After filling out what seemed like 239084 pages of medical history, I was called from the lobby into a tiny, stark exam room.
"What brings you in today?" the nurse asked.
"I'm not feeling well. I'm so tired I can hardly function." I told her.
Based on my medical history and struggle with infertility, the first step--despite me explaining how unnecessary it was--was a pregnancy test.
I went into the bathroom, did my thing, and made my way back into that tiny, stark room.
There I sat, twiddling my thumbs on the exam table lined with crinkly paper.
Minutes later, over the intercom I heard:
"Dr. So-and-So, POSITIVE TEST RESULTS. Dr. So-and-So. POSITIVE TEST RESULTS."
The lady on the intercom repeated it at least five times.
I started sweating. Shaking.
A few choice words ran through my head.
Surely they can't be talking about me...RIGHT?
The doctor came in.
|Congratulations! You're pregnant!|
I wanted to grab her white jacket and stethoscope in utter disbelief.
Instead I sat there with tears welling up in my eyes.
"Are you sure? How sure are you? I mean...should I take another test?"
At the thought that for some reason, there was quite possibly a miracle growing inside of me--a woman once told she'd likely never be able to conceive a child...
I drove home, weeping. Told my husband we were gonna need to get a minivan. Called my sister and told her I wouldn't be drinking that bottle of wine with the girls that night (She responded with screaming. A few choice words. And lots more screaming.).
I prayed for this to not be a mistake.
When I got home, I sat down at the table; with a box of Kleenex by my side, I took a deep breath scheduled my first appointment.
It would be a long ten days of waiting before I would allow it to sink in.