I don’t feel anything. I should be feeling something. Shouldn’t I? Could the embryos have fallen out? I thought about the procedure in which they were transferred into me. It was a very shoddy process. Full of holes. I lay there on the table at Cornell, my legs in stirrups, the doctor is doing something down below that I can’t see but I keep getting waves of mild cramping that make me want to smack him in the head. And then a Germanic looking man with a lab coat shuffles over with the embryos in what looks like a little strand of optic fiber, with a bead of liquid at the end.
“Caren Chesler?” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
He then handed the piece of fiber to my doctor.
“Is that like putting the “R” and the “L” on each leg, so you don’t amputate the wrong one? You want to make sure those are my eggs?”
My doctor laughed. “We want to be sure,” he said. He had a high voice, like Julia Child.
But what if the German dropped one of my embryos on the floor, mincing it with his shoe as he shuffled over. He wouldn’t have seen it until the last possible moment, when his shoe was already descending onto it, like when you catch site of your lost contact lens just as its swirling down the drain. Or maybe my doctor dropped them as he was trying to get them into that tiny little catheter. They’re so small, he probably wouldn’t even have noticed. And here I am walking around for two days thinking am I pregnant? Was that a flutter? Did I feel a little pang from implantation? Oh, am I pregnant? When in fact there’s nothing inside me at all, because the embryos are on the floor of the surgical room or stuck to the bottom of the German’s shoe.
I brush those thoughts aside. It’s all about implantation now. If the embryos are in there — I suspend doubt for a moment and say they are — they will burrow into my uterine lining within one- to three- days. My acupuncturist told me to eat pineapple and drink pomegranate juice, which I’ve been doing. I do most things he says. If he told me to spin in a circle thrice one way and thrice the other and then say “Hoo-lee bah-loo lee,” I’d do that, too, if it would help those little blastocysts burrow.