August Twelfth, Two Thousand Fifteen

Very quick entry today. I am absolutely flying here.

Immediately after learning about the baby-bomb, we were of course torn from the midwifery program and thrust into The Health Care System. This shit’s high risk, after all.

So we met with our new high-risk pregnancy specialist, Dr. Schneider, for the first time today. A lovely, soft-spoken, immensely smart woman with excellent (and no doubt well-practiced) bedside manner.

She stared at the ultrasound screen for a few minutes, fussed around for a while, then took off her glasses. 'I'm calling it', she said. 'Identical'.

Identical triplet girls. Monochorionic, triamnionic. (In regular words, they share a placenta but live in their own little sacs).

And I go crazy all over again. Head swimming, shallow breathing. Being one in ten thousand was already stunning. Now we're one in five hundred thousand. How can this be real?

But no time to dwell on it it, because moments after this madness we’re racing off to a funeral, straight from the hospital. Two weeks ago, a couple days after The News, Gill lost her grandmother.

That would be our third (and last) grandparent over the course of this dumb summer. My grandpa died in April, then my grandma in June while I was in Toronto with Indicator. Now Gill's grandma. She was the only one who even found out about the girls.

But, wait, that's not all! Five minutes ago, I learned that the heavens have aligned, schedules have been tamed, and I’ll be able to make a record – a last record - at my favourite studio with my favourite engineer.

I am feeling every damn possible thing all at once here. I can feel the hormones pinging off my brain. I swear I’m seeing spots. This poor mind of mine is elated and sad and scared and exhausted.


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