Four days after my surgery, we found ourselves at a beach house on the water, on a night that a full moon overlooked Koko Head Crater. It was night, we were surrounded with a few of our closest friends, and we were grilling steaks. And we were having a wake.
Was it strange that we were celebrating the short and brilliant life of our baby?
There was a bottle of vodka, two bottles of tequila, one bottle of bourbon, one bottles of wine, and a twenty pack of Bud Light. There were seven people, six steaks, and lots and lots of cookies made from expensive Valhrona chocolate. If a zygote hadn’t just died in my uterus, it would have been an awesome party.
It seemed that we were coping the way my generation did – alcohol. Copious amounts of booze flowed down our gullets. By 2am, the girls and boys had retreated to separate parts of the house. Gossip about ex-boyfriends was interrupted by screams of “I’m an ASSHOLE…Asshole…asshole…I’m an ASSHOLE!” My attempt at videotaping them singing Britney Spears was a failure. We horrified wealthy neighbors who didn’t know who were the obnoxious people that were house sitting a multi-million dollar mansion. We finished all the booze and cookies. We left, and my girlfriend and I watched our men pass out on the ground, finished my 100-proof bourbon and watched the sun rise.
I like to think my zygote would have been pleased.