this time

I tell Julia all the time that I don't pay much attention to dates and don't make a big deal out of anniversaries. But I can't help remembering that, though the precise day has vanished somewhere in a magnesium sulfate fog, that it was, give or take a few days, almost exactly two years ago that I lost the twins.

I say I lost the twins, but, of course, that isn't exactly accurate. We already knew that we'd lost one of them, but the doctors were very optimistic that, at 26 weeks, the other one would survive. They sent in a young and cheerful neonatologist who sat on the windowsill of my hospital room and gave us long talks about what we could expect in the NICU and quoted odds on various long term outcomes. I tried to look attentive and ask intelligent questions, but, while my instincts are generally untrustworthy, I knew that none of this information was going to matter.

As they wheeled me into the operating room, one of the residents looked up from fastening a plastic bracelet around my wrist and asked me why I was crying.

I looked at her in surprise. Because my baby is going to die, I said.

That might not happen. Everything might still be okay, she said and I wondered if someone had told her to say that.

Maybe, I said, but if I had to bet, that's not what I'd put my money on.

And I don't remember saying another word until, hours later, I woke up in the recovery room and asked for a glass of water.

This week, Kyrie, our surrogate, is 26 weeks pregnant. We have an appointment on Friday and I'm not really expecting bad news. I know the odds are overwhelming that, a few days after the new year begins, we'll be taking home a, well, you know. But, right now, right this minute, I can't help thinking that I've seen this movie before and, while some of characters seem unfamiliar and a few of the plot twists are a little hazy, I already know the way it ends.