My acupuncturist stuck me with a needle today that sent me flying off the table.
“Wow!” I said.
“I keep asking you if you could feel it. You say no,” he said sternly, as if it were somehow my fault that his needle went from innocuous to Taser, skipping the steps in between.
“I know, I know,” I said. “Wow.”
“I want you to feel it today. It will help with implantation,” he said.
He went on to the other acupuncture points in my feet and shins before returning to the point in the crotch of my hand. I was tentative.
“You frightened,” he said. “Feels like electric shock.”
“No, shit,” I said.
As I lay on the table, I thought about the call I’d received earlier from a nurse at Cornell, telling me they were able to preserve four additional embryos. They would be frozen in case we wanted to use them in the future.
“Four is great!” the nurse said.
“Why is four great?” I asked. Another nurse, who emailed me that morning, had said the same thing.
“Because the lab is really picky, and four, well that means the four were of really, really good quality,” she said.
I thought six or eight or ten of really, really good quality would be even better, but I didn’t want to seem greedy. Bruce always chides me for holding my bowl up for more ice cream when I haven’t finished what I already have. I still had the two embryos percolating inside me to contend with.
But I’m struggling with the idea that frozen embryos actually work. I know what the lamb chop I pulled out of the freezer last night looked like: meaty and sort of red in the middle but gray and covered with ice crystals on the top corner. And that was only after two months. I pictured my fourteen year old son coming into the kitchen, varsity jacket on, throwing a football up and down in the air, and as he kisses me goodbye because he’s going out with his friends, I touch the back of his head and feel this frozen spot that’s all full of ice crystals.