The day started like any other.
Actually, that’s not true, but it did start like the day
immediately preceding it and the one before that and the one before that. I slept later than I’d intended, wandered
through my house - largely empty with the exception of dozens of strings of
Christmas lights and a well-decorated bar.
Imagine Gatsby’s house, the morning after a party – except much smaller
and less decadent…. And probably cleaner, because it wasn’t the morning after a
party… The party had been two weeks
prior, but as all the furniture, decorations and other aspects of the house
that had made it a home had been sold or packed for months, the lights and
their gilded suggestion of festivity remained.
As usual, the day started with coffee: fresh ground, French
press. Despite the perfect roast, the coffee turned my stomach and it looked
like another day where breakfast would wait an hour or two. I sipped my coffee and turned my thoughts to
the task at hand: transplanting piles from the floor to the suitcases that
waited with their mouths open, ready to whisk everything away to new places.
The pattern continued that I was only able to work for a few
hours before becoming overwhelmed by exhaustion. I napped fitfully on the air mattress that
had been my bed for too long. Trusty
sidekick was stuck at work and my car had already begun its journey around the
world without me. It was only me and
trusty dog left trapped in the depressing remnants of our former life with no
means of escape.
My mind returned to the strange events of the day
prior. I had reported to base for a
PHA. For non-army, this is an acronym
for a periodic health assessment. It is
an annual requirement that every soldier have this physical exam every year to
ensure that no new health issues have arisen that could interfere with a
deployment. To demonstrate the scope of
this encounter, I will use a comparison like those you might see in an SAT
question. Here goes: PHA is to comprehensive physical exam as a
personality quiz in Cosmopolitan
magazine is to a true psychological evaluation.
Regardless of its limitations, it is a requirement, and,
more importantly, a requirement that gets you in trouble when ignored. So, dutifully, I completed the online
questionnaire about my current health (yeah I totally get 8 hours of sleep
every night even during residency), mental health (no, despite my ongoing
depression treatment/pending move around the world/ general stress and anxiety,
I feel great and am a well-adjusted individual), health habits (I obviously
also make time to exercise for an hour each day, shop at the farmers market for
organic produce and cook healthy, colorful meals that meet all of my
nutritional needs), hospitalizations (this one required no embellishments,
luckily), family history (just the typical everyone had cancer/heart
disease/diabetes what could I possibly have to worry about), etc. etc.. Then I showed up and answered all of the same
questions in person. This appointment is
also an important time to ensure that all mandatory vaccinations, preventative
visits (Eg. Annual dental visit, biannual dental cleaning, annual optometry
exam), and labs have been
completed. Surprisingly, I had taken care
of all the things I needed to! Rare, but
it happens. I was unjustifiably proud of
myself (like the sensation of folding your laundry immediately after the dryer
finishes instead of leaving the clothes to wrinkle for weeks in the basket as
you just extract the pieces you need from it until it is time to wash it all
again). In fact the only “we need to
discuss further” moment came from my ‘lady health’ section.
I could digress into a feminist rant about how every one in
the world should be comfortable discussing periods because it’s a biological
phenomenon that about half the earth’s population gets to experience. I won’t though. You’re welcome, currently uncomfortable male
readers.
So the concise version:
doctors like your most recent encounter with this phenomenon to be less
than 4 weeks ago… because that’s normally how it works. Mine was 6 weeks ago. I was unconcerned because contrary to what
text books say it is not always every 4 weeks like clock work and mine clearly
has never read a textbook and has often ignored its deadline for months at a
time. So it goes.
The confusing thing was that my deployment status was
red. I was undeployable… because,
according to the computer, I was pregnant.
But… I wasn’t. I had never been
diagnosed with pregnancy, because I wasn’t pregnant – which is what it is
supposed to take to change deployment status.
Try as she might, the NP entrusted with deciding whether I was
adequately healthy to go into battle could not convince the computer that I was
not pregnant.
Normally a few weeks late wouldn’t bother me. Actually, normally I wouldn’t even notice,
but its like when the crazy schizophrenic on the street points at you and tells
you that you’re going to die today… for the rest of the day you are going to
experience a lot of near miss events.
Suddenly, I was concerned… could I be pregnant?
I have always mocked those early response tests commercials;
there is usually a woman on the screen at work or doing something around the
house and then the voice-over “I can’t concentrate – could I be pregnant?”
which has always seemed like a huge leap to me.
I often cannot concentrate for reasons unrelated to pregnancy. Just the other day I was at work imagining
the brownies I was going to make when I got home and couldn’t concentrate. Sometimes I see something shiny and I can’t
concentrate. Often people are talking
about things I don’t care about and I can’t concentrate… In exactly zero of
those situations, my next thought was “I must be pregnant!”.
Anyways, it makes more sense if the thought is already
planted in your mind. So I suppose I
will grant their premise, but argue that they should make it more clear that
she was already at risk for pregnancy. Otherwise
we are giving the impression that women are just wandering the earth wondering
each day if they could be pregnant and biding their time until they fulfill
their biological urges. Trust me, most days we have more important things to
think about.
But there it was… I couldn’t concentrate… could I be
prrrrregnant? (Roll the R. – the sound I
am going for can be demonstrated in the video found here at 0:16… but you
should watch the whole video. http://www.chicksontheright.com/this-is-the-funniest-thing-you-will-see-all-day-2/)
This was not according to plan.
I had dreamed of what it was going to be like when I got
pregnant someday. I would pee on a stick, I would be
thrilled. I would find a way to break
the news to my equally thrilled husband.
I would leave it somewhere for him to find and be excited. I would wake him up early on Christmas, or
his birthday or father’s day to share with him this exciting gift of what our
future was going to hold. I would have
it together, we would be ready to be the idyllic suburban family.
None of it went according to plan.
I could not leave the house to buy a pregnancy test (no car). Ironically, I’d saved one from a previous
need (until now, I never understood why they sold them in packs… I’ve already
learned so much on this little journey) but it had been packed with everything
else I owned and was in transit to my new life in Hawaii at the moment… not
especially helpful.
So, there I was - trapped in my largely empty house with the
company of the bar that was still stocked from my going away party… My going
away party that was two weeks ago where I’d celebrated with friends and had
champagne. Another strike against my
plan of perfect motherhood. The bar
continued to mock me as I worked myself into an internal panic (one of my
strengths, although certainly not a useful one) about how if I was a currently
mother, then I had already failed.
Trusty sidekick was still at work. It was his last work day before I moved
halfway around the world, our second to last day of residing in the same zip
code at any time in the foreseeable future.
His case went late, the call team was busy and could not relieve him. I
begged him to play the she’s-moving-far-away-and-I’ll-never-see-her-again card.
He is far less dramatic than me and was also unaware of the internal panic
stemming from a computer glitch the day before.
He did not play this card. For no
logical reason, this made me extremely frustrated.
It turns out, frustration and panic play well together.
Finally, I snapped. (It
was also after 7PM at this point and all I had eaten that day was coffee and an
apple- the house was devoid of sustenance and I had no way to acquire it… in
retrospect, it was obviously the setting for the perfect storm).
I texted him something along the lines of “ [ lots of angry
faces] I HATE your program. And your program director and co residents and
everyone who is contributing to you being still at work.” (Sorry, guys I don’t really hate you!)
“You did tell someone right?”
“Like someone above you knows I’m moving away in less than 2
days and you aren’t spending time with me.”
“Despite the fact that I’m stressed and overwhelmed and
extremely sad and I need you to pick up a pregnancy test cause I’m late.”
“This is why medicine is the worst profession”.
I like to text rapid-fire rather than in one long
monologue. Rants are better
piecewise. I feel that it gives the
recipient a small look at what it is like to be inside my head: thoughts
pinging around faster than you can process, making small dinging sounds as each
new idea arrives, often riddled with spelling errors and autocorrect mistakes
that are ignored as I press on desperate to follow the train of thought to
where it will crash before I lose it.
He really is quite lucky to have me in his life.
While it was potentially memorable, it was certainly not the
cute and exciting way to break the news that I had hoped for. But as is often the case when I’m emotional
and hungry, things get said, chips fall where they may and then I have to just
go from there.
My rant was ineffectual.
No one materialized at my side.
Per usual, the world did not bend itself to my will instantly. So I waited for another few hours refusing to
pee. I needed to be ready. I would ace that test when the time
arrived.
Finally, T.S. pulled in the driveway and it was time to
leave for dinner. I ran to the restroom
so we could be out the door as quickly as possible. It wasn’t until I finished urinating that I
saw the error of my ways. My bladder was
empty when he handed me that annoyingly bright pink box, but gosh darn it I was
going to try.
I peed on the stick (as much as I could muster), capped it
and set it on the counter, set the timer and anticipated a negative result. I
had worked myself into an unjustified panic. There was no way I was pregnant. Really, I was only seeking peace of mind.
Confirmation of what I already knew to be true. We were meeting friends for
dinner and drinks and I knew I would feel better having a glass of wine when I
wasn’t wondering if there wasn’t a second life depending on my choices.
Less than 10 seconds in, I glanced at the test. Two very distinct pink lines met my
eyes.
I reassured myself that it was not the final result until 3 minutes.
I still had two minutes and fifty seconds where anything could happen.
When my phone signaled 3 minutes had passed, it was the
loudest sound I have ever heard. Two
very distinct pink lines. Defiant.
Determined. Sure.
“Well, F***. We need
to go, we are already late to dinner.” I
yelled to T.S..
I’m sorry mom and
dad. I said the bad word. The word I am
not supposed to say. My only excuse for
my actions is that big life changes sometimes call for big swear words.
Trusty sidekick looked at the test and back at me. We got into his car to head downtown and he
assured me – “we will try a different brand, we will do another test in the
morning, there is no way.” (It is
probably worth pointing out at this point in the story that we are both highly
educated individuals with science backgrounds, thorough understanding of how a
simple pregnancy test works and an adequate understanding of how one becomes
pregnant… we were just in shock.)
We decided to stop at the pharmacy on the way to
dinner. This time we got the
Error-Proof-Test, no more First Response… after all, Error Proof said it right
in the name… There would be no errors.
Obviously we had chosen wrong in the first place. The first response is
not always the best response, that’s just common sense, right?!
We piled back into the car to head downtown and I selected
Pandora Baby Lullabies station to set the appropriate mood. T.S. was not as amused by my cleverness as I
was myself.
We met our lovely friends for a dinner of sushi
burritos. (The perfect meal if you are
in the process of moving and have no access to food and haven’t eaten in an
entire day, FYI). My life monopolized
the conversation, my pending move, my career choices, my future in the army,
and the most recent potential plot twist.
I swear I don’t actively seek the center of attention, things just
happen! Overwhelmed, still unsure and
finally fed, we decided to call it a night sans drinks. We played some board games (practically
parents already!) and headed home.
I had been drinking excessively all night. Excessive amounts
of water and lemonade to be clear. I was
going to be ready to repeat that test when I got home. I was beyond ready… I nearly repeated the
test in the car every time we hit a bump and had to literally run to the bathroom
upon arrival. After finally relieving
myself and properly adorning my second stick of the night, I decided I didn’t
want to wait three minutes. I was tired
and retreated to the air mattress. Jesus,
take the wheel.
Science will tell you that results of an experiment mean
nothing unless they can be duplicated.
One positive result alone is just an anomaly but repeated identical
results indicate a true positive.
It was trusty sidekick who got to read the results that
indicated a true positive. I was already
in bed when he appeared in the doorway, backlit by the bathroom lights. A phone chimed. He beamed “We’re really pregnant!”
“Great. Glad you
believe me now.” Just so lucky to have me.
I did take all 4 tests (each came in a pack of 2) just to be
sure. It was 4 for 4. We’re sure now.
So after finally convincing ourselves of results that most
people would believe initially, we could move on from acceptance to the next
step in the process: becoming parental.
Clearly we had our work cut out for us.
It has been quite the learning curve as I’ve begun
researching car seats and play pens, bottles and bath tubs. I had imagined that by the time this happened
to me, I would have gleaned this knowledge over my many years via the school of
life. I never anticipated that I might
become responsible for another human life before outgrowing my full days of
Netflix stage.
I was the second child in my family, so at the very least,
my parents have had a working knowledge of how to care for a baby my entire
life. I have never asked them if I came
at the ideal time or if I was planned, but I have always gotten the impression
that they knew what they were doing. I
was naïve enough to assume that they had reached parenting age and innately knew.
My mom and I joke about all the
things that she has done that have managed to “disqualify her for the
mother-of-the-year-award”: the time I fell while she was tying my shoes and I
got two black eyes, the time I passed out trying to get to my parents bedroom
while feverish and she was pleasantly surprised to find me lying on the floor,
the time she prepared us a jug of refreshing Kool-aid with salt instead of
sugar… but we can joke about these in good humor because all of the big things
were done right. I grew up in a happy
and secure home, I always knew I was loved – even when I was in trouble. I
never wondered if I was wanted and I was never given the impression that I was
an inconvenience. From a very young age
my parents used logic to justify the choices they made in my life and if I did
it without attitude, I could ask them to explain themselves. They taught me
right from wrong, how to work hard and how to love.
I think the simplest measure of knowing that my parents did
a good job is how much I hate saying goodbye to them. I hope that someday baby girl will want me in
her life just as much, because I certainly love her.
I hope she will be under the impression that I have it all
figured out and that I’m not completely making
it up as I go along. I will fake it
until I make it and someday when she is much
much older and maybe she is having a baby of her own I will tell her how I
was scared and panicked and had to take 4 different tests. I may even tell her that I said the F word. I will tell her that my life was full of
stressors and that the timing seemed like it couldn’t have been worse… and then
hopefully I will be able to say, but look
how everything turned out…
I definitely have my work cut out for me. I have big shoes to fill, and I haven’t the
slightest idea about how to turn a tiny drooling human into someone who cares
about others, knows right from wrong and ultimately, hopefully, makes a
difference in the world. It’s a scary
big thing. Maybe the biggest I’ll ever
do. I wasn’t planning her. I didn’t expect her and don’t consider myself
ready for her.... Nonetheless, here goes nothing.
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