Free The Three of Us by Joanna Coles

and Lesbian Physicians jostle for street space with Gay Vietnam Veterans and then things turn decidedly religious: Gay Quakers, Jewish Reform Synagogues, Presbyterians, United Reform Church, Gay and Lesbian Mormons. The Catholics’ gay organization is called Dignity, and its leader, who has a papier mâché Christian fish on his head, is flashing his panties at the cheering crowd. From time to time he drinks deeply from a jewelled chalice.
    New York Parents and Friends of Gays look predictably out of place – middle-aged straights, awkward and self-conscious but smiling bravely. They hold up a banner saying ‘We Love Our Children’.
    They are followed by a pair of identical twins, identically dressed, in neutral shorts and T-shirts, whose banner reads: ‘I love my gay/straight brother. Can you tell which is which?’
    At the end of Christopher Street the floats turn right into Greenwich Street, where a stone-faced marshal with all the efficiency of a prison warder is shutting down their sound systems and making the grumbling party animals disperse. Their grumbling is witty and restrained, though, and they are, in fact, incredibly well behaved. No one seems drunk or violent.
    I sit at home that night feeling squarer than I’ve ever felt.
    Monday, 29 June
    Joanna
    I’ve spent the last fortnight tracking down friends who have had amniocentesis. Of all the tests offered during pregnancy, this seems the most invasive, as they puncture the amniotic sac with a needle, and it carries the highest risk of miscarriage. Needless to say if I were two years younger I wouldn’t have to think about it, relying instead on various blood tests. But at thirty-six, though I have no contra-indicators, I am automatically down on the chart as ‘high risk’ and now stand a 1/150 chance of having a Down’s syndrome baby. Another disadvantage to geriatric motherhood.
    â€˜Have you had a chance to think about amniocentesis?’ asks my new doctor, Dr Levy, gently, as we sit in the cubicle, trying to decipher the latest blurry photo from the twelve-week sonogram.
    â€˜Oh God, is it really necessary?’ I grumble. ‘It sounds awful and I feel fine.’
    â€˜Well, it’s entirely up to you,’ he says smoothly. ‘We would advise you to have it, but it’s your choice. There’s only one thing you need to think about seriously. Would a handicapped baby be deleterious to your lifestyle?’
    Peter flashes me a look of alarm.
    â€˜If it wouldn’t,’ Levy continues improbably, ‘then there’s no need to have amnio, though you might want to have one just so you know. Some people like to know in advance, so they can prepare themselves.’
    Prepare themselves? Ye gods, how exactly?
    â€˜But it sounds so risky,’ I mumble.
    He shrugs. ‘It’s not without risk and we go through that with you beforehand. Nationally the rate of miscarriage from amniocentesis is around 1/350. Anecdotally at Beth Israel, the hospital we are affiliated to, I can tell you it’s a lot less.’
    â€˜How many have you done yourself?’ demands Peter.
    â€˜About a thousand.’
    â€˜And how many have gone wrong?’
    He puts his hands in his white pockets. ‘Two.’
    â€˜What happened?’ Peter persists.
    â€˜Well, one was an older mother, she was forty-two; and the other, she was about thirty-two, but there were other problems … Look, you don’t have to make your mind up now. Take a week or so and call me back. We do it at fifteen weeks, so if there is something wrong…’ He tails off, but we get the message.
    I call friends in England. None of them has had amnio, not even Louisa, who’s now at the same stage and same age.
    â€˜They said it was up to me,’ she says dreamily, ‘and I didn’t feel like disturbing it.’
    Regardless of age, an informal survey of my American friends turns up that they