had twins or triplets. But that would also be problematic. For more than a month, up to mid-July, I injected myself daily with proges­terone, a hormone that insures the continuation of the pregnancy.

All of these procedures had nothing to do with poetry. It was all very technical and cold. Nothing to do with the beautiful act we call love.

But Rene was always by my side, fascinated, caring, and very ten­der. We went through all the steps together. It had become our dear­est dream. We would talk all the time to each other and to our friend. To the public too. We had never hidden our fertility problems. And we were not going to keep this experiment secret. Nor the results— whatever they would be.

I had to spend a few days without moving so that the small eggs would stay attached. I decided to follow all the rules very carefully. I had told the doctors: "I want to put every chance on my side. Even if it's difficult, even if it's painful. If you want, I can stop moving alto­gether for nine months."

They were not asking for so much. But they did warn me more than once that I had to be very careful, especially during the first month.

On the morning of June 8, Dr. Ronald Ackerman dropped by my house in Jupiter. He had been coming very often for the past months. But that day I was not expecting him. He had come by the day before, had examined me, and taken a blood sample. He had left say­ing it would still take two or three days before he knew if I was preg­nant or not.

He had just arrived when Alain, my sister Linda's husband, came to tell me that Dr. Rosenwaks was on the phone. I was also talking to him every day. This morning, strangely, he did not ask about my health, nor did he ask to speak to Dr. Ackerman as he always did. He simply asked what I was doing.

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