"...I don't expect network executives to get anything, but God, the very being who made me sarcastic, should know when I'm fucking joking..."
Enjoy Your Weekend!, may 30th, 2006
If I was a better storyteller, I'd save the happy ending for last. But I'm not. Good news first.
The amnio results came back, the baby is 100% normal- no chromosomal deficiencies, no spina bifida. Two of every chromosome, just like you, me, Dick Cheney, Paris Hilton and that guy who threw his kids and then himself off a Miami balcony.
Last Monday, in addition to the penis, the sonographer noticed a cyst on my son-to-be's brain. My doctor called me while I was writing Brangelina jokes for a taping of Best Week Ever.
"It's nothing to worry about, but..."
I hate buts, buts are bad. They loved your Curb but.... They think you're funny but
"...sometimes those cysts are associated with Trisomy 18."
Two months ago, the little fella passed the first trimester screen. It checks for Down and Trisomy 18, also called Edward's Syndrome, which is worse than Down. Trisomy 18 babies are severely deformed, and those that don't die in the womb usually don't survive past the first year. Hell, pure and complete. Our guy passed the first test but... nothing is guaranteed. The tests can be wrong. Please don't sue us if a drooler drops out of your womb.
Har har, God.
When I begged You for a retarded baby so I could abort guilt free, I was joking. It's called sarcasm, You know-nothing, not very powerful God. (I saw that tsunami of Yours, and don't get me started on Katrina.) I expect You to "get it." I don't expect network executives to get anything, but God, the very being who made me sarcastic, should know when I'm fucking joking. Do I have to mug like a French mime so You get it, God? I can't pitch underhand like Ricky Gervais?
Hard markers are definitive, soft markers are speculation. A choroid plexis cyst is a soft marker
for chromosomal abnormalities. However it could be, and often is, nothing. A hard maker
for chromosomal abnormalities is when your fetus is wearing suspenders and laughing at a Robin Williams movie. Then it's time to head over to your nearest Planned Parenthood and exercise your rights.*
*Does not apply in South Dakota.
Anyway, Miss Kilmartin, enjoy your Memorial Day weekend! Don't worry too much.
Waiting for amnio results is nerve-wracking, but waiting with a soft marker hanging over your head is gruesome. I'm showing, for fuck's sake. (To me, at least). And like an idiot, I told everyone I was pregnant at six weeks. How many times would I have to say over and over again, "we lost it," if indeed it had to get lost.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Then I would look at the ultrasound pictures. KilBaby's head is round, big and perfect, like all those other baby heads. Little fists, punching and clenching, fat belly. And this baby is made from the fastest sperm in America. A sperm that defied gravity and wads of invasive toilet paper.
See, I'm not the type to wait around for a wet spot to develop. As soon as El Boyfriend has done his damage, I'm out the door to clean up. He is often insulted by how quickly I dispose of all debris. FEMA could learn a thing or two from my disaster relief.
So I would look at that grainy, black and white print out and shake my head. It can't be, it can't be.
And now I know, it's not.
Enjoy your weekend!