The ultrasound photo that inspired the nickname Baby Watermelon Head.I made sure my phone’s ringer was on, turned the volume up and checked my service bars. Then I opened and shut my email. Three times. Finally, the phone rang. I jumped.Dr. C, my OB-GYN, was calling to tell me whether my pregnancy hormones were rising, which would mean the embryo growing inside me might stand a chance at surviving. Otherwise, it could be a sign that I was miscarrying.Miscarriage happened to be something right in my wheelhouse. In the past two years, I had had four positive pregnancy tests, and still I didn’t have any children.At my last doctor’s appointment, my pregnancy hormones had measured nearly 200. By the time of the call, the number should have doubled.“Please let it be 400,” I repeated in my head, every muscle in my face tightening as Dr. C tortured me with pleasantries.Then finally, he said the number: “432.”My jaw muscles relaxed just a little bit. Over the next week, the number continued to climb. After that, a smudge of cells appeared on the ultrasound screen, and a few days later, the rhythmic whoosh of a heartbeat filled the exam room. Soon two gummy bear arms waved to us from inside my uterus.Still, I refused to celebrate. After all, while I was growing up in 1990s suburban New Jersey, my mum, a transpl