I am beginning to feel like the villain in Poe's "Tell-Tale Heart".
Each monthly doctor's visit, it seems that it gets increasingly easier for the doctor's doppler to find the baby's heart. And each month it seems to get louder. More persistent. As if to say: I'M COMING!
Yet the sound increased--and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound--much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath--and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly--more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations, but the noise steadily increased. . . . It grew louder--louder--louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God!--no, no! They heard!--they suspected!--they knew!--they were making a mockery of my horror!
But in our case, instead of the heart of our victim lying under the floorboards, insinuating itself into its murderer's conscious, it is our future. All of the change, hope, wonder, concern, anxiety and expectations pounding out its persistent beat beat beat from the middle of BioMom's swelling belly.
We have recourse, however, where Poe's villain does not: the doppler turns off. On our last visit the doctor reminded us that we only have a few short months left in which to take advantage of the on-off button!
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