That last week has been a muddy, foggy blur of driving, mourning, working, driving, cleaning, driving, crying, driving and relief.
Jeff and I hosted my grandmother's memorial gathering at her house in the Southland, cleaning up the dust left by months of disuse and the strange greasy scum that settled over her belongings. Her plants appear to have died around the same time she did, though it's likely due to my father forgetting to water them and not some cosmic connection.
At the memorial, the old man talked incessantly and without my prior authorization to all comers about my "happy situation". Elderly ladies patted my slightly protuberant belly and told me of their own pregnancies, way back in the day. There was the woman whose three daughters were born in successive years on April 2, April 3 and April 4, and whose son was a month out of synch the next year, arriving May 5. I smiled and admired her fortitude and resiliency in managing four children under five. (She said it was nothing--"Of course, we didn't work back then." Not work. Funny. With the energy required by my job, I could care for about one tenth of a baby, even now with the twelve hour days, or perhaps power a low-wattage, eco-friendly lightbulb.
It felt unspeakably odd to be the object of congratulations from people who knew nothing of our situation, especially as I was sitting there with a small pit of dread building in anticipation of today's twelve-week ultrasound. I had to stop myself from adding "if we make it that far" when asked my due date.
But the pit of dread was for naught. The scan today was a good one; the first unequivocally good scan since we started. He* is growing well, though still behind by a few days. He has a fairly strong heartbeat. He has hands, and legs and teeth--teeth!?
As we watched the monitor, the IVF Coordinator made little peeping and oohing and squeaking sounds; she'd never seen one this big, since they usually turn over their pregnant patients to OBs at eight weeks. The stoical Dr. Meow smiled as he moved the focus and pointed out the bits and pieces--the umbilical cord, the feet, the ears, the jaw--and even grinned when the little guy did a full-body jerk. Which he then repeated, rhythmically but spasmodically, a la "We Are Devo".
And since it's about time we started to call him something other than "the lump" or "the little guy", I think that's what we'll use: Devo.
Whip it good, my young fellow.
*No, we do not yet know the sex. He just seems boy-like to me so we've settled on "he" for the time being.