I’m sorry to give away the ending of the story, but it’s such a relief.

We visited the specialist at Georgetown today. Things seemed bleak when he looked at the “monoamniotic/monochorionic” diagnosis and said: “I’m assuming you’re going to terminate one of them.”

“Absolutely not,” we both said in unison.

He nodded grimly.

Then he ran the sonogram machine and almost instantly pointed something out to us: “Ah, look — you do have a membrane!”

Monochorionic, but not monoamniotic. Bullet dodged.

Afterwards, it was a celebration — he let us look at our babies in blurry, ghostly sonogram black and white, and it was like watching fish swimming around a fishbowl. They looked like those cartoon fishpeople from the old Sea Monkey packaging — insanely cheerful. “Twin B” was a livewire, seeming to ram her/himself into the membrane as if to say: “Look Mommy and Daddy, WE HAVE A MEMBRANE! W00t!”

And then the baby proceeded to do something that looked like foetal breakdancing, while the laconic sybling watched passively on the other side of the membrane, amused by the other’s insane antics.

Based on the doctor’s calculations, one twin is two days older than the other. If they were conceived on day two of our trip to London as we suspect, then they split and became two around the time we visited Stonehenge, Bath and Salisbury.

Yes, I love these twins. It overwhelms me. To paraphrase Kim Deal: “Big, big love.” Gigantic love.

w00t!

Late last night, Brian and I decided to play Star Wars: Battlefront online on XBOX Live. As usual, whenever I step away from my usual group of Halo 2 players and try another game, I’m sickened and disheartened by the experience.

There’s something inherent in online gaming that brings out the most sociopathic, antisocial behavior in people. Things said are just shocking and unnecessarily cruel — online games are like a place where the worst tendencies of young male frustration incubates into out and out violence. Calling an eight year-old child you encounter in an online Star Wars game a “faggot” and a “cocksucker” isn’t a sign of strength, it’s a symptom of a deep psychological problem.

And when I heard it and intervened on the matter, feeling myself sink deeper and deeper into the mud myself, I felt a strong desire to just end my involvement in online gaming, to abandon the hobby altogether.

Brian says that he thinks the microphone grants a person anonymity to behave any way they want. When no one knows you are, there’s no recourse for your behavior. I think think is pretty accurate, but I’d also extend it to say that in a very simple way, gaming attracts a lot of young men who can’t get a date on a Saturday night. What we’re seeing is a lashing out of unspent testosterone, of sexual frustration and overwhelming sense of inadequacy. Normally in check in every day life, but allowed to thrive when a headset separates you from other people.

As Brian and I discussed it afterward, we both play regularly with the same group of Halo 2 players who share our belief that gaming should be fun and people should treat each other with kindness and civility. After months of playing with those guys, we now think of civility as a rule. When faced with barbarism and foul behavior, my defenses just weren’t prepared for it.

I realize that if I were to leave — which is probably inevitable once the twins are here — then one more person who believes in kindness and humanity in gaming is gone. And I shouldn’t do that. What we need to do is circle the wagons and push these people back whenever we can. Online gaming has great potential as a way for people to connect with oneanother — it would be a shame to see it ruined by the hordes of angry young men who want to ruin the experience for everyone else.

I’ve navigated work and life today in a state of complete and utter shock. I’m still absorbing the news yesterday that the twins are probably monoamniotic, and my brain seems incapable of working on much else. An event announcement sent out to the school was loaded with errors I would have otherwise fixed before sending. I walk into closed doors. And what’s more, I am seemingly incapable of focusing on anything.

Even my Halo 2 game is off. And that’s something that should be soaked into muscle memory — my score last night was atrocious.

Tina is much more positive about things. She has an emphatic connection with the twins on some level I just can’t quite understand — a sense of them that seems both mystical and somehow naturally scientific. She knew they were twins before they were diagnosed, and last night had what almost could be called a religious experience, when she suddenly felt a wave of joy erupt from the proto-foetuses swimming around in her womb — a personal message of love and comfort that assuaged her fears.

I wish the twins could talk to me, too. But alas, I’m only a man. My first brief encounter with them was the moment before conception when they were still partly me, and I won’t feel them again until they’re in the world. As much as I try to cast myself as their advocate and protector, they don’t know me, yet. I must connect with them vicariously through their mother.

We have a new appointment scheduled with a doctor at Georgetown — a specialist in a long list of baby-related problems, including high-risk mothers and multiple pregnancies. I’ve Googled him, and some of his papers are pretty damn impressive. I don’t know anything about him as a person, but if he can insure our twins survive, I’ll offer him whatever he wants in return.

No matter what, we are entering a long strech of darkness and terrible, wonderful surprise. This process has found a new shock every corner we’ve turned, and I don’t doubt the trend will continue. I don’t like unpredictability — anyone who knows me, knows I am in complete control of everything around me. But finding myself in a situation where I can do nothing at all, leaves me feeling angry and disconcerted. Yesterday, an aggressive panhandler insisted I give him whatever money I had in my wallet so he can eat, shoving a card in my face that no doubt contained his woeful biography. At first, I gave him a polite, “No, sorry.” When he persisted, I told him I have my own fucking problems and could care less about his, so piss off.

I hate being mean to people, yet when I’m not on my guard, I find it comes too naturally. Thanks, grandpa — I appreciate the inheritance.

I’m reminded of the Arcade Fire song “Une Annee’ Sans Luminee’” (”A Year Without Light”), and its soft, sad beginning. It paints a world where all light, all happiness has been submerged in dark grief. Yet there’s a turning point, a moment of hope that explodes into anthemic joy as the tempo transforms. The message is clear: things can get better. Things will get better. Hold on.

And perhaps that brief communication between Tina and the babies was an omen — it may look scary now, but things will ultimately be okay. We love you! We are happy! Everything will be okay!.

I have faith that they will. What else can I do?

It’s not enough that my dog is spreading blood around the house — oh no. Today, Tina’s OBGYN clinic dropped her because she’s too “high risk.” Apparently, our twins are momo — Monoamniotic and Monochronionic — which means they share the same amniotic fluid. Aka: your twins may be fucked.

And of course, this is all done through the telephone, coldly. Have a nice day, fuck you very much. Rather than help us set up a new appointment, as I would have thought customary, they gave us a set of numbers and said “farewell.”

Next appointment: January 31, 2005. My emotional state: scared out of my fucking mind. Tina’s emotional state: steady, but nervous. Convinced this is a misdiagnosis. I sure hope