With all the drama we’ve faced lately with Blithe’s medical issues, I’ve started to wonder if that crappy HMO did a good enough job on my husband’s vasectomy.
I mean, it would be just my luck for them to have screwed that up.
So I’ve asked for him to provide me with a sample so that I can be sure there are no swimmers hanging around. It’s funny, really, to think about how we struggled with infertility and now I’m a fanatic about making sure he’s utterly infertile.
Recently I caught myself thinking about what I’d do if I did find myself pregnant. Because there’s not enough other shit for me to worry about. Apparently.
Countless doctors told me the baby probably wouldn’t make it if I got pregnant. Even more told me it would be a danger to my life if I tried to carry a pregnancy to term, and even more perilous for me to try and give birth.
But what would I do? Could I end a pregnancy when (I think) I would love to have another child? What if it was the boy we always hoped for? Could I take the risk of leaving behind my precious girls and my husband for a child I’d never met?
I don’t know. I don’t want to know.
Which is why I have in my possession a little plastic cup. Because I never, ever want to have to make that choice.
Babe? Time to make a deposit.