Friday 23rd April 2010

Gestation: 30 weeks

One year ago.

 

“I got a call today.  Apparently my varicella antibodies are low.”

“Sorry?”

“My chicken pox immunity.”

“I know what it is, hon,” I say, slightly irritated.

“Apparently my levels are zero.  They tell me I’ve never been exposed before.”

I frown.  “You’ve been exposed, right?”

“Of course I had.  I’ve got eight nephews and nieces.  I’ve been around heaps of people with chicken pox and never got it.”

“So you’ve got immunity, but maybe just a low titre?”

“All the same, they suggest that we should have it.  To be sure.”

“Fair enough.”

She pauses until I look up.  “But then they say we’ve got to wait three months.”  My frown doubles.  “I need the initial shot, and then another six weeks later.  And a month’s wait after this one.”  She looks at me some more, like she needs to say something, so she does.  “It’s a live vaccine, so we can’t risk it.”

Shit, fuck, motherfucking fuck.  God damned fucking hold ups!  God damned reasons not to get pregnant!  Fucking God damned fucking fuck!  All these fucking things!  All these fucking reasons!  All to be safe.  There was no such thing as chicken pox vaccine ten years ago, and now we’re not allowed to get pregnant for three months if our levels are low?

Are you fucking kidding?

Are you FUCKING KIDDING?

No, you’re not.  You’re right.  You’re God damned right.  In your precise little bubble of perfection you are absolutely God damned correct, Mr. Medical Profession.  Neonatal varicella infection is very nasty, you say.  What’s three more months?  Huh?

What’s three more months?

Three more months.

It’s like we’re on a fucking building site in the middle of an Icelandic winter.  Every fucking reason not to continue on with construction.  All the fucking reasons.  All the fucking reasons in the world to just pack up shop and move countries.

Iceland is a shithole anyway.  Even in summer.  Why are we even here?

I sigh, giving up the fight.

“Yes.  I know.  We should.  To be sure.  To be fucking sure.”  I gulp hard on the acid.  “God damned Iceland.”

“What?”

“Nothing, love.”

I hug Suse tight, dreaming of an Australian summer.

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