But here’s one very slow, painfully still moment: December 4th. I can only liken it to the day of some big exam, the one a whole grade, the entire semester, a major scholarship, one’s college education hinges on. Except it was bigger.

December 4th had the potential to be either the best or the worst day of my life. Of our lives, me and the Missus. We’re at the hospital for her first evaluation and, if it can show anything, for an ultrasound. (Or, er, a more invasive camera — didn’t come to that, thankfully.)

I had an ultrasound used on me before; when I had alarming pains in my side, I was whisked to the Emergency Room and prodded under the ribcage in case I was having a gall bladder attack. With, perhaps, the nicest technician ever operating the device, the Missus and I had a much more positive experience. Particularly when a little bean appeared on the screen with a flickering sac pounding at an estimated 178 beats per minute.

The tech wiggled the cursor at the bean’s image on the screen. “There’s its head. And its little bottom.”

Our bean had a bottom. Our Something had a heartbeat. Worst day of my life averted.

The tech checked with the doctor as to whether a second opinion was needed. Nope. She relayed to us that the doctor just said, “That’s a cute baby.”

(I imagine the doc was being a little tongue-and-cheek. Truly, Something was about the size of a bean, and it lacked any facial features to be categorized as cute. But, for an embryo, Something was aces!)

Before we moved on to meet with the Nurse Practitioner, the Doctor, and the rest of the practice, the Missus waved goodbye at the monitor. “See you again soon, little one!” I had to reminder her that the “little one” was coming with us, that it was in her. She was faintly embarrassed, but it’s something I like to tease her about on occasion; she teases me about how I kept repeating, with some tears in my eyes, “Strong heartbeat. Strong heartbeat.” Proud Papa already, just for having a heartbeat.

(A strong one, dammit!)

Bit of a blur since then. First, there was who to tell — and when. It was important that Missus’s mom (call her Mum-Mum) get the news live and in-person, not by phone. We would be seeing her for Christmas after a 7-hour drive south. The idea was that she would be first with my parents quickly to follow upon our return…

…but I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t handle it. We had to lie, we had to obfuscate, and we had to bottle up all our excitement and fear as we lay in wait. To tell one person would not only be to open the floodgates but also to endanger Missus’s employment and do our parents a disservice.

But I couldn’t wait. Nor, it turns out, could Missus. And, frankly, neither could Athena.

My best friend and his wife, after many long years of trying, finally had their first baby, codename Athena. And so, on the carride to welcome Athena into the world, we also spilled the beans on our bean Something. Everyone was very, very happy.

So was my Mom & Stepdad when we told them; so was Mum-Mum and her Hubby when we told them; and — with some baited breath and personal neurosis going into it — my Dad and Stepmom were thrilled, too. This is going to be a much-loved Something.

I am feeling the same trigger occurring in terms of pregnancy and babies. It happened today again: I’m using pre-Thanksgiving to clean the apartment, both for my own peace of mind as well as to please the Missus. And so, when I have a lengthy physical task to do, I like to have my iPod loaded up with some brain-stimulating stuff. Therefore, I downloaded the audiobook of Randy Rausch’s The Last Lecture.

I’m a reasonable sentimental guy; I can acknowledge being touched by a story or performance. I’m also the guy who thrills in gallows humor and the classic repertoire of horrendous “dead baby” jokes. (“Why do you put a baby in a blender feet first?” “To watch the expression on its face.”) There’s always been something about the macabre, about speaking the absolutely unspeakable, that’s bumped my funny bone.

Imagine my surprise, then, as I’m listening to The Last Lecture, and Rausch recounts the story of his wife, pregnant with their first child, beginning to bleed and going into shock. She has a placenta abrupta, bleeding caused by the weakly attached placenta starting to give up prematurely. The baby’s life-support system is failing, and they’re not sure about its viability given the steroids Mrs. Rausch has had to take to stimulate its tardy lung development. Worse yet, she’s in danger from both the bleeding and the C-section now made necessary by the abrupta.

I’m listening to the whole thing, panting. That is, I’m breathing rapidly. I’ve sat down — When did I sit down? I thought I was just cleaning the kitchen! I’m listening to all this and only seeing the Missus’s face when Rausch describes his wife’s lips turning blue, only seeing my hand as he describes gripping his wife tightly. It was disorienting to a degree I’ve rarely ever felt.

Something is going active in my brain — both lower-case something and upper-case Something, I suspect. And I’m not getting quite the giggle I used to from Eddie Izzard and his baby-on-a-spike routine. Hm.

This is put into sharp relief by my parents’ relative fitness. They’re reasonably close to being model specimens. Dad could have better eyesight and flexibility; Mom could have more strength. Really, though, they’re outstanding.

Physically, I identify most with my late Grandfather. He was a hefty guy. I was reassured recently when my Mom reminded me that, in addition to passing away from cancer, it was high blood pressure that dogged him all his life–no matter what weight he was. That doesn’t get me off the hook medically, but at the very least it keeps me from associating fat with mortality.

Maybe I should, though, especially with Something coming. I’ve remained strong most of my life; save weight-lifters and wrestlers, I’ve always been one of the strongest of my cohort, at least in terms of raw “pack-muling.” I feel as though my stamina is good…a fact that’s shot to shit after 3 flights of stairs. And my on-again/off-again jogging has been taxing.

What image do I want Something to have of me? Missus has always been concerned with her own body, never happy with it. Of course, she’s kind about mine, but losing her Dad early makes her fear more about my mortality than I might normally. My parents always looked odd compared to friends’, and I both took comfort and had concerns about that: They’re as healthy (i.e. as likely to live) as anyone, yet…My aunt died young, and she was fit, too. So, is it just a game of playing the odds?

Grandpa’s physique left my Dad with a bit of a complex, I think–not a terrible one as these things go, but nevertheless. My own issues, I think, shielded me from that during my own childhood, or Dad just kept it to himself. I’m not sure, though, that I can or should do the same conversely. Especially while Missus is, well, gestating and needing more aid from me in the months ahead, should I go to boot camp on myself? (Or am I just following Dad’s footsteps, hitting the gym instead of confronting something more directly?)

Frankly, it’s not vanity, at least not in terms of Something. I hope to have Something love me any way I look, and vice versa. It’s more the matter of fitness–in terms of being a fit parent and fit provider, whether that overlaps with physical fitness. Missus loves me even if I’m unfit, my work is untouched if I’m unfit, and my pasttime is loaded with the unfit (to a far more extreme degree than me).

But parenting? I wonder if there isn’t some new standard that dads need to meet: “You must be this BMI to board the ride.”

We keep wanting to talk about the baby, to plan for the baby, to rearrange our finances for the baby, and so forth.

But there isn’t a baby. There’s something else right now — or, at least, the promise of something else. The growth of something else. A blastocyst. Then an embryo. A fetus. And then…a baby?

The possibility of what it isn’t, though, is the haunting part. I mean, I think we can rule out a hysterical pregnancy. Missus keeps fretting about an ectopic pregnancy, which is scary but also unlikely. Miscarriage is another scary word. So is premature. And so forth.

We are somewhere new, though, because of something new. Some hormones, some symptoms, pee on a stick, otherwise-unexplained nausea. All in orbit around an unnamed thing — or, rather, a thing we can’t name yet. Or can’t bear to name yet. Or can’t bear yet to name and lose…or never have had.

It twists the mind, just like Schrodinger’s cat, though a lot, lot larger than a quark. And getting larger by the day. (Hopefully.)

Day-to-day, though, it feels hard to keep things “fair.” That is, things are already more than fair by our being so fortunate. But balancing the incidentals is where things never feel clear.

For example: Today, the cat must go to the vet. The cat (#2 of 2) has been having a progressively less pleasant kitty litter experience, and my role as the designated litter-man has become entirely solidified by the threat of cat poop to pregnant women. No problem, reasonable.

But, the last few trips to the vet across town have been hellish, especially with the pair of Cat #1 and Cat #2 together. Though this is an individual cat event, I need back-up. Is it fair of me to urge the Missus to come along?

Rather, it is fair when she’s feeling ill, highly reactive to cat smells, and not doing super in the car. Still fair to ask for her help?

“Fair” probably isn’t the issue. We do respect each other, and we do care about being there for each other. Mental resources are thin right now, and replenishments from family and doctors are still weeks away. We’re on psychological rations for the next few weeks as matters — both happy and sad, worrisome and exciting — eat at our respective brains.

Nom, nom, nom.