I had a pelvic ultrasound yesterday which was ordered primarily for the purpose of a "parts count". Waking up from surgery just shy of a year ago, my surgeon notified me that I had a didelphys uterus, another piece of the genetic disorder that I inherited from Mom. My doctor yesterday told me that it is an autosomal dominant disorder but was not as quick to say that children weren't a possibility—only that the fetus would likely be in breech position, it would have to be by cesarean section, and it is likely that it would be a pre-term birth.

Good or bad, I've gotten the hang of accepting what life gives me. I guess I don't have a strong opinion on the matter either way.

I went to these set of doctors after my last physical in May, when my physician still, even looking for it, could not detect an anomaly in my reproductive bits. I was sent to an OB/GYN, and similarly, it took her awhile to find it. I felt so foolish for awhile, because it was like I was pleading my case that I was abnormal. At one point, I told the latest doctor, "Look, I was told about this after I had surgery. I am pretty sure my surgeon physically SAW something out of place. I just want some information about it."

The ultrasound technician was very kind, and said at once that she agreed with my surgeon. Also, that I had two of everything that I was supposed to have two of—which had been a concern with the kidneys—and two of some things that I was only supposed to have one of. I had her draw pictures for Nick because he's very interested in all of this...but I lost them. He is understandably upset.

The next step is sending me to another geneticist. In a complex that often represents itself as incomplete, apparently I demonstrate nearly all of the syndrome's features: sacral agenesis, anorectal malformation, presacral mass, urogenital malformations, and in the slew of "other malformations", I have flat feet and that pesky leak in my spinal cord fluid.

From there, with supposedly more information at my door, I can make an informed decision about permanent birth control. I am concerned that while (fingers crossed), my disorder is not deadly like Mom's wound up being, I do have more of the malformations...and, if it was her mother that gave it to her, which we suspect, Mom certainly had a broader mutation off of hers. Would my child take a step further—if I can even carry to a late enough term—have spina bifida? Have a tumor that develops into Cancer just like Mom's? Is that a pair of dice I want to roll with?

Man, my father must be disappointed: my brother does not want to have children because he doesn't want a child to be like him and here I am pondering the same. And like that, a family name ends.

While going through things at Dad's on Saturday, I found photo albums with an abbreviated assortment of photos capturing yours truly...years ago. Not many pictures of me...years ago actually exist. I learned camera dodging early-on, and even took up my mother's habit of going through pictures as soon as we got the developed prints back and tossing the ones of myself that I didn't like—all of them. Nick has never really been shown the former me.

I'm sure he's wondered at the many times I'll see someone in passing and murmur, "I know them," never actually greeting them. They wouldn't recognize me, and the situation would feel very awkward, me having to explain who I am. The first time I flew home, half-way through my weight loss progress, my own aunt didn't even recognize me in the airport. It's a little lonely at times.

Years ago, a friend who struggled with their weight told us of a visitation she attended for a dear relative. She felt rejected and ignored looking at the poster boards of photos because there were so few of her and the aunt that she always felt closer to than her own mother. A while later, a family member came up to her all teary-eyed and apologizing profusely. "I'm sorry. I could barely find any pictures of you!" She had avoided cameras all her life.

Well, after a lot of deliberation, I decided to show Nick the pictures. He seemed to recognize my cousin Michelle quickly enough, my friends Sarah and Anna—all people he has met in person—but looking at my image, which I found myself having to point out to him, he could only say that I looked really different.

I told him just last night that it's difficult to be proud of what you accomplished when you're so ashamed of where you started. I'm almost shy to bring up my lifestyle change—even though I'd wager that I am healthier than those who have been thin naturally their entire lives—because you worry that the stamp of who you were will obliterate who you became. Ghosts.

Jared, the Subway© guy, said in interview once that when people saw him eating out, they would stare at him, waiting for him to overeat, overly eager to warn him not to finish his plate. It angered me when I read it. Ignorance...pft. Those who have been inducted to the "100 pounds club" know what it takes.

But I've done it now, shown Nick the barely recognizable face that he looks into every day. I guess I wanted to make sure he knew me first. I had nothing to worry about.

We are having a day at Dad's place today. I find it incredibly odd that "Dad's place" used to be the place that I called home, but now it's just "Dad's place". "Home" leaves a bad taste in my mouth. We are going through the house and going through her things, the remnants of my things from North Carolina.

I am hoping that the day won't be too difficult. Dad is renting a dumpster, and me and Charlie, Brenda, and even Nick later on, are going to go about the business of evicting ghosts. It's eerie going in there, her night stand still full of her things, her makeup case and lotions still lined up in neat little rows beneath...her purse sitting in plain sight, as though it is ready to be picked up again at any moment by its owner.

I bought a can of Friskies for Friskey to enjoy while we're there. My poor baby is old, and I don't think she'll be with us much longer. I can tell she's arthritic and miserable. She's lost weight and Dad tells me she's been having problems hitting the litter box. What's worse, one day this week, he woke to find her trying to move around, but it seemed that her back legs weren't working at all. Eventually they kicked in again, but it just doesn't seem right.

To be fair, I didn't expect her to last very long after Mom died...

But it's sad...my friend who grew up with me and old without me. "I am hoping that the day won't be too difficult." Yeah right.