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That Hallmark moment

My beta went up, so theoretically I'm still pregnant. And shocked to the core.

It increased from 269 on Friday to 713 on Monday — that's a 63% two-day rise.

Now the Internet, blessed fertility oracle that it is, tells me that's adequate, although certainly not ideal. (And getting medical advice from the Internet has proven so far to be a great idea.) But after our two-day stall last week, I refuse to get too excited.

Seems like I've been refusing to get too excited for weeks now. I was quietly smug after the first beta, cautiously optimistic after the second, and solidly grounded in determined pessimism by the third.

Goddamn it, I completely missed that Hallmark rush of elation. You know, the one where I present Paul with, I don't know, a tiny pair of booties and he looks bewildered for a minute, then breaks into a smile whose brightness rivals the sun. And then he lays his hand lovingly against my still-flat belly (not that it's flat to begin with, but this is my fantasy), and speaks in a hushed tone of wonder and says...

I have lost my mind entirely. See, I told you this whole thing fucks you up good. To be fair, we're not exactly Hallmark people to begin with.

I'm scheduled for a scan early Friday morning to see what's going on. By then my hCG levels should have risen, if they're going to, to about 1,200 — that's right around the discriminatory level for seeing a sac with transvaginal ultrasound. First we want to see a sac in the right place. Then, though I don't really dare to hope, we want it to be the right size.

Until then, I will be working very hard to will a comely little sac into existence.