The time is right.

About two years ago, Papi and I were trying to get pregnant.  I haven't spoken to 'you', my imaginary friend about it, because it was quite a sore subject.  However, I feel this is the right time to do so.

We were so thrilled when the first time we tried to conceive, I managed to actually get pregnant!

Bingo!  Blammo!  There ya go!

Yeah.  Unfortunately, it ended with a big bang as well.  When we went for our first ultrasound, we were overjoyed, glowing parents, excitedly waiting for our turn in the waiting room.  We were completely unaware that the Pit of Doom was going to drag us to darkness that day.

As I lied there with my feet in stirrups, we eagerly waited to hear the first sound of our baby's heartbeat.  Only, the nurse told us it wasn't there.

We didn't really know what that meant.  We both had thoughts stirring in our mind about why there wasn't a heartbeat.

Maybe the sound for the machine was broken?

Maybe the baby was situated in such away that made it hard to make out?

Our minds swirled with irrational ideas to keep us safe and happy.

However, there was no denying it when she showed us that we should be able to actually see the heart as well.

We were devastated.  Papi was thoroughly distraught and the only word that would come out of my love's mouth for the next few moments was, "No!"

From there, we needed to make an appointment to have the deceased baby removed from my body.  It was a horrible time where the first DNC didn't work.  This was followed by being in and out of emergency a few times from an excruciating miscarriage that wasn't supposed to be happening.  Finally, the 2nd DNC completed the job.

echos ... 'you're starting to show' ... still intruding my fragile mind 

After all the trauma, I didn't think that I would want to try again, but you know me.  Nothing stops me when I have my mind made up.

We tried again 3 months later, after many anti-depressant pills, and a uterus that seemed to be working fine again.  Only this time we had a local friend/pornographer document the procedure.

Yes.

You heard me right.

Pornographer.

Well, the entire thing was caught on film, including the sex that is important to making a baby, because your body is more open to the turkey baster method when you're doing the deed.

This brings us to last night.  We went to see the short film of our baby making escapade on the big screen, along with a theatre where every seat was filled.

It was nerve wracking, and my love and I slumped in our seats trying to disappear.  I was shrinking because people were going to see my vagina up close and personal, never mind the fact that they'll also see what my face looks like during sex.

Papi, was slithering down his seat because my love can't stand to hear his own voice on film.  My love could care less about people seeing mi esposo's sex act.

The film was very well done.  It had a split screen, where the left side was the evolution of getting the donor's sperm, the process to prepare it, and the verbal account of our journey.  The right side was for the voyeurs who wanted watch the down 'n dirty show.

I really only watched the left side.  I've seen myself having sex before, so it didn't really interest me.  I was enthralled by the fact that this was a time prior to my love telling me there would be a male transformation in my life.

I hypnotically watched my love's breasts.  They were so beautiful.  A vision of my butch confined to film.  If I ever wanted to see the person I married before top surgery, I now have the opportunity to do so.

Then there was also a scene of me walking with a cane.  I had a weak stagger from brain injury, still not having rewired my brain, and was unable to walk in a stable manner.

The whole thing was surreal.

Breasts, a cane, a baby making session.

Well, we didn't get pregnant on this next try.  I'm pretty sure it was because I needed to be on anti-depressants, lest I commit suicide from my chemical imbalance whispering seductive words about how living is the true hell the zealots speak of.  Studies show that anti-depressants make it harder to conceive.

My love and I accepted this fact eventually, and decided that when we move to the Dominican Republic, there will be many children who really need a home, and we will try to adopt there.

I don't really need a mini-me running around.  It would have been cute to see a blonde, curly headed, tiny version of myself.  However, I'd love another little being that needed me and called me 'mom' just as much.

Anyway, I've been meaning to tell 'you', my imaginary friend about this difficult time in my life, and now was the right time.

I was grateful to have seen where my love and I have come from and where we are now.  It made me love Papi all the more.

It was such a beautiful night filled with loving friends, talented film makers, and memories to remember.

Oh.

And porn.