God, That Old Trickster

Some of you know what I'm about to type already, which makes me feel a little less creative at the moment. However, I will try. I just took an 800 mg Ibuprofen, in an attempt to curb a stinging pain behind my eyes (probably getting sick again) and help me with the cursed insomnia, so I have a little time before the medicine kicks in and I can go to bed. And now, without further ado, I will impart the latest news:

Somehow, I managed to get myself good and pregnant a few weeks ago.

Let us review: I'm 41.5. I'm just a year out of surviving a massive nuclear detonation in my body, which was done to combat a cancer in my neck...this in itself requiring two separate surgeries. I have not had a normal calcium level in over a year, and am permanently on about six different medications. On other fronts, my two lovely children are still two very needy things, though I am extremely grateful that after three years and 35k, I was finally able to conceive them (I'll return to this point in a minute). I have a full-time job which I love, but it too is needy. I have a husband of seven years, with whom I am now reacquainting myself after 36 months of hardcore twin-rearing (I'm serious: a week before the news, we were congratulating ourselves on having "made it through," and were looking forward to a lot less bottom wiping and sippy cup filling). We are in the final stages of fixing up this ridiculous house....

If this pregnancy were the first box in a decision-making flow chart, all of the arrows would lead to the same place. This didn't really help, as the decision to terminate or not to terminate became a messy, tangled bunch of emotions piled on top of already tweaking hormones. I was kind of a mess. Anyway, I guess I wasn't so messed up that I couldn't go to the doctor and get the pills, which I did in a kind of haze.

And so it went.

I don't ever want to go through that again. It was/is too sad. I will never go through it again, because Jeff is going to the doctor and will do that thing that mature guys do when they don't want to have any more children.

Still: I am staggered by the irony of all of this. This is not funny irony. I thought I knew something, and then I so fucking obviously did not. 41.5 years of zero, until they hold a medical gun to my ovaries, and only after three tries do I conceive. The miracles happen, but just once. Phew! That was close. Or, apparently, not as close as I thought.