We drove to Bruce’s sister’s house this evening for Father’s Day, and on the way out there we realized the car was infested with ants. We caught more than a dozen. Almost all of them were on the driver’s side window, which made for an unpleasant journey because every Bruce would see one race across the window and onto the dashboard, he’d slap it with his hand, and the car would veer sharply to the left toward the oncoming traffic.
“Will you stop it!” I said. “You keep swerving!”
“That wasn’t a swerve. A swerve is much bigger,” Bruce said, as he smashed another one against the window with his hand.
We had a nice dinner, and Bruce’s father liked the book we got him. I actually bought it for myself, but since we hadn’t bought him a gift, and it seemed like a book he’d like, I relinquished it. As we handed it to him, I said, “I want to borrow it when you’re done!” but he didn’t say anything. His hearing is not that good.
On the ride home, I kept trying to understand how the math works: If Cornell’s pregnancy success rate is about 70%, and acupuncture increases the success rate of IVF by 65%, does that mean the probability of me becoming pregnant is about 115%? That’s so high, I could give birth and STILL be pregnant.
But I don’t take much comfort from statistics, to be honest. When my father was diagnosed with late stage esophageal cancer, he went into a clinical trial at Memorial Sloan-Kettering that had a 66% success rate, which is pretty good. He died three months later. I guess they need to get the other 34% from somewhere.
I had an old boyfriend who said one of the most heartbreaking things in the world is to hear a kid say, “I don’t care,” because it usually means they care very deeply. They’re just protecting themselves.
Today is Father’s Day.
I don’t care.