I’m pregnant. And I don’t know how it happened. I mean…I’m twenty-seven-years-old, and I’ve had two children, and I STILL don’t get it. Yes. I had sex. That part I get. The rest…well, it doesn’t quite make sense. But I’ve moved past that part....
It all started when I went in for a pap smear last Tuesday. The doctor, a cute little Asian woman, was very helpful. She gave me my pap smear, pushed on my uterus, and even warmed up the spectrum before…well, you get it.
I am all very happy sitting in the spread eagle position until she says, “Hmm…I can’t feel your ovaries.” She frowns slightly then adds, “Your uterus is swollen.”
I sit up on my elbows and give her a sheepish grin. “Oh…yeah… I’m going to start my period really soon, so I’m bloated….”
This is not exactly something you want to admit while another woman’s—who, by the way looks like she weighs a whole 98 pounds—head is in between your thighs, but honestly, what’s a girl to do.
The doctor grins and says in her cute, little accent, “No. No, it’s not bloat… your uterus is swollen.”
Hmm…obviously, she’s not getting the point, I think. My uterus is swollen because I’m BLOATED. But I don’t say this. Instead, I humor her. “Oh really?” I say. “What does that mean…?”
She shrugs still staring deeply into my vagina. “When was your last period?”
I close my legs and grab my monthly planner that I got only two months ago. Normally, I wouldn’t have had any clue when my last period was, but as it turns out, I had written that exact date down for the first time in years. I flip through the little book. “July twelfth,” I say, proud that I look like such a responsible person.
“Hmm…,” she says. Using her fingers, she counts. “That means,” she concludes, “that you ovulated July twenty-sixth.”
And this is when I start to get nervous. I stare at her, questioning her with my eyes. Her head bounces a few times left and right while she thinks and then she blurts out, “You might want to start taking a prenatal vitamin. Just in case.”
Okay, perhaps I'm not as responsible as I thought. Pure panic is surfacing. She sees this and calmly waves her hands. “Oh don’t worry,” she says, “It’s probably nothing! Just take the vitamin, but don’t worry! You’re fine! You’re fine!”
Her words are not reassuring. It’s as if she’s telling me to walk off a plank into a pit of alligators, but not to worry about them biting me. You’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it! You don’t need arms or legs or a head! You’re fine!
“You’re fine,” she says again and pats my hand, pulling me off the plank and back into her office. “No need to worry. If you are expecting…well, it’s a baby!” she says, smiling and cradling the air in between her arms. “A cute little baby!”
I stare at her starkly and ask, “Do you have kids?”
She laughs. I don’t.
I try to forget the experience but five days later I’m not feeling so good and the worrying resurfaces with a vengeance. Sunday morning, long before any normal person is awake I pull out an old test from under my bathroom sink and pee on it. It’s the cheap kind, the kind that only costs a few bucks. I set it on the counter by my sink and began to wash my hands, watching with intense eyes as the test starts to work. A slow pink wash begins to work its way over the windows. Two single lines. I’m not pregnant!
“Oh, my God!” I say with the same amount of relief as someone who is coming out of a Vietnamese work camp. And I mean it literally. I am thanking the Lord. I finish washing my hands, pat them dry, pull back my hair into a pony tail, pick at my face, then reach for the test to throw it away.
And that’s when I see it.
The extra line. The one that makes a cute little plus symbol. The one that says I’m pregnant.
“Oh. My. God,” I whisper again, and this time I’m not so sure it’s a prayer. For those of you who don’t know, you’re supposed to give pregnancy tests a whole three minutes before you read them. Three minutes. NOT thirty seconds.
My heart drops and I start pacing back and forth in the bathroom like a crazy person. No, I think. It can’t be. Then the thought comes to me. It’s the test. It’s old and cheap and it’s just not a good test. I need to go get another test, a newer one, a more expensive one.
I fly out of the bathroom and grab my shoes. Brad is still dead asleep in bed, oblivious to my plight, the covers twisted around him like spaghetti noodles. I race to the nearest Wal-Mart in my pajama pants and buy another test. This time I do it right. It’s not a four-dollar test that I buy—it’s the twelve-dollar test. And it’s digital. I’m through with the sneaky pink lines.
I go back home and force myself to pee again. This time I jump in the shower while I wait. I do this for two reasons. One, I don’t want to read the test too early, again. I’m determined NOT to look at it for the full three minutes. And two, I’ve began to hyperventilate.
I think that the shower will help, but really, let’s face it, I shouldn’t have tried to shave my legs. Five minutes later, bloody and blue in the face, I get out of the shower and look at the test.
“Well,” I say aloud, speaking only to the test, “You’re just a BEEP, aren’t you.”
NOW, this was written a day after I found out I was expecting, and because I was still in utter shock, this little story might come across as harsh. Now that I’ve had time to adjust, I am very excited to meet this little person. :)