On Tuesday I had a one-night stand. I popped a Valium on my way out of the office, then slid into a flimsy backless gown, and spread my legs on an operating table. They put me in a crinkly yellow mask (a gag!) then bolted my feet into stirrups. Dean held my hand as the director wedged a speculum between my legs, followed by a spindly thin catheter.

Up until entering that dark closet of a room, I was walking through a garden, ready to rave. My arms dangling as I stepped over a mushy soil cement floor. Those crinkly yellow boots of mine–divine! Drop the bass and set the strobe.

But once inside, it was cold and impersonal, in complete opposition to the warmth I felt when Milo was transferred into my body. Back then it was another time, another clinic. They let me look under a trillion-dollar microscope, marvel at the cells’ symmetry, lay back and dream of our journey.

And now because a grading system wasn’t found with our stored embryos, they’ve thawed them at random (not by highest quality). One of them lyced (meaning it burst) and the back-up wasn’t as good of quality. I am enraged at the lack of attention to detail, and yet I am high. But lucent enough to know I had at least 3 B grade embryos (at 6 cells each).

We are another number to this clinic, an escalating percentage, just another man and woman under masks with worried eyes.

And mine were shedding tears.

In this pic, the embryo on the bottom has started to split and morph. You’ll see it isn’t fully contained with a perfect circle like the one on top. So perhaps instead of transferring 2 embryos in, it’s more like 1.5

Last time, they showed me the two dots like tiny dewdrops. My doctor a NASA pilot guiding astronauts into my soft secret crater. They touched down side by side, under my fallopian tubes, within swimming distance to my lining.

This time–I barely saw the slim catheter worming its way in.

When the procedure was over, the director yanked me up by the hand, and led me to the staff locker room. While I changed, the staff impatiently knocked to come in and access their things.

Finally. Finally, when it was over– I stepped out under the pulsing sun in my giant Tom Ford knockoffs. Ready to rave. Ready for anything.