Yep, that was the best line I had.
Lucky for me you liked Krispy Kreme. Although we didn’t know it then, that night was the beginning of happily ever after. Now, 21 years and 6 kids later, it's still happily ever after.
-G.
Letter
USA
Married 21 years
Present Day
Fiona
After Elizabeth and Nico left, Greg, Jack, Grace, and I went out for pizza. Evading Greg’s searching gaze, I was mostly quiet, listening with all outward expression of rapt attention as Grace and Jack described their many adventures over the course of our absence.
During the early afternoon dinner, I excused myself to the ladies’ room and called my OB’s office, catching them just before close. I made an appointment for the next day.
When dinner was over, we took a walk in the snow. Arriving home, both Greg and I laid the kids down together. And then Grace got up seven times for a variety of reasons: she needed water, she was too hot, she was too cold, she lost her bunny, the bunny was too noisy, the bunny was too quiet, the bunny was mad at her.
After the fifth bunny update, Greg offered to intervene with Grace, lay with her until she fell asleep, and I passed out before he came back to bed.
When I awoke the next morning, I went through the motions of getting the kids ready for school, encouraging Greg to sleep in. I knew he figured I’d return after taking them in and we would finally talk, but that’s not what happened.
I dropped Grace and Jack off to school, and then I took the train to my OB’s office.
I had a sonogram, during which I gaped with renewed numbness and shock at the tiny person in my uterus, the beating heart, the tiny alien profile curled forward, tiny hands just visible. And then I was ushered into an exam room. I didn’t have much time with my jumbled thoughts or the glossy print-out pictures of my new little person before Dr. Freeman knocked, then strolled into the room.
“Mrs. Archer, congratulations on your happy news,” he said, all cheerful and efficient smiles. “Eva is preparing your prenatal paperwork and payment schedule. Do you have any questions for me? I know you’re a veteran mom at this point, and very little has changed in the last five years since you had Grace.”
My doctor bustled around the room, washing his hands, drying them, wheeling his stool over to the side of the exam table, sitting down, crossing his legs, smiling at me. “The kiddos still pop out at nine months with ten fingers and ten toes. The only difference I see now is that you’re over thirty-five. That means you’re of advanced maternal age, so we’ll need to do a few more tests.”
I ignored the reference to my advanced age and asked the big question. “I don’t understand how this is possible.”
My doctor lifted his eyebrows, as though I’d just capitulated to being ignorant of reproductive organs and how babies are made, so I sought to clarify. “Greg was fixed—er, snipped, had a vasectomy—five years ago, right after Grace was born.”
Dr. Freeman tilted his chin, signaling his understanding of my confusion. “Ah. I see. Did he get the snip or the clamp?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hmm. Well, there have been cases of spontaneous reversal.”
“Which means?”
“When was the last time he had his sperm count checked?”
I glanced around the exam room, wrestling with my memory. “I don’t know. At least three years ago.”
“It appears your husband’s plumbing has righted itself. And now you’re pregnant.” He smiled merrily, as though this news should delight me.
I glared at Dr. Freeman, not feeling cheerful. I didn’t feel at all cheerful. I was not at all delighted.
His smile fizzled. He cleared his throat. “So . . .”
“So . . .” I repeated, still glaring at him.
He cleared his throat again and glanced at the screen to his left, where my electronic chart presumably detailed my status, and walk-wheeled himself over to the computer. “When was the start of your last cycle?”
I struggled to remember the date. “It must’ve been December.”
“That sounds about right. Are your periods regular?”
“No. They’ve never been regular. Sometimes I go months without.”
His eyes moved over me appraisingly. “Do you exercise a lot?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the sonogram has you at fourteen weeks.”
“I’m fourteen weeks.” Again I echoed, my throat tightening around the words.
“We need to schedule you for the eighteen-week sonogram with the perinatal group. Again, due to your advanced age, we’ll treat you as high risk until we rule out complications.”
If he mentioned my advanced age of thirty-six one more time I was prepared to knock him out.
“Also, you’re due for some blood tests, but the panel they sent over as part of your oncology screening looks good. Assuming nothing has changed, your counts are great.”