Everyone dressed up, which was fantastic, and I found I could playfully contemplate insights about each person based on his or her costume choices.  How creative were their costumes?  How risqué?  How much did their Halloween personas depart from their personality norms?

In this case, none of the women were dressed super-sexily.  Most of us are suburban moms, and we look the part, even in costume.  We’re not showing off our bras or thongs or curves to the masses these days.

But two men were dressed as flashers, complete with visible penises—one an actual light-blue dildo, and another a three-foot-long length of panty hose stuffed with something I didn’t venture close enough to figure out.  Hmmm…

My husband and I went with what we found at the costume store, outfits that would complement each other, with my 30-pound weight gain accommodated by a tent-like, one-size-fits-all sack.  We were Roman Centurion and wife, and I was just happy to be costumed and comfortable.

Besides the costumes, the karaoke portion of the party was very enlightening. 

One friend’s voice is so incredible I asked her why she isn’t professional; she insisted she’s not good enough.

People with terrible voices would get up and perform solo to songs they’d sing from memory—along with accompanying dramatic dance moves.  The otherwise-shy ones who did this shocked me. 

Others would only be brave enough to go up in a group, and that included my husband and me, neither of us singers.  We’re both horrific singers, to be honest, but we sang group songs, and we had fun.

But, some wouldn’t venture up at all.

Then there was the dancing—conservative, wild, not at all…

Sober, surrounded by costumed, alcohol-consuming, karaoke-singing, dancing-in-the-living-room partiers, I wondered if the combination of alcohol and Halloween costumes made people take on different personas.  Because some of my neighbors seemed to be acting very out of character. 

Some were still exactly themselves, simply dressed up and boozed up.  But, others were bizarre.

Then yesterday, Halloween night, my son, in costume, said, “Mama, Mr. Murphy is a vampire.”

“Yes, he is.  Are you scared of him?”

“No, because I’m Darth Vader, and I can kick his ass.”

So, my son confirmed for me that, whether adult or four years old, donning a costume can give us confidence we wouldn’t ordinarily have. 

For my son, as Darth Vader he felt he could take on the neighborhood, vampire-costumed dad.

For my flasher-costumed neighbors, having light-blue and stuffed-panty-hose penises gave them the balls to sing solo karaoke song after solo karaoke song.  I’m not sure if they’re proud or mortified, so here they’ll remain nameless to protect their law-abiding, suburban-dad reputations.

Me?  I was sober, but only because I’m pregnant.  I wore a completely unrevealing sack dress because I’m pregnant.  I sang only in a group because I have a terrible singing voice.  But, I did dance, so long that my feet and knees still hurt.

And, because I stayed late and danced, my friend Kristy said, “You’re like me.  When you’re pregnant, you just want to have fun.”  And, costumed or not, pregnant or not, drinking or not, that is in character for me.

I haven’t been myself for the past six months, due to feeling emotionally and/or physically down because of two in vitro fertilization (IVF) cycles, the first unsuccessful; the exhaustion and mood swings resulting from the IVF medications; first-trimester tiredness and nausea; the stress of a high-risk pregnancy; the loss of one of my twins; insomnia; and so on. 

Friday night was my husband’s and my first night out in as long as I can remember.  Even in costume, I just wanted to feel like myself again.  And, I did.  I had so much fun.

I changed from my sweats into presentable clothes and left home at 3:40 p.m., with my vomit bag in hand, just in case.  My son and I arrived five minutes early, so we sat in the driveway, but I could sense right away that no one was home.  No activity was visible through the front picture window.  No car was in the driveway, but my husband’s ex-wife does sometimes park in her garage.

So, we waited.  At 4:05 p.m., I called my stepson’s cell phone, but the call went immediately into voicemail, which happens when the phone is turned off, or its battery is dead.   I left a message, saying I was waiting outside his mother’s house, I would wait a few more minutes, and that I guessed his mother could drop him off later.

I didn’t go up to ring the doorbell.  I’ve only gone up to the door once, four months ago, and I’ll just say that I will never go the door again.

So, I called my husband, told him there was no sign of life at the house, and I had waited 15 minutes.  He said he was sorry that this had happened again, and he told me to go home.

I’ve given up trying to consider what his ex-wife’s motivations might be, wondering why she couldn’t just send an e-mail or have my stepson call us to tell us of a change in plans.  I do know that notifying us would eliminate the inconvenience, the irritation, the last-minute loss tied to the anticipation of seeing him. 

Of course, it hurts my husband to miss out on time with his son.  Of course, it was inconvenient for me to drive over to her house, sick because of my pregnancy, to no avail. 

But, it hurts our children the most.  Her 13-year-old son, my stepson, has asked for years to spend more time with his father, has said, even in front of both of his parents, that he wants to live with us half-time.  And, our 4-year-old had been looking forward to seeing his brother all day and said, when we got home late this afternoon, “I’m so sad that I don’t get to see him today.”

We know that my husband’s ex doesn’t consider our 4-year-old to be her sons’ sibling.  My stepsons have told us that, because their brother was conceived by me via insemination with donor sperm, then adopted by my husband after our marriage, she tells them that he’s “not their family,” he’s “not their blood.”

But, my husband is family and blood, based on her definition.  He’s their biological father.   And, today’s and the other days’ visitation interference reduces the already limited time they have with their father, their family, their blood.

And, her rigid definition of family—that an adoptive brother isn’t family—only serves to hurt her sons, to make them feel conflicted about loving their younger brother, whom they’ve known since his birth.  Trying to reduce the number of people who are their family members isn’t in their best interest, and their best interest should be paramount. 

My husband just told me that he had left his ex a message, asking why our 13-year-old wasn’t there for the pick-up.  She left him a message back that it was because it is Yom Kippur. 

No, they’re not Jewish. 

And, yes, she had asked that, if they were out-of-town for a school-holiday weekend, my husband give up his Monday night.  But, they weren’t out-of-town, and, if she wanted to change the visitation schedule regardless, all she had to do was let us know. 

She had sent an e-mail this weekend about medical issues, and my husband had responded that he’d send some paperwork back with our son tomorrow morning.   In her weekend e-mail, she mentioned nothing about the Monday-night overnight, and she didn’t respond to my husband’s e-mail to say that our son wouldn’t be here tonight, so we couldn’t send him home with insurance paperwork. 

And, this hurts everyone but her, especially our collective children.

I told my son on our drive home, brotherless, “This is why I wanted to have another baby, so you could have a brother or sister who will never have to leave our house.”

And, God willing, in less than seven months, he will have a baby brother, a baby brother whose time with him will not be limited, a baby brother who can love him without repercussion, a baby brother who will never question whether he’s family.

A baby brother all his own…

Baby A is now 3.34 cm and is “right on target” with his growth.  Once again, I was able to see his miniature body on screen, but today I could make out not only his head, but also his arms, legs and tiny “tush.”  Thankfully, his heart was beating away, looking like a flashing light, and the ultrasound technician let me hear it, determining it as “very strong.”  I can’t express the relief I felt, seeing for myself that he is still alive.

Baby B is located right next to Baby A, so I saw him again today too.  He looked so normal that I found myself looking for the visual of his heartbeat, expecting last week’s diagnosis of death to be a mistake. 

But his body was static, with no pulsing heart. 

I asked the technician if my body is absorbing Baby B properly, and she said, “Well, you can see the difference in the sizes of the [gestational] sacs, so this one stopped growing.”

That’s not what I had asked.  And, Baby B’s gestational sac was always smaller, but she wouldn’t have known that, because she’s never performed an ultrasound on me before.  But I stayed silent.

She then said, “In four or five weeks, you probably won’t see anything there.”

Each of the three ultrasound technicians has been so robotic.  Working in a high-risk practice, I assume they often have to deliver bad news, so perhaps staying emotionally distanced is how they cope.  But, it’s hard to be on the receiving end.

However, the nurse who worked with me today was very knowledgeable about my history and very sensitive about Baby B’s loss.  So was Dr. M, the head of the practice.  He told me to make a follow-up appointment for three weeks from now, then stopped and said, “But, if you get nervous, you come in whenever you want.”

Dr. M reiterated what I’d heard from Dr. H last week, that we will never know why Baby B died.  He said, even though he was deemed chromosomally normal via preimplantation genetic diagnosis (PGD), he may have had another abnormality.  Perhaps his heart wasn’t developing properly.  Or maybe his placenta was bad. 

He said that my protocol is now changed from a twin one to just one for patients at risk for pre-term delivery.  I’m at risk because of my DES-induced uterine abnormality, which can result in incompetent cervix.  Incompetent cervix can also occur because I’ve had part of my cervix removed because of pre-cancerous cells, but he seemed less worried about that, based on the location of the tissue removed.

We discussed my nausea, all-day, every-day nausea that forces me to eat bland carbohydrates only because they’re all I can keep down.  I had only two days of virus-related nausea when I was pregnant with my 4 ½-year-old son, and I had no pregnancy-related nausea prior to learning last Friday that Baby B had died.  And, now for six days straight, I’m vomiting or gagging or simply unable to contemplate eating.

My sweet husband has been so worried about me because of the nausea.  Around 3 a.m. this morning, when we were both suffering from insomnia, he told me that I needed to discuss it at my appointment.  He said, “This isn’t normal,” and “You were never sick when you were pregnant before.”

I answered, “Well, supposedly every pregnant is different.”

Then I added, sarcastically, “And, this time I have your DNA inside of me.”  (I conceived my son as a single woman using donor sperm.)

He laughed—and laughed hard.

“Well, you asked for it.”

And, I did.

Dr. M said there is no link between Baby B’s loss and my nausea.  He said losing a twin makes it less likely that I’d suffer from morning sickness.  He believes my nausea is simply tied to where I am in my pregnancy, that it is very common for it to kick in at this point.  He’s not worried about it as long as I stay hydrated, which I’m doing, and as long as I’m not losing weight, which I’m not.  I’ve gained a pound since last Friday, probably because I’ve eaten only carbohydrates for a week.

Dr. M said that, if my nausea becomes more severe, he can “prescribe something,” but I said, “That’s how my mother took DES, for nausea.”  So, I’m paranoid.  I’d rather suffer through this, as long as it isn’t hurting Baby A, which he assured me it is not.

So, I’m a complete mess, traveling with a plastic bag in case I get sick on the go.  Afternoons and evenings are my worst times, when I walk in slow motion through our house, trying not to jolt my sensitive stomach.  I drink Ginger Ale.  I eat English muffins.  I eat plain bagels.  Lipton Noodle Soup.  Crackers.  Cheerios.   

This afternoon, as I lay in bed while my son was at school, I looked though all of the materials given to me by the nurse today.  On the Visit Summary printout, I saw that my diagnosis is “Elderly Multigravida with Antepartum Condition or Complication.”

Elderly?

Knowing that age 35 is the beginning of “advanced maternal age,” I wondered if being over 40 makes me elderly.  So, I looked it up.  Elderly is the term for pregnant women 35 and older, a “gravida” is a pregnant woman, and a “multigravida” is a woman who has been pregnant more than once.

So, that’s me, not only an elderly multigravida, but once with an antepartum condition or complication.

Humbling.

But, my Baby A is OK, which makes me happy—elderly, nauseated and all.