Here is more of my book. I am too lazy to post a blog, but I shall make more of an effort tomorrow. Its just so hard right now in the middle of Idol season.
Perhaps it was jet lag, although, in reality, that seemed unlikely. The flight from Calgary to Saskatoon was only forty minutes. Perhaps it was the side effects from the sedative they had given me the night before the ‘procedure’, as they call it. Or perhaps it was just the stress of it all. Whatever the reason, I fell fast asleep almost immediately after setting foot into my apartment. I slept for twelve solid hours and woke the next morning to the angry ringing of the phone. It was like waking from a dream. As consciousness broke through the fog of sleep, so too did the dawning of my new reality. The reality that I could be carrying the offspring of Cynthia and Horrace Jacobson right now. Right now those blasted blastocytes could be multiplying and dividing away (do they multiply or divide—surely it can’t be both?). I sat up in bed very still, trying to somehow sense whether there was any activity going on in my uterine cavity. I couldn’t tell, but I did feel a little bit of a shiver up my back. I wasn’t sure if that had any significance or not.
Finally, after the phone rang a bazillion times I got up and picked up the call.
“Hello,” I answered groggily.
“Have you been drinking?” Cynthia’s voice assaulted my ear, even more accusatory and unpleasant than usual. I looked at my clock. Quarter after nine in the morning. Even if I had been drinking, which I couldn’t fathom, I surely wouldn’t be admitting it to anyone, let alone my boss. “Yeah, just fixing myself a boilermaker to get the day started.”
“No,” I replied with a yawn, more annoyed than defensive.
“You sound like shit,” Cynthia said. I suppose she wasn’t trying to be rude. It’s just how she is. But what I don’t understand is just what it was that she was expecting me to sound like? I had just had my body invaded by sharp metal objects. Was that supposed to make me chipper?
“I feel like shit,” I said candidly. I had never really been one to speak to my boss in thatmanner, but once you have their genetic material inside you, all bets are off.
“That’s a good sign,” she said emphatically. “I spoke with Dr. Lytchendracht, he said that things went very well.”
“Yeah, it went good,” I concurred, holding my picture of the blastocytes. Four little grey blebs all blobbed together. Precious.
“That’s good. Horrace and I are in France for the week. We just needed some time to decompress after all the stress we’ve been under, with the procedure. But I thought I’d better let you know that I’ve booked you off for the week. I’d like you to lay low. Just take it easy for the next couple of weeks. You know what I mean?” she said/asked. It was hard to tell if it was a question or a command.
“Sure, good. Uh, I wanted to ask you a quick question about the number of blastocytes they put in. Dr. Lythen… blag (I fumbled with the name for a minute. Why did his name have to be so complicated? Couldn’t we have had a Dr. Smith or Dr. Black?) he said something about four, or something?” I trail off pathetically, hoping that it’s all a big misunderstanding.
“Oh-oh, I think I’m losing the connection now, Kris. Just remember what I said. Strict bed rest. Bye,” she called out with heavy emphasis on 'strict bed rest', as though the connection were breaking up, which, incidentally, it wasn’t.
Strict bed rest? Is that what she said?
I trail off into bed and lie back down. But wasn't tired. I had just slept for the last twelve hours. How could I possibly be tired, short of suffering from a major depression or being ninety six years old? I flip the TV on and switch it to CNN. It was finally time to get caught up on the situation in the Middle East.