RevSpork

The End

20 August 2011

Dear Concept,

What was once a ghost on a sonogram monitor, nothing remains.  My wife and I saw an empty womb yesterday afternoon, and we could not be more relieved.  It’s not because we didn’t want you, but after nearly two weeks of stress and pain and question marks, we can breathe easy.  Give us a month or so, and we'll try to pull you out of the ether again. 

It’s weird: it took a failed pregnancy to make me want you in our lives.  My enthusiasm for parenthood has never been more than insouciant (how’s that for a word?), but these past four weeks made me more comfortable with you than before. 

Why?  Maybe it reflects my stubbornness (whaddya mean, we didn’t score?) or a desire to give Tori what she wants, or something else.  I honestly don’t know.  I’ve never felt fatherly towards anyone; even with cousins or close friends who are younger than me, I’ve felt more avuncular than fatherly towards them.  Maybe you need to be in on the creation of life to feel it. 

All I know is that I would like you in our lives.  Maybe a ghost pregnancy, and all the anguish it caused, was what I needed to lock in that desire.  All I know is that Tori and I will give it another go sometime soon, and we’ll see what happens.  Maybe sometime next year – or the year after – you’ll get to share with Tori my slightly off-key whistling of “Ain’t She Sweet” while strolling across Michigan Avenue on our way home from the obstetrician. 

Love,

Rich.

Somebody kick my ass

That's all I ask.

I have absolutely no pep this week.  I've been getting up as late as 1pm some days, and I don't do anything. 

I need a good ass-kicking.  That's all I gotta say.

The Unknown

10 August 2011

Dear ???,

Where are you?  What the hell is going on?

It’s strange to be angry at one’s child when said child is the size of a lentil.  But I am.  Tori’s morning sickness suddenly stopped yesterday, and she reports other, more intimate physical problems that you don’t need to know about. 

For crying out loud, we’re only starting to set up a life for you.  We’re down to fewer than a hundred names.  We’re going to Target this weekend to buy some diapers that are on sale.  I haven’t even had the opportunity to love you. 

I know we can’t afford you.  I know the timing isn’t quite right, that I’m still in graduate school.  But we’re willing to give it a try.  So get back to making your mother nauseous, making me a nervous wreck, and just be. 

Rich.

12 August 2011

Dear Potential Blighted Ovum,

Blighted ovum: A blighted ovum (also known as “anembryonic pregnancy”) happens when a fertilized egg attaches itself to the uterine wall, but the embryo does not develop. Cells develop to form the pregnancy sac, but not the embryo itself.

So much for buying diapers.  After a sonogram this afternoon (for which I missed the opportunity to see my congresswoman), found very little, it’s quite possible that you don’t exist.  There’s a sac in Tori’s uterus, but not much else.

Since the results were inconclusive, we have to wait another week before we need to return to the hospital and visit the OB, and Tori’s feet go back into the stirrups for what seems to be the umpteenth time in the last two weeks. 

So that’s what we have: I’m writing to an empty audience.  Given the typical response to my blog, this is not unknown to me, but I was hoping for something more.

Regards,

Rich.

15 August 2011

Dear Probable Blighted Ovum,

Please stop hurting my wife.  It’s bad enough that you’re an empty vessel – it’s even worse you’re putting my wife through so much discomfort.  Please let her go so we can move on.  Please.

Rich.

The Embryo

3 August 2011

Dear Embryo,

Congratulations, you’ve been promoted.  My wife and I were at her doctor’s office, and it’s official: you are.  My wife is your mother, and I’m the dad. 

Words cannot describe how hard it is to wrap the concept of you around my head, and now that you’re a reality, it’s even more difficult.  On the way back from the doctor, your mother and I discussed your needs: diapers, formula, where you’re going to sleep, etc.  We decided to start stockpiling diapers now and put them in our storage unit in the basement.  It sounds crazy, but new parents are crazy.  They don’t have a choice, trust me. 

A few days back, I printed out a list of the top 500 baby names for this year.  Since then, your mother and I have trimmed the list from 1000 names (500 boys, 500 girls) to about 150.  Some of the names on the original list were nice, some weren’t, and some were indications that we live in a semi-literate society.  We won’t have a name ready for you until you’re born, but we’ll have whittled it down to a half-dozen or so by then. 

Yesterday I was on campus for my class.  I’m studying to become a librarian, but I can go more into that later.  Before class started, I walked into the campus chapel and prayed.  It’s not normally my thing – I’m an agnostic, while your mother is an atheist – but I felt a need.  When one prays, they usually pray to God (God is *huge* around here), but I was really talking to my dad and my grandfathers.  I had but one request: if I failed in everything else in life, I want to be a good father.  It’s not something bred in my genetics – fatherhood in my family is a mixed bag at best – but if they can offer anything from where they are, that’s what I want from them.  And that’s what I want to give to you.

A storm is coming in.  I should close the windows. 

Regards,

Rich.

5 August 2011

Dear Embryo,

I’m playing a little ukulele this evening.  I can’t play instruments to save my life, but it’s fun just to noodle around tunelessly until a tune finds you and sticks to your head.  If that sounds confusing, I’ll understand.  Even adults don’t get me on occasion. 

I hope, really hope, you don’t have ADHD.  In case you don’t know (and the odds are good you don’t), it’s a disorder that retards your mental focus.  It’s very difficult to concentrate, and your brain basically shoots out random thoughts that are only vaguely connected at best.  I don’t want you to have to go through that crap.  I mean, there are worse things in the world than suffering from hyperactivity, but it makes life tough nonetheless.

If all goes well, next week you’ll officially be a fetus.  Promotions come easily and quickly in this stage of life.  Enjoy it while you can.

Regards,

Rich.

7 August 2011

Dear Embryo,

Your mother informed me this morning that you will not officially be a fetus until your eleventh week.  My apologies if you are disappointed.  Get used to disappointment; it happens to all of us now and again, and you cannot let it get to you. 

My first real bit of advice to you is the following: never succumb to bitterness.  I’ve seen friends, relatives, strangers afflicted with bitterness.  Their faces age rapidly, they seem to wear a permanent scowl, and they look dead inside, as if they shat out their souls.  (Pardon my use of a swear word; I will do my best to avoid swearing in front of you, and I will ask of you the same thing.

Your mother and I are getting more and more used to the reality of you, and although we’re still more bewildered than excited about your pending arrival, that will change.  In a few weeks we will see a special doctor, known as an obstetrician.  They’re basically doctors who help out pregnant women like your mother.  During our visit, we may have an opportunity to see you for the first time.  (Given, you won’t see us – it’s dark where you are, and your eyes will not have fully developed yet anyway.)  We might even have a pretty good idea if you’re a boy or a girl.  What’s the difference, you ask?  You don’t want to know right now.  I’m sure you’re already busy with growing and stuff.  Trust me: I’ll tell you all about it once you’re born.

Warm regards,

Rich.

The Concept

28 July 2011

Dear Concept,

You don’t know me.  Yet.  You might, but then again, you probably don’t.  You are, after all, currently a concept.  You, as a concept, were born when Tori, my wife, peed on a stick and was told our future.  This is the second stick she’s peed on in the last three days, and it looks like you may be more than a concept.  Since we need to confirm you first, however, you are still a concept.  Give us a few days and we’ll give you an update as to your status.

You’re not alone – there are gazillions of concepts out there.  There are more concepts than stars in the universe.  You just happen to be a concept that scares the shit out of me.  And I don’t exaggerate; I don’t mean “Eek! A concept!”  I mean more like “Oh, shit!  There’s shit all over the place!”  That’s how scared you make me. 

I have very little else to say at this point, except I honestly don’t know what to think.  You’re in a weird little world in my brain right now – there, but not quite there.  I know I don’t love you, but only because I don’t know what to love.  Maybe that will change.  We shall see. 

I do wish you good luck in your travels.  You may yet get to meet me, and I you.  And that might be a nice thing.

Regards,

Rich.

30 July 2011

Dear Concept,

My wife peed on another stick yesterday.  Positive again.  You are still a concept, but you are beginning to solidify as something a bit more.   In three more days I think we’ll know for sure, and by then you’ll no longer be a concept; you’ll be a living fetus. 

Given, it’s only been five weeks; you’re about the size of a sesame seed.  But I get this nagging feeling that, even if the tests on Tuesday turn out to be negative, you’ll still exist as a concept.  I’m not sure how to think about that.

I went out tonight to watch roller derby.  It’s one of my favorite sports.  It was a fun time; the local teams both won their games.  If you evolve from a concept to a person, I definitely want you to fall in love with roller derby like I have.  Especially if you’re a girl.  If you’re a girl, I want a kick-ass daughter.  And roller derby is kick-ass.

As you will probably figure out, I’m not much of a grown-up.  I’m a 40-year old teenager.  I’ve never been good at being a grown-up, and I hoped I would not have to be tested on that category.  I am capable of making grown-up decisions, but it’s not a skill that comes naturally to me.  If you can, wish me luck.

Regards,

Rich.