I’ve developed a discernible pouch just below my waist, like a marsupial. When I’m sitting, it makes a sausage-like roll that I can actually grab in my hand. I sometimes rub the surface of it and pretend I’m pregnant, until I think about how I feel absolutely no signs of pregnancy at this point, and I have no choice but to see the pouch for what it is: too much ice cream.
About a week before my transfer, I got a call from one of the nurses at Cornell, asking me if I was bleeding?
“No,” I said.
“Good,” she said.
“Why?” I said.
“Because your lining is now half of what it was last week,” she said.
“Great,” I said.
“I know,” she said. “But here’s what we figure. If you’re not bleeding, you’re not shedding it out. So the more likely scenario is that someone measured it wrong. Come in tomorrow for another ultrasound.”
This time, my doctor wanted to measure it himself, rather than leaving it to a technician. As I lay on the table, I said to him, “Is it possible the lining went in there?” I said, pointing to the pouch under my waistline. “Like, maybe the lining leaked out from some other exit.”
“No, no, no,” he said in his high Julia Child voice.
I once asked my acupuncturist if perhaps my problem getting pregnant had to do with a strange bloated area I’d found on my lower abdomen. I mentioned excessive yeast and a commercial I’d seen on television where they talk about a condition called Respirol, and they try to sell you Ribisol to cure your Respirol, and it was caused by having too much yeast. Or something like that. My acupuncturist looked down at my bloated belly.
“Fat,” he said dismissively and changed the subject.