Week 11: Doctors Can Call in Sick?

So after gearing up for weeks for my first doctor’s appointment – with a brand-new OB/GYN, no less – her office called that morning to say she was out sick. Huh? What ever happened to “physician heal thyself”? Since it was a rainy Friday, I have my suspicions. I bet she just felt like lounging around at home in her PJs watching “Regis & Kelly.” I know I did. But I had already gotten up, showered, dressed, and put on makeup. (I didn’t want her thinking I’m a slob.)

Anyway, the next available appointment was the following Wednesday with a different doctor. I tried not to stress too much, since they do recommend that you see all the doctors in the practice at some point, so whoever’s on call the day you deliver won’t be a stranger. Still, I couldn’t believe I had to wait SIX MORE DAYS to confirm that I’m actually having a baby.

I know, you’d think the missed period, sore breasts, fatigue, ravenous hunger, and two positive pregnancy tests would be good enough, right? But somehow, I just wouldn’t believe it until a genuine medical professional was saying the words to me in person: “You’re pregnant.” Better yet, I hoped I’d get to hear the heartbeat or maybe even get a sonogram as some of my friends had.

So I show up early to my next appointment. My first appointment, that is. I’m ready, eager, and willing to flip through last month’s Glamour as I wait. (Please, I’m so not ready for Parenting yet.) I try to tune out the Jerry Springer show in the background. How is people shrieking about their torrid family dramas in the waiting room relaxing for first-time moms-to-be?

Soon, my name is called by the nurse. She leads me back to an exam room where she takes my blood pressure and weighs me. I’ve gained three pounds already! No wonder, as I’ve been consuming calories like a starving person at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Then I undress, slip into a lovely backless gown, and wait for the doctor. I avert my eyes from the posters charting the growth of the fetus and the inner workings of the womb. There’s such a thing as too much information.

I’m contemplating my socks, relieved that they match and are free from holes, when the doctor breezes in and introduces herself. She’s young, businesslike, and brisk. I ask her a couple of questions and she answers promptly. She does not engage me in conversation. She kneads my sore breasts and attacks my abdomen like she’s molding a nativity scene out of Play-Doh. She apologizes when I moan in pain, but I don’t think she really means it.

After all that, I overhear her say to the nurse, “I’m going to do the ultrasound.” My ears perk up. Then I see her wheel over a machine that’s attached to a device that would look at home in an adult toy catalog. You’re going to put that WHERE? Oh. Sure. I hold my breath and close my eyes until she says, “There it is.” I look up at the screen and see a blurry black and white image. “What’s that? And that?” I ask, jabbing at the screen. “Just a minute, please,” says the doctor, intent on wedging the device even further into my innards. Finally she gestures at a lighter spot on the blurry screen. “That’s your baby.”

I’m having a beautiful baby … lima bean? Honestly, I can barely make out a head or rump, though the nurse swears they’re there. The thing looks like a fuzzy peanut. However, one thing is unmistakable – there’s a tiny little pulsing light in the center of it. The heartbeat! I laugh. I’m having a Mexican jumping bean. The doctor pushes a button and hands me a tiny square of paper. “For your scrapbook.” It’s a picture of my lima bean. (It looks even blurrier on paper.)

I leave, happy and relieved. And also, shocked – I really AM pregnant! Oh my god. That bean’s going to turn into a watermelon before it's done. I try not to think about it, concentrating instead on my baby-to-be’s first photo. When C. sees it, he says it looks like him already. “Just look at the size of that head!”