More book

Well here is more of my book. I am simply too lazy to post a real blog right now. Enjoy!

The Immaculate Conception
-6-


My feet are in stirrups. There is an overweight balding man standing at the foot of the bed staring into my vagina. I’m looking at the ceiling, trying to be cool about. It’s no big thing. I do this sort of thing all the time. Sure.
“Kristina, I’m going to insert this catheter now. You might feel some slight cramping,” he says. I’m trying to just block it out. I scan the room quickly, looking for some support or something. But everything just looks so cold. So clinical. Probably because this is a clinic, I tell myself. Duh.
Ouch. What was that? A pain of some sort causes me to flinch.
I look at the man, baldy, whatever his name is. Dr. Lytchensomething. He’s concentrating very seriously on the matter at hand.
“The catheter is in situ,” he says, more to the team of people in the room rather than me, looking alternately back and forth between the ultrasound screen and my vulva. “Transferring the blastocytes now,” he continues.
Oh man. This is really, really, not how I considered this milestone taking place. Not in my wildest dreams. The stirrups, I admit, might have cropped up in some of my more exotic fantasies, particularly during the years when I as dating that pre med student who was thinking about Gynecology as a specialty. But certainly not the bald dude. Or the talk about catheters and blastocytes.
I’ll just try to think about something else. Like the war in the Middle East. The war in the Middle East… hmm.
Hmmm.
Mid.
Dle.
East.
Hmm. Funny, but nothing seems to becoming to mind. Note to self: must start watching more CNN.
“All right,” Lytchensomething says, snapping off his gloves. “They’re implanted.”
And then I realize. He said ‘they’. As in: plural. As in: more than one of the little buggers.
“They? What? How many?” I ask, dumbfounded, fumbling to get my feet out of the stirrups, to regain a modicum of dignity.
“All four of them.”
“Four? I’m sorry. There must be some kind of a mistake. Cynthia and I agreed on one. Only one.”
“Yes, but she had a change of heart. She said you were fully aware,” he said, looking puzzled. “In fact, all the paperwork is in order. You signed all the consent forms, which explain everything.”
The consent forms? Ah, he must be referring to those utterly inscrutable documents that were fourteen pages long with font small enough to require a magnifying glass. The forms that the lawyer shoved under my nose and said “sign here, here and here.” Those forms? My degree is in accounting, not law, so I pretty much skipped to the dollar figures in the document, effectively ignoring all the legal jargon.
Shit. Shit Fuck Shit. And now the little buggers were in there. Probably settling in, making themselves at home, watching Cribs and eating Doritos. Getting crumbs all over the place in my virgin uterus.
I feel sick. Is it too early for morning sickness? Yes, I think it is. But I really do feel sick. This isn’t good. What will I do?
My body. My figure. My bladder control.
All down the tubes.
Figuratively speaking.