Sunday 19th September 2010

One year ago.

We’ve stopped having sex.  Since the reimplantation.  They say that you can, that there’s no risk in doing so, but, where’s the guarantee?  Is there a money-back warranty if they’re wrong?

No.

You just never know.

“Do you think we should?” one of us has invariably asked.

“I don’t know,” the other has said.

Really, it’s a small price to pay.  Anatomically, the uterus is closed. Physiologically, the embryo will be well-implanted by now, if it is ever going to be.  It’s not like I’m going to knock it out.  Is it?  That doesn’t make sense.  Does it?

If abstinence can infer a safety effect, we’ll be abstinent.  When shit like this has happened to you, you stop being logical.  You lose objectivity.

Frankly, you go a bit nuts.

If anything could possibly help, then you do it.  Even if it doesn’t make sense.  Shit, we’ve got a candle burning in the middle of the kitchen table.

We’ll do whatever it takes.

Whatever it takes.

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