I’ve always been very anti-pain. When I was about five years old, I remember my mom telling me her appendix removal story (other kids get Goodnight, Moon, but that’s okay, I still love you, Mom!). She told me how miserable and painful it was, and I promptly decided that I would never have my appendix out. (Yeah, right. Apparently my mind isn’t that powerful. Good news, though, it wasn’t TOO terrible and I lived to tell about it.) The same goes for having kids. From a very young age, I said I would never have them. That’s how big of a weenie I am.
As I grew older, I thought I would change my mind. When I hit my 20s, I figured that mysterious biological clock would start ticking. I got married, and the timing just never seemed right. Turns out this was God’s way of looking out for me; the marriage ended in divorce, so it’s definitely a plus that there were no kids involved. I picked up the pieces and moved on with my life, and began dating my now-husband, Justin. We have always been on the fence about kids. Neither of us were completely anti-children, but neither of us were eager to start driving a minivan and buying Cheerios in bulk, either. We thought, “Well, if it happens, it happens.” But a few months ago, we decided to take the plunge and I quit taking The Pill. The Pill has been by my side since I was 15, not because I was a slutty teenager, mind you, it was for medical reasons. In 17 years, I have missed taking it ONE TIME. Surely I deserve some kind of medal for that, right? And yes, that one missed pill resulted in a frantic phone call to my doctor, who basically said that I was some kind of record-setter for never missing one before.
But the big day came, and I quit taking my faithful med in January. I didn’t really think anything would happen. According to my research, it sometimes takes the body up to six months to start ovulating after kicking The Pill habit. Justin, of course, is the voice of gloom and doom and is convinced that nothing will ever happen, and we’ll be an old childless couple with hundreds of pets. I say, let it ride and see what happens. Like we’ve always agreed, if it happens, it happens.
Last Sunday, we attended my mom’s birthday party. It was a lot of fun, and after a few beers and too much wine, I got the wild urge to take a home pregnancy test. I have no clue what made me do this, I really don’t. But I did. And I was instantly faced with a big blue plus sign.
Okay, okay, take a deep breath. I’ve taken numerous pregnancy tests in my life (because I’m extremely paranoid, and when Aunt Flo showed up five minutes late, I was always convinced I was pregnant) and never have I seen the plus sign. I went into our bedroom where Justin was half dozing, half watching TV and presented him with my pee-covered stick. He was understandably shocked, but thought it must be a fluke. (See? Gloom and doom, Negative Nelly…that’s Justin.)
I stopped on my way to the office the next morning and bought a two-pack of pee sticks. The first one came back with another instantaneous plus sign. Hmm, okay. Two for two. We still weren’t altogether convinced, so I took another test on Tuesday. Three strikes, you’re pregnant.
I called the doctor to set up an appointment, and was told it would be a week and a half before I could get in. Wow, that’s just mean. I’m not exactly the most patient person on the planet, and it’s not like I’m going in for an allergy test or something. This is a life-changing appointment, and they’re making me wait 10 days? Yes, they did. The days dragged on, and on, and on….and finally Wednesday came. Justin went with me, so I was glad for that. Although it was a bit awkward to have my husband in the room for the exam, but I guess I should get used to that.
About the only thing the doctor did was confirm the pregnancy, and that was after we asked. After being told that my uterus was small (what the hell does that mean, doc?) and being led into a room for a vaginal ultrasound (what happened to the goo on your belly like in the movies?), we had the first tiny taste of what we’re in for. Namely this is awkwardness, confusion and ignorance. Justin and I each watched our own individual screens and stared at what looked to be a black hole. (If you’re wondering what your insides look like, ladies, that about sums it up.) After several minutes of silence, he pointed out a yolk sac (???) and a fetal stem. Justin then said, “Uh, is she pregnant, or not?” To which the response was, “Yes, but it’s just SO early. Most people wouldn’t even know. She’s only about six weeks along. And the rate of miscarriage is VERY high. Because it’s so early.” To me, “Make an appointment for one month.” And with that, he walked out, leaving Justin and I staring at each other, me wearing a ridiculous paper skirt.
I did make my follow-up appointment, but then did some serious soul-searching and decided to change doctors. If no one in the entire office can even muster up a half-hearted “congratulations” for a set of first-time parents-to-be, something has to be wrong. I’m not a really warm and fuzzy person, but I’d rather have a little kindness than a clinical description of miscarriage. I may get hit by a bus crossing over the parking garage, doc. Wanna give me the statistics on that?
I made an appointment with a new doctor, so we’ll see how that goes in a couple of weeks. THEN I’ll post this, because after that, I may just be ready to share our big news with the world.