Choice

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.