theater. We made it to our seats with just two minutes to spare before the lights went down and we became engrossed in the story of how the Wicked Witch of the West became Wicked. Even though it was my fourth time seeing the show I still got goosebumps at the end of the first act when Elphaba defies gravity. As the second act began, I could tell Lyndsay was exhausted and I felt badly that she wouldn't be back to the hotel before midnight. And she still needed to take her shot and insert the nasty cream into her nether region! When the final curtain came down we joined the sea of people flowing down the theater steps and pouring out into the street. One more cab ride and another sailing over the Hudson brought us back to my mom's car and on our way to the hotel. We arrived at 12:05 AM and I walked Lyndsay and Sharon inside to make sure the vag cream had been delivered as promised, which it had. "I'll pick you up at five forty-five," I said to Lyndsay as we both groaned at the thought of having to be awake and ready to go less than six hours later. But the clinic needed her there at 6:00 AM for a pre-transfer checkup to make sure her blood levels and uterus are ready for our babies. After that they'll send us home, start defrosting the embryos and call us back with a time to return for Project: Bun in the Oven.

My mom and I left the hotel and drove the 15 minutes back to her house where I'd stay that night since I live much farther away. I got ready for bed, called Jimmi to say goodnight and tried to sleep. Impossible. What if I oversleep? What if her uterus isn't ready? What if the embryos don't make it through the thaw and they have to defrost more? What if the lab screwed up and it's not actually my egg and Jimmi's sperm? Why can't I shut off my brain for five minutes and sleep?! The next thing I knew I was waking up in a dark room because I had to go to the bathroom. I must've fallen asleep for a few minutes. I checked the clock. 5:05 AM?! It was only ten minutes before my alarm was set to go off and I felt like I'd just closed my eyes. Ugh! I got out of bed, threw my hair into a ponytail (hooray for having long hair again!), brushed my teeth and pulled on some sweatpants. There would be no makeup at 5 AM. I had to draw the line somewhere! I walked out into the kitchen and was surprised to see both of my parents awake and waiting to see me off. I felt like I was back high school again. I kissed them both, they wished me luck, I shot an "on my way" text to Lyndsay and I was out the door.

When I arrived at the hotel about 12 minutes later I was thrilled to see Lyndsay in the same ponytail and makeup-free face I was sporting. We made our way to the clinic and walked in with a few couples who were probably there for some form of testing or another. "Everyone probably thinks we're a lesbian couple," I joked when I noticed we were the only pair in the building not made up of a man and a woman. We pushed open the glass doors on the second floor and both of us immediately noticed the name of the doctor on duty. It was Dr. K. Shit. Lyndsay met with Dr. K the first time she came here for her preliminary testing and she didn't like his bedside manner at all. I had also met him during my egg retrieval process two years ago and I'd felt exactly the same way. We had both specifically requested that he not be the one to perform the transfer and I needed to get some answers. Lyndsay found the sign-in sheet and wrote in her name. "Ok, I see you're having your embryo transfer this afternoon," the receptionist confirmed, "so why are you here now?" Both of our faces must've shown the same combination of confusion and anger as I responded, "We were told she needed to be here for testing at six AM the morning of the transfer." The receptionist looked lost as she banged away at the computer keyboard as if it would clear things up for her. "I'm new," she finally explained and proceeded to find someone who would be able to help us. A few minutes later we were relieved to find out Lyndsay did, in fact, need to be there at that ungodly hour, and she was taken back for her blood test and ultrasound very quickly. Barley ten minutes later she came back out, "All done?" I asked. She nodded. "Was it Dr. K?" I questioned hoping for a different answer than I received. She nodded again, "Well, maybe since he's up here now he'll be off duty later. Or maybe he's only doing testing today and not transfers. We'll double check when we come back. Did he say everything was ok?" She responded, "Yup. He says my uterus is ready to go. They'll call us in a few hours so we know when to come back but it'll probably be between twelve-thirty and one." I dropped Lyndsay back at the hotel for a nap and a shower and headed back home to do the same.

I woke up slightly more rested at about 9:30 and started to get myself prepared for the day. Neither Lyndsay nor I had heard from the clinic with a definitive return time yet, but we had a tentative plan that I'd pick her up at about 11:30 for an early lunch then we'd head to the clinic when we were done. In the meantime, Jimmi would bring our puppy to daycare - yes, puppy daycare - at 11, then meet us all for lunch and continue on with us. I finished getting dressed, picked up Dylan and Justin from their dad's house and brought them to my friend's house where they'd stay for the day, then I finally got a call from the nurse. "You need to be back at one-thirty," she said. "Lyndsay will have to drink a bunch of water and wait forty-five minutes for her bladder to fill before we can do the transfer. After we do it she'll lie flat for about a half an hour and then you can go. And make sure no one is wearing any fragrances. No perfumes or colognes or strong deodorants." That was a really odd request but it didn't matter to me since I generally don't wear any...shit! I quickly called Jimmi to make sure he hadn't yet doused himself in his daily bottle of woman-attractor. "Are you wearing cologne?" I asked him when he picked up. "Yeah, why?" he asked. "You need to go back home and take a shower and put on different clothes," I ordered. There goes the plan to meet us for lunch. "Grab something to eat on your way back to the clinic," I instructed.

I was too nervous to eat as Lyndsay, Sharon and I sat in the Foodcourt at the mall. Then I remembered the gift I'd brought and reached into my bag to find the little gold box. As I handed it to Lyndsay I said, "I wore this when I was pregnant with both of my kids." She opened it to reveal a white gold bracelet with a St. Gerard medal attached to it. "It's St. Gerard," I explained, "the protector of pregnant woman and babies." I helped her put it on and she promised to wear it while she carried our little munchkin(s). 

We pulled into the parking lot of the clinic at 1:25, just as my phone began to ring on the car's bluetooth system. I didn't recognize the number, but I figured it wouldn't be anything my car guests couldn't hear. "Hello?" I spoke into the speaker. "Hi Suzanne, I'm calling from doggie daycare. Chloe has been having sever diarrhea and vomiting and we need you to pick her up as soon as you can." Not. Happening. "Ummm..." Think, Suzanne! Think! "We're kind of in the middle of the embryo transfer I told you about. There's literally no way we can pick her up for at least two hours." The voice on the other end told me they'd keep my puppy as comfortable as possible until we could get there but she really wasn't feeling well. After hanging up with her I dialed my mom. She's gonna love this! "Can you pick Chloe up and bring her to the vet?" I asked as I actually saw my mom's jaw dropping at the request through the phone. "What? I'm getting ready to have everyone over the house for dinner when you're done there. I don't know if I can do that." There was some silence and she spoke again, "I'll call the vet. Give me the phone number and address of doggie daycare." My mom to the rescue...AGAIN!

Sharon, Lyndsay and I got out of my car just as Jimmi was parking his. "Hello!" he called out as he walked toward us. He hugged Lyndsay, I introduced him to Sharon, I told him about his beloved puppy's tummy troubles then I looked at the time on my phone and realized we needed to get inside immediately. We headed back to the second floor to check in and were told to wait there because Lyndsay needed to insert yet another medication into her vajayjay before the transfer. I noticed the board still showed that Dr. K was on the schedule so I asked, "Which doctor will be doing the transfer?" The receptionist looked at our paperwork, "I'm not sure," she said, which didn't put Lyndsay's or my mind at ease. "I see that Dr. K is here. We need to make sure it's not him," I said sternly. The ditz at the desk said, "Well, I know he's in the building so it shouldn't be a problem. I'll just send an e-mail and let them know you asked for him." Wait, what? "No, wait!" I exclaimed. "We aren't requesting Dr. K! We want to make sure we DON'T have Dr. K!" She smiled, "Oh! No, it says Dr. F will be doing the transfer." Am I going nuts? Didn't I just ask that question?! "Lyndsay B?" called a nurse holding a small bag with a plastic-wrapped suppository in her hand. I turned to watch her hand the package to our carrier and point her in the direction of the bathroom where she could insert it. When the deed was done the four of us took the elevator back downstairs to the IVF Retrieval and Transfer Suite to start baking babies!

"Which one of you is Lyndsay?" asked the nurse who entered the waiting room a short while after we'd sat down. I pointed and Lyndsay raised her hand, "Then you must be Suzanne," she smiled at me and I nodded. "Ok, I'm just gonna take Lyndsay back to get changed. You can take one person with you for now and everyone else can come back when it's time." Jimmi and I stayed behind and let Sharon go in with Lyndsay. I knew she'd feel more comfortable that way. We watched as other couples came in and out of the suite and I couldn't believe today was actually the day! "We're making babies!" I squealed as quietly as I could manage. Jimmi rolled his eyes playfully and let out a, "Grrrrrrr!" Then I remembered a few questions I needed to ask and, as if on cue, the nurse came out into the waiting room to get some water from the cooler for Lyndsay. "Excuse me?" I got her attention, "Do you know if the first two embryos made the thaw or if they had to use more?" She thought for a second, "All they told me is that we're good to go so I think it was the first two they took out." Not really a definitive response but I'll take it, "And they're both girls, right?" Another unsure answer, "If that's what was in your paperwork, that's what they should be." She headed back to her work and Sharon returned a minute later, "You two can come back. We're just sitting there so there's no reason you can't be there too." We followed Sharon down the hall as scrub-clad nurses walked by us wheeling incubators carrying vials of pink liquid with microscopic babies in them. My stomach started to flutter and my heart started to pound in my head. We entered the transfer room where Lyndsay was sitting up on the edge of a gynecology table wearing a blue bathrobe, blue elastic "slippers" and holding a paper cup of water. "I told them my bladder fills quickly. I already have to pee!" she announced. Just then a nurse came in with an ultrasound machine and Jimmi and I stepped out to give her privacy. The nurse confirmed what Lyndsay had just told us and asked her to pee just a little since her bladder was actually too full. 

The minutes ticked on as incubator after incubator neared our door then continued by us until, finally, the nurse reappeared, "It's time!" she announced as another nurse with the incubator holding our babies followed. Only two extra people were allowed in the room during the transfer so Sharon headed out to the the waiting area. Jimmi and I were immediately pushed into a corner as three nurses and a doctor filled the tiny space around Lyndsay. "I'm Dr. F," said the quiet and meek man in the blue scrubs. Well, at least it wasn't Dr. K. "Here are some pictures for you," he said as he handed Jimmi and me two pieces of paper that showed what can only be described as blobs, labeled #6 and #13. "Those are your babies," he explained. I smiled as I noticed #6 was still pretty round while #13 was already starting to hatch from her shell. Dr. F and two of the nurses started to prepare the transfer instruments as the last nurse was fiddling around with her hands in the incubator. There was a screen above her that magnified what she was doing and we could see her sucking up and letting out fluid from a thin catheter. Then we saw two little black circles on the screen. Our babies. My gaze turned to the ultrasound machine where a picture of Lyndsay's uterus appeared while a nurse rubbed a magic wand covered in blue goo around her belly. "I'm inserting the speculum now," Dr. F explained and, though she was completely covered, Jimmi and I made sure to keep our eyes on the screen. "Are you ok?" the doctor questioned and Lyndsay nodded. "Ok, it's time," Dr. F told the nurse at the incubator and I looked up at the magnifying screen just in time to see her suck my little baby dots into the catheter and hand them to the doctor. "Here we go," he said. I stared at the ultrasound screen as carefully as I could. It wasn't easy to see, but I caught a glimpse of a thin, white object entering the uterus and releasing a tiny dot. A minute later I saw the other dot drop in and the white tube was removed. "All done!" Dr. F announced as he removed his gloves, shook our hands and wished us luck. Then he was gone. The lights were turned on and the nurse told Lyndsay to lie on her back for 20-30 minutes, then they all left and Sharon returned, "That was fast!" she said. Just then Nurse J, the one we'd seen in the office on our last two visits, came by to congratulate us and give Lyndsay her blood test schedule, "We'll check your levels on Tuesday then you'll have a pregnancy test on the ninth," she said. "Do you know if they had to defrost any more than the two embryos they transferred?" I asked. Nurse J shook her head, "Nope. First two were perfect and you still have ten left!" I couldn't help myself from asking again, "And they're both girls, right?" She replied, "I believe so but let me just go and double check." She left the room and Jimmi followed to run to the bathroom. He came back a few minutes later shaking his head. "I saw the nurse as I was coming back," he said. "She told me they're definitely girls and they're great embryos. Expect twins." 

After that announcement Jimmi left to run home and feed our pets and pick up Dylan and Justin before heading back to my parents' house for dinner.  Nurse J came back to the room, "Did Jimmi tell you what I said?" I giggled, "Yeah, he ran out to pound a few shots of tequila." She laughed, "Seriously, they're beautiful embryos. One is a 4AA and the other is a 5AA!" I made a mental note to look up exactly what that meant. 

After Lyndsay doubled the thirty-minute recommendation of lying flat on her back, we decided it was time to leave the clinic. She got dressed and we headed off to my parents' house for pizza and a movie. Dylan and Justin finally got to meet the woman who would give them a little sister or two and everyone enjoyed the night as a family. When I dropped Lyndsay and Sharon back at the hotel I hugged and thanked them both, then I bent down to speak to my little girls, "Bye babies! I love you!" 

And now we wait. I wish I only had pregnancy test results to wait on but the bitch of my life is that, once again, I have scans coming up this week. Not only a do I have my regular three-month CT scan, but I also have a follow-up MRI for what was supposed to be a fractured pelvic bone a few months ago. I wish I could feel confident that everything is fine and healed and wonderful now, but I can't. Each new day brings a new pain in a different part of my pelvic bone. Could it be multiple fractures caused by radiation damage to my bone? Maybe. Could it be new spots of cancer spreading all over my body? Possibly. Will these tests be inconclusive like last time and force me to stress out and wait and have more tests? Probably. I hate cancer. I hate it for ruining what was once such a healthy and strong body. I hate it for ruining my happy thoughts. I hate it for putting a damper on any bit of excitement I'll ever have again. I need a positive pregnancy test and a negative cancer test. Can we do that? Let's send that out to the universe, shall we? 

POSITIVE PREGNANCY TEST, NEGATIVE CANCER TEST! 

Come on, say it with me! POSITIVE PREGNANCY TEST, NEGATIVE CANCER TEST! POSITIVE PREGNANCY TEST, NEGATIVE CANCER TEST!!!!!

Keeping Secrets

I tried not to mention it. I figured I'd ignore it and it would go away as quickly as it came back. I didn't want to bore you all and sound like the hypochondriac my cancer "survivor" status has forced me to become, but I made a promise when I started my original blog, and that was to be completely honest when I write. 

So I guess I need to talk about the new pains.

Right before I left for Europe in July the pain in my back that, after two MRIs a PET scan and a CT scan, was determined to be a fracture in my pelvic bone caused by radiation damage, finally started to feel better. By the time we boarded the plane for London it was no more than a horrible memory. I was able to walk miles through England and France, climbing to the top of every church, mountain and museum I faced. My bottle of pain pills remained closed the entire time and I thought my life was back on track. When I returned from my trip I started up my routine at the gym again. I handled my regular 45 minute, 5 mile trek on the elliptical with ease and booked time with my trainer, Wayne, to get back into weights. He took it easy on me to make sure I was ready to handle the workout. I felt great until we did some upper body exercises that reminded me of the strain on my rotator cuff that resulted when I fell down the stairs and pulled up on the bannister to save myself from landing on my already cracked pelvic bone. Yup, I'd had a rough month! "We need to stick to lower body next time," I told Wayne and he agreed. Two days later I was down on the mat working my sluggish abs, trying to find the definition I'd lost during my doctor-ordered hiatus. Legs and abs and butt, oh my! That was the routine for the day and I made my way around the circuit four times without complaint. I was thrilled to be getting back into shape since we'd be leaving a few weeks later for our last pre-baby, family vacation to Turks and Caicos. But that feeling was short-lived.

"Owww!" I whined as I got out of bed two days later. "What's wrong?" Jimmi asked, probably sick of hearing me bitch about my body slowly giving out on me. "My back hurts again," I told him as I reached around to massage the same spot on the right side of my pelvic bone that had supposedly healed. Jimmi looked at me with concern, "Really? Maybe it was too soon to go back to the gym," he said. I was a little annoyed, "The doctor cleared me to go back before we went to Europe and I waited almost three extra weeks!" I snapped. "And I didn't even do anything strenuous! Just some abs and legs. Maybe it was the ab exercises on my back?" I thought out loud. Whatever it was it sucked. Since it was basically the same location as my earlier fracture and it hurt slightly less, I didn't bother calling the doctor or announcing it in a post. "It'll go away," I thought. "I don't have time to deal with this now."

A week went by and the pain continued. It wasn't terrible but it was definitely there. My mom suggested I call the doctor, but with a week to go before our family vacation, I didn't have the time or the mental stamina to go through the same crap I went through last time. Besides, I had a follow-up CT scan and MRI scheduled for September 6th anyway. No harm in waiting a few weeks, right? Maybe it'll go away by then and I can save myself the stress of extra tests and appointments. But wait! Our embryo transfer is set up for August 30th. What if there IS something wrong and I don't find out until after Lyndsay is pregnant? Then what? Ok, I can't think about that. It went away before, it'll go away again. I just needed to get to Turks and Caicos and relax.

As our plane made its final approach over the aquamarine water on August 19th, I shifted my seat back to its full upright position. "Ouch!" I yelped as the familiar jolt shot through my lower back. Can't this just go away? When the doors opened, I stood up carefully and pretended to be fine as I hobbled out of of the aircraft into the island heat. Jimmi and the boys carried and wheeled the bags and I lagged behind, though I was walking as quickly as I could. I kept thinking to myself that the last time this happened I couldn't walk at all, so maybe it wasn't that bad. I tried to rationalize that since it was in pretty much the same location I must just have a weak spot in my bone that will be prone to injury from now on and that if it was cancer the doctors would've seen it in the 700 scans they performed in June. But then my mind wandered to the truth about Small Cell Carcinoma that no one wants to think about. It's incredibly common to have a clear scan one month and a body full of cancer the next. It's the nature of the disease. Ok, erase! Erase! You're on vacation!

I popped an anti-inflammatory pill as soon as we got to our room and then we headed out to explore the beauty that surrounded us. "Wait for me!" I had to call out numerous times as my family disappeared on the path in front of me while I tried helplessly to catch up. I pushed through the pain and joined the boys in the pool and the ocean, but I made sure I avoided the water slides. The kids understood but I could still see the disappointment in their eyes. And then I had what I thought was a brilliant idea. "Does anyone wanna go parasailing?" I asked. Justin and Jimmi shook their heads in horror but Dylan answered, "Yeah!" And that was it. For as long as I could remember I'd always wanted to try soaring over the ocean, pulled by a motorboat, but I'd never actually done it. If cancer taught me anything, it's to always try new things once. Dylan and I boarded the boat without a second thought and out to sea we went. I didn't really get nervous until I signed our lives away on the consent form and we were being strapped into the harnesses, which were no more than a few canvas straps around our thighs that connected to a life vest that hooked onto the parachute. Wait...we don't actually have a chair?! Seriously? I'm allowing my 12 year-old to do this? I got ahold of myself and realized that if I freaked out, Dylan would freak out, and the last thing I wanted was to instill fear into my boy. And then the parachute started to lift us up over the boat. Slowly, slowly, slowly. Ok, this isn't so bad. I can handle this. Wait. Why do they keep letting out more rope? There's so much slack. Holy SHIT we're going up higher? "Are you ok?" I asked Dylan while trying to answer the same question myself. "Yeah, are you?" Dylan responded. I nodded my head and hoped he wouldn't know I was lying. I was absolutely terrified. "Do you want to cross your legs?" Dylan asked, referring to the signal we were told to give if we wanted to come down before our 18 minute-long ride of death was over. Yes. YES I DO!! But, "No, I'm fine! Do you?" came out instead. Dylan shook his head and seemed to take his cue to stay calm from me. If he only knew how NOT calm I actually was. Oh my GOD I want to get down! Shit! The wind is picking up! We jolted from side to side and I could hear the buckles clanking against each other. I was suddenly very aware of the fact that one wrong move could send either of us plunging into the shark-infested water below. I can't believe I put my kid in danger like this! Should I cross my legs? No! Hold strong and teach the boy how to be confident and strong! We slowly started to drift down a little lower and I could feel the blood start to flow into my hands again as my fingers began to ease their grip on the harness. I barely had time to release the breath I'd been holding when another gust of wind shot us right back up where we'd been moments before. All I could hear was the wind around me. I needed to see if Dylan was alright but fear wouldn't allow me to turn my head. I forced the words out, "You ok, Bud?" I barely heard the response, "Yup." "We're really high!" I announced, as if he didn't already know that. I scanned the ocean below for the bodies of those who'd ridden before us, but saw nothing. That was a good sign, right? Has it been 18 minutes yet? Each time the wind shifted the chute jerked and jolted and I had to resist the urge to give the "GET US DOWN!!" sign. Truthfully, I'm not even sure I would've been able to cross my legs to give the sign since my body was pretty much paralyzed by fear. After what felt like hours, we were finally lowered back down to the boat. The tension in my body began to release as we were unhooked and able to walk back to our seats. "That was so cool!" I lied to my kid as I forced myself not to kiss the floor of the boat and hug the crew for getting us down safely. "How high did we go?" I asked, not expecting the answer I received. "Five-hundred feet," I was told. I was silent for a minute. Almost speechless. "Wow. Glad I didn't know that before we went up." When we got back to the beach Jimmi was smiling and showing me the pictures he'd taken of us in the air. "How was it?" he asked. I looked around to make sure both boys were out of earshot, "It was absolutely terrifying and I will NEVER do it again!" 

On day three of our vacation a new ailment struck my broken body. When I walked I noticed what felt like a pulled muscle in...how should I put this? My anus? Well, it was next to my anus. Like bordering it. It hurt when I bent over to pick something up or lifted my leg. What now? I haven't don't anything that would've caused this! And to make things more interesting, the new pain was to the left, while the older pain was on the right. I e-mailed my mom to let her know I was continuing to fall apart and she suggested I take Tylenol to see if it helped. A few days later the pain trifecta commenced with a feeling of pressure right up in my butthole. Sorry for being blunt, I'm just telling it like it was. I attempted to release the buildup in the bathroom but nothing happened. A few more tries during and after breakfast resulted in a couple of rabbit pellets and the feeling that I still had to go. I made the mistake of Googling "rectal cancer," because, well, that's what cancer "survivors" do:

Symptoms of rectal cancer include changes in bowel habits, such as diarrhea or constipation and a feeling of not being able to completely empty the bowel.

AWESOME! I totally have rectal cancer!

I finished up in the bathroom as much as I could, and headed back to where my family was sitting, waiting for our catamaran cruise. "I think the cancer is back in my ass," I said nonchalantly to Jimmi, who looked at me like I had a horn growing out the top of my head. I explained my symptoms and followed with, "What if Lyndsay gets pregnant and then I find out I have cancer again?" He clearly didn't want to think about that possibility, but suggested I switch my scan week with the transfer week, which I'd actually wanted to do from the beginning but couldn't get all the appointments to line up correctly. "I can't!" I whimpered. "She's already taking all the medicines and I don't want to! I just want everything to be ok so we can have a baby and I can be there to watch her grow up!" As much as the reality of the recurrence rate of Small Cell Carcinoma of the Cervix had been drilled into my head, the bliss of denial still took over and urged me to keep my scan appointment where it was, the week after our embryos are transferred into Lyndsay's uterus. But is that fair? What if I'm sick again and she gets pregnant? What will happen next? Will we allow the pregnancy to continue and risk having babies who will never know their mommy? Will we ask her to abort? What a horrible, terrible, unbearable decision we'd all be facing. Why can't the awful part of my life just be over already? Why does it have to keep popping up over and over again, especially when something so amazing is about to happen? 

"First shot complete" was the text I received from Lyndsay that night. Yes, she's been giving herself shots for a few weeks now, but this one was different. Since this is transfer week a new shot has been added that will continue into her eighth week of pregnancy. It's so real now. I wish I could be more excited, I thought to myself as my bowels ached, the side of my anus throbbed and my pelvic bone pinched. This blows. We exchanged a few messages and I let her in on my little secret, though I didn't want to scare her. Maybe it'll be better tomorrow.

With two days left of our trip, things seemed to become a bit more regular in the bowel department. The dull ache to the left of my anus was intermittent and I tried to convince myself that it might be a hemorrhoid rather than cancer. I honestly never thought I'd wish for hemorrhoids as much as I have this week. The pelvic bone pain, while still present, felt slightly better and I enjoyed some snorkeling with Jimmi. Well, I enjoyed it until I came face to face with a barracuda with very large teeth that scared the bejeezus out of me! We finished off our vacation with family photos on the beach at sunset and I was able to sit and move in every awkward position the photographer requested - even the one where Jimmi was belly down in the sand and we all piled on top of him. I wasn't too sure about that one, and even Dylan was concerned, "Are you sure Justin and I should get on your back, Mom?" I nodded knowing that my mom would be screaming at me if she knew I was allowing almost 200 lbs. of tween boys to plunk down on top of me. Luckily I didn't come out any worse than I went into it. 

And now we're home and it's TRANSFER WEEK! I wish I could say I'm back to feeling 100%, but I don't want to lie. It's not the worst it's been but it's not the best either. I'm thinking positively and attributing the pelvic pain to re-injuring a weak spot in my bone by going back to the gym too soon, the left anus pain to a pulled muscle and the bowel issues to hemorrhoids or radiation damage, which could cause poop drama forever. Lyndsay and her mom will be here on Thursday and my mom and I will take them to New York City again. This time we'll see "Wicked," which we should have seen last time. Then, on Friday, Jimmi and I will watch as our little microscopic bundles of joy are placed into Lyndsay's uterus for safe-keeping until around May 23, 2014. I refuse to think about my scans exactly one week later. This is baby week! We need to think sticky thoughts so those little buggers implant and stay put! Sticky thoughts! Sticky thoughts! Sticky thoughts! Everyone...

THINK STICKY THOUGHTS!!!

 

Starting Over

"First shot complete."

That was the text I received from Lyndsay five days ago that literally made my my eyes sting with salt-water.

I held my phone under Jimmi's nose so he was forced to read the same three words. "Oh, Jeez," he joked. "My life is officially over!" After I punched my husband playfully in the arm and told him he'd better be ready for all the changes a baby, or babies, will bring, I actually started to think about those changes myself. And that's when my heart started pounding faster and my palms began to sweat.

What's going on? I thought. I've done it all before...twice! Yes, it's been ten years since the last time I had a newborn, but I'm sure it'll come back to me pretty quickly. They cry, you change them or feed them or burp them or rock them or some combination of those options. No big deal, right? I've been doing this parenting thing for almost 13 years now. I'm an expert! Well, as much of an expert as any mom can be. I'm sure it won't be that difficult to start over.

Oh my GOD!!

I have to start over?! But I've come so far!

Honestly, with the exception of some serious attitude every now and then, my boys are SO easy! They dress themselves and feed themselves and wipe themselves and entertain themselves. They can even stay home alone for a few hours while I run errands BY MYSELF! And if I do need to take them somewhere it's as easy as, "Dylan, Justin! Get your shoes on! Let's go!" And we're out the door. They grab iPods or iPads or phones or whatever electronic device will keep them happy at the store of choice and off we go. My boys can tell me if they're hungry or sick or sad without it becoming a stressful guessing game. They can read books on their own and work the TV and the DVD player. They even make their own Pop-Tarts when they wake up on weekends so I can sleep.

SLEEP!

Oh no! Sleep. Oh, wonderful and blissful sleep! Jimmi and I are basically nocturnal. If allowed, we'll stay up until the wee hours of the morning and sleep until noon. When the boys wake up on Saturday and Sunday mornings, usually around 10:00 AM, they head downstairs to the Xbox or the playroom and they don't bother us at all. If they don't feel like making cereal or toast, they'll wait until I roll out of bed and make them pancakes at 11:00!

Thoughts flooded my head of packing diaper bags with not only diapers and wipes, but also four different outfits (for multiple puking or pooping emergencies), 17 pacifiers (because the first 16 will inevitably be thrown on the mall floor within the first five minutes of a shopping excursion), six bottles of purified water with six Ziplock bags of carefully measured out, powdered formula to mix as needed, 80 jars of assorted mashed food of various colors, disposable changing pads for the lovely public bathroom changing tables that have never ever seen a can of Lysol, three pairs of extra socks for the moments you look down and realize the Sock Monster has clearly visited your car and stolen the foot coverings right off your sweet, innocent little angel since there is no other explanation for where they possibly could've gone in the thirty-second period when you were not staring intently at the child, 20 different musical, educational or texturally satisfying toys that can stick to or clip on to any surface, a cloth cover for the nasty, germy grocery store shopping carts or restaurant high chairs, plastic, stick-on covers for the restaurant tables that will be instantly peeled off so the baby can quickly lick the table before you have a chance to grab her, 15 tupperware bowls filled with soft and nutritious snacks that will most likely end up in your hair or down your shirt rather than in the kid's mouth and 2 "spill-proof" sippy cups that will leak sticky juice all over the car as soon as the precious munchkin gets bored and decides to whip them across the backseat.

And that's just the prep work that comes before you actually try to get the baby ready to leave the house!

You need to be somewhere at 11:00 AM? Ok, no problem! You'll start getting ready at 9:00. Feed, burp, change. Shit. Change again. Wipe spit-up. Sniff baby's shirt to see if she smells like sour milk. Change shirt. Pack bag. Put baby's shoes and coat on. Remove outer layer and change again. Feed again. Burp again. Put baby in carseat and hope she falls asleep. Grab diaper bag, purse, phone and baby in carseat. Get everything into the car, click carseat into base, settle into the driver's seat. Where are the keys? Go back into the house and find keys. Realize you're still wearing pajamas and never bothered to brush your hair or your teeth. You'll look and see it's already 10:45 so you'll sigh, shrug, throw a hoodie over your PJs and and a stick of gum into your mouth, run your fingers through your hair and head back to the car. The baby wakes up screaming at the sound of the slamming car door and, as you pull out of your driveway, you start to belt out every song you know from The Wiggles' catalog hoping one of them will soothe the little bugger enough that you won't lose your mind. Of course you'll arrive 15 minutes late for whatever appointment you had at 11:00, only to be told you're a day early and should come back tomorrow.

And what about date nights? Romantic vacations? Oh no! We're gonna need to find a whole new crop of babysitters! The ones I used for my kids are all grown-ups with real lives now! And then another thought came to me. I texted my ex-husband, "So, do you think you'll be able to take the new baby on your days with Dylan and Justin, too?" He wrote back, "Lol! Nope! No more days off for you!" Yes, obviously I was joking when I asked the question, but his response was exactly what I was really thinking.

NO MORE DAYS OFF!!

Ok, I know it sounds awful, but divorce isn't necessarily a bad thing. When the parents can manage to get along and everyone shares custody, it can actually be a very satisfying arrangement. My ex and I live five minutes from each other and we each have the kids two days during the week and every other weekend. When they aren't with us we can still stop by or call them or go to their games or school activities, but at the same time we have a few nights to relax and decompress. What parent doesn't need a few hours of stress-free, alone time every now and then? Well, that's about to change too.

Seriously, what am I thinking?!

Oh! I know! I'm thinking about seeing Jimmi's eyes staring back at me when I look at my precious baby. I'm thinking about how it will feel when she first learns to give a hug and it's more like a head drop on the shoulder that says, "I know you. You make me feel safe." I'm thinking of the smell of baby lotion and brushing her soft, newborn hair with my hand. I'm thinking of the excitement of watching as she accomplishes each new milestone. I'm thinking of the first time I'll hear the words, "Mama" or "I love you." I'm thinking of the smile behind her pacifier when I walk into her room as she's waking up from her nap. I'm thinking of the running leap into my arms after I return from a trip to the grocery store. But mostly, I'm thinking of sharing it all again with Jimmi, my soulmate. I can't wait to see him with our daughter. She's gonna have him wrapped so tightly around her little finger he won't know how to unwind himself. And, quite honestly, I don't think he'll mind one bit.

Yup. Here I go again! Starting over and I really can't wait!

Just make sure you send lots of coffee and please accept my advanced apologies for exhaustion-induced bitchiness.

Let's do this!

Crossing the Street

Ring! Ring!

"Hi Suzanne, I'm calling from the fertility clinic to remind you of your follow-up appointment with Dr. D tomorrow at 10:30," said the voice on the other end of the line. Appointment? What appointment? Oh yeah! "Thanks for reminding me. I had totally forgotten." I hung up the phone and quickly scanned the calendar in my head for the time of the appointment I actually remembered I had, the one with Dr. G, my medical oncologist. That's "chemo doctor" for the less cancer-experienced readers. Ok, 1:40 PM for Dr. G and 10:30 AM for Dr. D, who is habitually late. But it shouldn't be a problem since the offices are literally on the same road, just a matter of turning left or right off the highway exit.

I woke up the next morning, August 1st, and got ready to meet Dr. D. I still couldn't figure out why he needed to see me since my part in the baby-making was done two years ago. All the shots to stimulate my now non-existant ovaries to produce eggs are in the past. Jimmi's trips to the little room of porn to make his baby batter deposits are finished. It's all about Lyndsay now. What could he possibly need to say that hadn't been said by the nurse, the social worker and the finance specialist during our all-day clinic visit last month? Oh well. It's protocol, I guess.

I drove the familiar route down all the same roads that had brought me to numerous scan appointments and chemo cycles and radiation treatments. With each street sign and each turn that leads me closer to the exit I would normally become more and more anxious with a feeling of psychosomatic nausea growing in my stomach. But this time was different. This trip was taking me one step closer to holding a baby in my arms. Yes, I'd need to visit Cancerland when my first appointment was done, but this time it would only be for bloodwork and a chat, not the dreaded scan results that usually accompany my appointments with Dr. G. Since I'd had that crazy back pain in June my regular three-month CT scan had been moved up about six weeks, but the chemo doctor follow-up hadn't changed. I tried to move it to September when my next CT is scheduled but I was told, in no uncertain terms, I needed to leave today's visit where it was. 

I made a left off the highway exit to the much less traveled, happy side of the street and parked my car in front of the baby engineering office. I headed up to the second floor, checked in and waited for my name to be called. Thirty minutes after my scheduled appointment time I heard, "Susan?" I chose the second of my stock responses to the mispronunciation of my name which meant, instead of screaming at the erroneous nurse, I just ignored her. After all, my name is NOT Susan so why should I answer? "Susan?" she asked again as she scanned the room for the woman who would surely jump out of her seat and anxiously follow her to the promised land of lab-made babies. It was time for phase two of my little game. Casually I looked up at the nurse-in-waiting and innocently asked (corrected), "Do you mean Suzanne?" She looked down at her chart and replied, "Oh, yeah. Sorry." Yeah, yeah. Don't let it happen again, Missy!

I followed the scrub-clad assistant through a maze of hallways and exam rooms until we finally made it to Dr. D's office. She knocked on the door and showed me in, introducing me as "Suzanne." Good girl! And that's when it happened. As I set my eyes on Dr. D for the first time in over two years I immediately remembered something my friend, also a patient of his, had told me before our first meeting. "When you see him, don't laugh. He looks exactly like the scientist from The Muppets. You know, the one who experiments on Beaker?" And he DOES! I couldn't look directly at him for fear of erupting into uncontrollable giggles. I have a knack for explosions of inappropriate laughter. It's a bad habit. "Hello!" Dr. D greeted me with a giant smile that made his eyes squint so much they seemed to disappear. Yup, it's the scientist guy! "I'm so happy to see you here, alive and well and in a much better place than the last time we met." You're telling me, Dude! "It was a very difficult time for you, two years ago. But now it's time to finish what we started and get those embryos into Lyndsay's lovely uterus so you can have a baby!" I couldn't keep the corners of my mouth from turning up with excitement. He continued, "I must say, Lyndsay is just wonderful. You couldn't have asked for a better person to carry for you. She's sweet and emotionally stable and her uterus is really beautiful. I mean, she could have the biggest heart in the world, but if her uterus didn't look good, we'd have to tell her thanks but no thanks. You've really lucked out!" 

Hooray for Lyndsay's reproductive organs! Woohoo!

"So," Dr. D went on, "last time we met you had just been diagnosed with cancer and had a hysterectomy scheduled. Did you end up having any chemotherapy or radiation?" I shuddered at the memories. "Yes," I answered. "I had to have both." His head shifted to the sympathetic tilt I'd seen so many times before. I explained further, "I didn't have the typical kind of cervical cancer. Mine was called Small Cell Neuroendocrine Carcinoma of the Cervix." Before all the words had left my lips he was nodding with both understanding and surprise, "I know it well," he said. "My good friend's daughter had exactly the same diagnosis. Unfortunately, it got the best of her and she passed away." Ugh, I hate hearing that! "But look at you!" he continued. "For you to be here now is nothing short of a miracle. That type of cancer is tough because it doesn't behave as we'd expect it to. It doesn't play by the rules. The fact that you're here two years later and doing so well shows how strong you are. It's just great. And I'm so impressed that you had the determination at the beginning of your diagnosis to know you wanted to harvest your eggs. Then you had the focus and wherewithal to do what you needed to get it done, even when faced with everything that was being thrown at you." I nodded as he spoke, "And then to end up with so many eggs and TWELVE viable embryos is absolutely amazing!" I felt like giving myself a pat on the back. At least my faulty equipment was able to do something right in the midst of its death rattle. "So it looks like you have an even mix of males and females here," Dr. D broke me out of my self-congratualtory state. I smiled. "So will we be transferring one of each or do you want to just leave the decision up to the embryologist? Or you could flip a coin. It's totally up to you. All of your embryos are such great quality we shouldn't have a problem with anything you decide." I shifted in my seat and hoped he wouldn't judge me by what I said next, "We really want girls." I saw Dr. D's eyes squint into disappearance and I knew that meant he was smiling. "I figured you'd probably want to balance out all the Y chromosomes in your family. And I don't see why we can't help you get that little girl you deserve after everything you've been through." Thoughts of pink blankets and pink bedsheets and pink dresses danced through my mind until his next words shook me into reality, "You know you have a very high chance of twins, right?" I nodded. Obviously, since we're transferring two embryos, there's always a chance. "Normally we say there's about a forty percent chance of twins, but in your case, I'd say it's closer to sixty percent. Maybe even higher." I guess seeing my jaw detach from my face and fall to the floor was a clear indication that further explanation was required. "As I've said, your embryos are very high quality. That probably has a lot to do with the fact that you've never actually had any fertility problems. I can't give you a hundred percent certainty that Lyndsay will get pregnant at all on the first try, but if I had to guess, I'd say the chance of at least a singleton is well into the nineties. But twins are a very real possibility." A mischievous grin took over my face, "Jimmi's gonna have a heart attack." I announced. Dr. D laughed, "Tell him he needs to prepare himself now." We talked a bit more about the process and after every few sentences he always went back to telling me how happy he is that I'm here and healthy and about to compete the journey we started two years ago. Normally it bothers me when people talk about me beating the odds because, truthfully, I still feel like my health is so fragile that a new tumor could pop up at any minute and take me out. But, for some reason, Dr. D's words of praise were encouraging and positive. For a few minutes I actually believed I'd completely beaten the beast and was free to move on to the next phase of my life.

When the meeting was over Dr. D led me back down the hall to talk to the same nurse I'd met during Clinic Day in case I had any new questions. As soon as she saw me she blurted out, "Oh my GOD! I had NO IDEA how sick you were! I'm seriously so glad you're ok." Wait, what? "When Dr. D told me what kind of cancer you had I was totally shocked. You know he had a friend whose daughter died from the same thing, right?" Well, that was delicate. Thanks. "Yeah, he just told me," I managed as my brain was snapped out of visions of pink and back into Hell. I tried to clear out the cancer thoughts since I didn't want them sharing space with the baby thoughts so I quickly changed the subject to get the nurse back on track. A few minutes later I was back in the car and off to meet my mom for lunch next door before crossing the street into Cancerland.

It's really amazing how much one side of a street can differ from another. Turning left off the exit brings hope and new life. Turning right off the exit brings sickness and death. I wish I could always turn left.

But I had to turn right.

All of the warm fuzzies I'd gotten from the morning's visit instantly left my body as soon as I set foot into the cold, sterile environment at the cancer center. The smell of latex gloves, hand sanitizer and chemo drugs immediately hit my nose and caused a sensory overload that brought me right back to the days when I'd sit in that building for hours as the poison made its way to every one of my cells, healthy or not. "I hate the smell in here," I mumbled to my mom, who'd heard me say it many times before. "I know you do. But if that smell is what kept you alive, I'll take it." Yeah, yeah. Way to be an optimist, Mom. Up to the third, and my least favorite, floor we went. I tried not to notice all the sickly-looking patients in wheelchairs waiting for their chemo treatments. I kept my eyes on the floor, only looking up while checking in with the receptionist. I filled out the usual form, checking all the boxes that applied to my current mental and physical state and handed the clipboard back to the woman behind the desk. I sat back down and turned to my mom, "I have to pee," I whined like a potty-training toddler. My mom understood the look of concern in my eyes. I hate using the bathrooms at the cancer center, mainly because the smell of the soap reminds me of being there for long and torturous hours of chemo. But I didn't have a choice. I got up and found my way around the corner to the bathroom right outside the door that leads to the small cubicles where at least 30 people at a time are being infused with life-saving poison. I stepped into the lavatory and my brain immediately recognized the odor of expelled chemo toxins in the air. Did you know chemo drugs smell as they leave the body? When I was going through treatments I felt like it wasn't possible to wash the scent away from my skin. I peed that smell, I sweat that smell, I lived that smell. And here it was again. I quickly grabbed the counter by the sink to steady myself as the dizziness began. Then the nausea kicked in and I felt the color draining from my face. I finished up my business as quickly as I could, rinsed my hands with just water and hurried back to join my mom in the waiting room. I plopped down into the chair next to her, reached into my bag for some Purell and waited for my name to be called.

"Suzanne?" said an unfamiliar nurse and I hopped up to follow her to the tiny room where she'd take my weight, blood pressure and blood. It was like the movie Groundhog Day. The same routine each time. After my vitals were recorded I walked the rest of the way down the hall to the next waiting room where my mom was sitting. I was pretty calm this time since I wasn't minutes away from learning scan results that could change my fate in an instant. I just wanted to be done already so I could go home and think about babies! That's when the next nurse, who looked like she was about to give birth at any second, came to take us to the exam room. "Wow!" I exclaimed when I saw her. "When did that happen?" She giggled, "About nine months ago. Tomorrow is my last day of work and then I'm out for maternity leave." A few months ago, just looking at a glowing pregnant woman would've caused me to leave the room in tears. But not this time. I knew it would only be a matter of months before I'd be in the exact same position. Well, not exactly...but close enough.

Dr. G entered the room and we chatted about my trip to Europe and impending baby plans, then she listened to my lungs and pressed on my stomach a bit. "I tried to move this appointment to September so we'd be on schedule with scans again but they wouldn't let me," I explained. She nodded, "I know. We're a bit screwed with our timing now. But I think it's ok for me to stretch out our appointments a little bit now. Let's say I'll see you in six months instead of three. If you need me before then, we can always get you in." I assume she could tell what was going on in my head because she added, "We will need to make your appointments farther apart at some point. It's been two years now. I think it's time." I always knew this day would come but I didn't expect to feel so dependent on my three-month check-ups. "I'm scared," I said quietly. Dr. G was understanding, "I know. You'll see Dr. L next month and talk to him about it to see if he feels comfortable going longer in between appointments. But I think it's ok to only see me every six months unless you need me." "No offense," I broke in, "but I really don't want to see you before then." She nodded in agreement. "I just want you to know I'm here for you." After wishing each other a wonderful last month of summer, my mom and I put our imaginary blinders on and rushed through the waiting room full of people who looked like I did two years ago. We descended the three flights of stairs and I waved to the receptionist at the main door, "See you in a month!" I called to her as we headed out of the building.

I left Cancerland and crossed the street, heading back in the direction of Baby Central. I like that side so much better. Luckily I'll be able to stay to the left of the exit for a little while before crossing back over again. I am thrilled to announce that, as of one hour ago, our contract with Lyndsay has officially been signed! That means she is cleared to begin her ovary shut-off and uterus prepping medication NEXT WEEK! Then, in exactly 27 days, our little girls will make their way into Lyndsay's nice, warm oven where, hopefully, they'll set up camp for the next nine months until they're ready to break free.

Holy COW! It's really happening!!!